The wind fell silent outside of her window, the whistling and rustles of tree branches tapping like crooked fingers against the clouded glass ceased. All Violet could hear was the steady pump of her and Tate's dead hearts beating simultaneously. Dead blood and dry veins; cold skin mere inches from the chilling apparatus of the man that had once breathed, touched, felt the chill of raindrops and the heat of summer sun on his shoulders.

Killed.

Violet's previous words seemed to echo off of every object in her bedroom. Tate stood in front of her. His body clearly begging to take her in his arms and press his lips to her smooth, golden hair. But his face showed ache coming straight from his still heart. His lips quivered and twisted in a frown as silent tears ran down his cheeks. Violet simply stood with her arms crossed and her gaze dropped to the floor, doing her best to not make eye contact with the ghost, though she could faintly see her silhouette trembling out of the corner of her eye.

After an eternity of silence, Tate finally spoke in a shaking whisper. "You don't mean that, do you?" Violet swallowed the lump in her throat and skillfully held the tears behind her eyes, not speaking.

"You want me to go away?" he asked, his voice still cracked. "Do you, Violet?" Violet bit down on her lip. An indistinguishable mess of painful thoughts and deliberations ran through her head. She was overwhelmed but not ready to break.

"Do you?!" Tate shouted in frustration. Violet gasped. Recovering from the shock of Tate's hostility, she ran a hand through her hair, her fingers getting caught in tangles.

"You killed those people, Tate. Those people that came on Halloween. They were so young and covered in blood. They were angry." She murmured. "And those gay guys that lived her before us. That murder/suicide story was bullshit. You killed them! Why, Tate?" Finally, she raised her head and let her gaze penetrate Tate's glossy , puppy-dog eyes. "They'll never be at peace because of you!" His lips shook as he tried to speak, but his heart leaped into his throat. "You're sick, Tate! You're a psychopath! I fell in love with you..." Her voice finally broke and tears ran hot and salty down her cheeks, leaking into her mouth threw her pursed lips. "But you're evil."

Tate gripped his fists in his hair, wildly shaking his head back and forth in agony. He kept mouthing the word "no" but couldn't manage to set it free from his throat. His cries were mangled and they blended with Violet's sorrowful cooing. He fell to his knees with a loud thud. He gathered his breath in uneven, shallow inhales, tears dripping from his eyelashes to the hardwood floor below.

Finally, Tate let out a hoarse whisper. "I didn't mean to hurt them."

Violet exhaled slowly.

"I saw the world. It's pit of blackness...blood...evil and deception and greed. But they're hearts were too big to be in such a cruel place. They were kind, Violet. They were accepting. They didn't deserve to be in this place, this...this...shit hole of darkness." He looked up at Violet with the same gaze he had when he kissed her. Emotions pouring from his eyes. "This is a place where the wicked should rot. This should be what hell is!"

"Tate..." Violet started.

"I tried to help them!" Tate shouted, cutting her off. "I wanted them to be in a place where there was light and beauty. Violet, please believe that I'm not the darkness."

Violet cringed as the words she had said mere minutes ago repeated in her brain. I used to think you were like me. You were attracted to the darkness. But Tate, you are the darkness.

"The darkness swallowed me, Violet. I didn't want to believe it, but I was trapped! Don't you understand? I'm not the darkness." Tate began to sob again. The kind of sob that made Violet's heart clench . "I'm not the darkness." He kept repeating through thick cries and moans.

Violet tried to sink into the reasonable part of her mind. The part that recited the ever changing dangers of being with the beautiful ghost that knelt before her. The part that quaked with the memories of the furious, blood-soaked spirits of Tate's victims that wanted nothing more than to damn his name and spit on his unmarked grave. But she found herself lingering, not to rational thought, but feelings that were in full bloom for him. The way he kissed her, and how it made every ounce of pain she ever felt crumble at her feet and disappear for that one moment. How he had pressed his lips to her wrist and tenderly sucked the blood from her self-inflicted cut, silently begging for her to lock up her razors and never bring them to her veins again. How she had given him the ultimate gift of her body, wholly, out of their undying love for each other.

She couldn't fight off those thoughts.

Slowly, she paced forward toward Tate and sunk to her knees, seeing eye to eye with his tear-soaked irises. She rose a cold hand and gently glided her fingertips over his smooth, wet cheek.

"Do you want me to go away?" He asked again sullenly, as if he had predicted the answer would be yes. But she shook her head with no hesitation. Her choice was made. For Violet, no matter how much blood was on his hands, no matter how many lives he took, believed he was no psychopath, despite what she had said out of her anger. He was broken, damaged, living among the darkness where cold voices beckoned and tempted, spewing their lies about the joys of violence and destruction.

But he was not the darkness.

Pulling him into a deep, intense kiss, Violet fisted her hands in his nappy sweater and felt his arms pull her close greedily. At that moment, their love was more prominent than anything. Even death.