Hey guys! Sorry that this chapter is a little late in the day :P this is Tate's POV. I hope you enjoy it and keep reading! Thanks for the reviews and followers/favs!

Darkness was absorbing him, cockroaches ran up and down his arms and crawled over his cheeks. He couldn't move no matter how hard he struggled, it was pointless. He was pinned down. A merciless face leaned down over him. The face was painted like a skull but behind the paint he could see it… it was him. Monster Tate smiled down at him, leaned so close that the smell of rot flooded his mind.

"Make them suffer," Monster Tate hissed.

Tate's eyes snapped open. His body rigid in fear, breath stuck in his throat. He wanted to cry out, to curl into Violet's arms, instead he just stared at the dripping pipes over his head.

"Bad dream, lover boy?" said the nasally voice. Tate rolled his head to stare at Hayden. Her pinched was turned up, sneering at him.

"What do you want?" She paused at the emptiness in his voice, eyes scanning over him.

"It's been three years, Tate. Get over it." She snapped. He didn't say anything. Was it only three years? It felt so much longer… These empty pointless days. He didn't want them anymore, he just wanted her back. He wanted Violet.

Tate's every thought and waking moment was consumed by her. Consumed by the feverish longing and desire he possessed. He wanted to hold her in his arms, run her soft hair through his fingers. How could he ever get over her? His thoughts turned over and over, running through a wheel that tormented him.

Hayden shook her head, a sad smile slipped across her face. This poor boy leaning against the filthy wall for days on end only leaving to watch Violet from a distance. She stood up and left, hardly baring to watch him feel the same way she felt deep inside knowing that all she wanted was Ben.

Tate sat there for a while longer tormenting himself. Finally he managed to get up and move around the basement, silently observing the other souls that resided there. They were in small clusters. The basement smelt of mold, folding around him and sinking into his clothes and hair. There was no light, not even from the basement door window. Nothing entered this part of house, no happiness lived here, nothing lived here.

"Tate?" suddenly came the slow honey-sweet southern drawl. He doubled back to the basement door. From the shadows he watched his mother cautiously step forward. Her blonde hair was still perfectly pinned up, there wasn't a single wrinkle in her dress. Soft delicate aged hands pressed to her chest as she peered into every corner, looking for him.

"What?" He stepped directly behind her, finding the smallest and pettiest satisfaction in seeing her startled jump away from him. She turned around with a breathless laugh but Tate could see the fear in her eyes.

"I wanted to see you." She said with a smile, reaching her hand out to touch his arm. He stared at her so coldly that she pulled back, flustered for a brief second.

"It's been three years, I thought you moved away." He hissed.

"No I've just been very busy," She said with a smile that reached from ear to ear. There was pride in her voice, something that Tate had never heard aimed at him. As a child she'd never held him softly in her arms. Never tucked him in at night to make sure the monsters didn't reach out from under the bed and pull him away. How could she have guessed that her son would turn out to be the monster at night?

"I have something to show you, Tate." She leaned closed to him and whispered. Her eyes were glittering, tears lightly pooled at the corners. "It's been a long time and I thought maybe you would be ready by now." She was breathless, her eyes darting back to the still open doorway.

"What are you talking about?" Tate asked skeptically. Something about her eager gaze and nervous movements made him more cautious. She turned her back to him and called softly to the door. There was a pause, a heavy pregnant silence. Then a small shuffling sound. At first Tate couldn't comprehend what he was seeing, couldn't understand what was standing only a few feet in front of him. Constance reached out a hand, cooing softly as the little figure stepped forward and grasped her hand all the while staring Tate directly in the eyes.

The little boy had the small mess of soft blonde curls that barely touched the tops of his ears. His brown eyes watched blanket from heavy eyelids and dark lashes. He was small and frail looking, maybe only three years old. He had none of the childish behavior that Tate had as a little boy.

"Tate," Constance said. Tate managed to rip his eyes away from the boy to her. Her eyes spoke to him and told him everything he already knew.

Tate couldn't breathe. His lungs deflated, his throat choking and gasping for oxygen. No, he thought, no no no. The world was spinning and titling, the basement floor being pulled out from under his feet like a rug. Tate landed to his knees in front of the little boy with strangled cry. This little boy, this striking image of himself… It couldn't be. Tate didn't want it to be. Of course he'd known all along that somewhere out there this child was living and breathing but Tate had never expected to see him.

"Get him out of here." He managed to choke out. Constance looked at Tate sharply, squeezing the little boys had.

"His name is Michael." She said gently.

"GET HIM OUT OF HERE!" Tate bellowed. The boy suddenly stepped forward. His small nose was pressed against Tate's and snarled. It started off as low deadly sound like thunder approaching, Tate felt his heart spike under his ribs. In the boy's eyes was something so terrifying and made his bones shake.

"Michael," A hand pulled the little boy back. Constance looked down sternly at him but otherwise didn't say anything. Tate was speechless. His mother knelt down in front of him and roughly grabbed his chin. "He's your flesh and blood Tate. He's yours."

All Tate could manage was pathetic gurgle as he fought back the tears. He'd been denying it for so long… this was truly why he couldn't be with Violet. It wasn't that he killed people, she'd known even when she was dating him. It was that he raped her mother and his son was her brother. God, he thought, that's so sick and twisted… Bile was burning the back of his throat. Constance sadly shook her head at him, grabbed Michael's hand and tugged him towards the door.

"When we come back next be a better host." She snapped. The door swung shut with a final sharp click.

As soon as she was gone he let it out. A long wail rose out of his chest, the tears managed to drip down his checks. After a minute he stopped, closing the cries deep inside. He curled on the floor and closed his eyes thinking back to when Violet choose to throw him out of her life.

He remembered screaming at her, she was all he had, all he ever wanted. She screamed back wordlessly, forcing him away from her.

Tate cried silently.