Chapter 3

Gonna Raise The Stakes, Gonna Smoke You Out

x

2011

Tate screamed long after he'd vanished from his and Violet's room. He ended up in the hallway, yanking his hair and punching the walls until his knuckles bled. This was not how it was supposed to be. They weren't over, not yet, not now. When his throat became too sore to yell he sank into a crouch by the basement door, trembling with aftershocks and sobbing into his knees. He didn't want to know who told her. He tore up his scalp to try and release what Violet said, to dull the pain of the overwhelming guilt she'd made him feel. The self-mutilation was useless. She knew what he did and what he wanted to move on from. There was no coming back from that.

Eventually the tears and self-loathing subsided, and Tate mustered enough strength to go into the living room. The heady smell of iron nauseated him, but he forced himself to look at the bloodied sheets and floor. He memorized Vivien's body on the couch, Ben with his head in his hands. The house shivered with delight at the carnage Tate had caused, what his progeny had caused. His highest achievement.

"The baby, whatever it was, it killed her." Violet's words struck him in the back of the head, and in the midst of all the gore and loss, he had a thought.

Killed her...killed...kill, kill, killkillkill.

He knew what he had to do.

The house bristled at Tate's plan of action as he moved through the rooms to the kitchen. The baby was an extension of him, a monster. It had murdered, just like he had, and it had to die. No more pain. Not after the threat was dead. This was for Violet, for her parents, hell, for the well-being of the world. Tate couldn't do any more damage. He promised himself he wouldn't hurt anyone else, but this thing he'd created wasn't human. He imagined his black eyes on the child's face, a misshapen head and twisted limbs, the true form of what he was. The house pressed in on his temples in an attempt to warp his rationale, panicking at Tate's sudden bout of independence. He shrugged it off with a flex of his fingers. He found Moira standing over the sink, a bloody towel on the counter adjacent to her.

"Where is it?" His voice was rough.

"What?" Moira sniffled, her good eye glazed over. He couldn't tell if they were happy tears. She turned halfway, dabbing her face. "Oh, with your mother." She took the towel and held it under the faucet. "She just left, to take him home. No good would come with that girl Hayden harassing her."

Shit, Tate thought as he blinked to the front yard. What he wouldn't have given for Hayden to start a brawl and earn him some time. Constance passed through the front gates with her bundle, keeping a steady pace. He ran after her and staggered to a halt just inside the left-hand boundary. She knew he was there, must've heard the footfalls behind her. She turned once and saw his bloodshot eyes, the grim line of his mouth, and startled.

"Let me see him," Tate said. He searched for something human underneath the blanket and hoped she'd take a step forward, maybe two, just enough for him to reach out and –

"Tate! Oh, Tate...he needs rest, the dear boy. Birth is not an easy task, you know," Constance said as she continued on her way. "Perhaps in a few weeks, when he's all settled in." She picked up her pace a little more, her high heels clacking against the pavement and her arms tight around the baby. They both knew she'd never bring him back, not of her own volition. Tate tore a hole in his jeans pocket.

"You can't protect him forever. One day he'll come back, and then what'll you do?"

Constance wavered through measured strides, an indication of her fear. "You'll never have him," she said over her shoulder. "No one will, and certainly not that goddamned house."

Tate picked his toe through the grass. "I hope he's just like me," he said, his eyes on the back of her impeccable up-do. The woman had always paid more attention to her hair than to her children. Tate felt his lips form a sneer, and he was satisfied, at least with this last good wish. He knew once Constance was gone and the house was quiet again, he'd wander the halls and wait, stuck in the miserable void Violet had sent him to. His throat closed in on itself, but he continued on with his taunt. "That's exactly how he'll turn out. Your perfect child."

She glanced back at him, but her mouth was tight, unwilling to agree. She knew he was right, whether she tried to prevent her grandson's homicidal tendencies or not. It was just a matter of time.

About two years ago, Tate read an article in the newspaper Constance had left behind during one of her visits. Apparently several local homes had gone up in flames, some with fatalities. Police suspected foul play, but hadn't yet bagged a culprit. Tate noticed Michael's obsession with the lighter flame, and thought he might've found the neighborhood pyromaniac.

Michael had the lighter in one hand, the dial to the front burner in his other. He would up the gas, let it spread, and then... "Boom," he whispered. Tate flinched. In another life, he said the same thing to the cops in his room, to the pointed guns. And he remembered the awful rush of adrenaline which followed, the darkness willing his fingers to move for the bag by his side. They didn't see his terror, roiling his heart, lungs, and brain into a frenzied attempt to kill himself before they did. He wouldn't go easily.

Tate kept himself still, composed. He wasn't going to die, not again. You can't die, he told himself. There was no reason to doubt what obviously wouldn't happen. "Hey, it's your funeral," he said, raising his hands.

"I don't mind dying here," Michael said seriously, and without looking, turned the gas on. The burner ticked as it tried to ignite and Tate caught the faint hiss and smell of escaped gas.

"You're gonna regret saying that. By the way, don't you think this whole thing is a little amateurish?"

"I don't mind dying here...yet," Michael said again, still toneless. "This is just practice. And besides, I like watching things burn." Tate could tell the house was furious because there was an agitated ripple in the foundation. The walls creaked like an earthquake was passing through. Michael paused, sensing the change too. His hand left the dial for the briefest of seconds, and Tate made his move.

He went to smack the lighter away. Maybe kick Michael's legs out from underneath him. He didn't anticipate Michael to retaliate. As soon as Tate touched him, Michael snapped into action. He shoved Tate with his free arm, gasping when he realized he was just as solid, if not more. Tate's next move would have been to take Michael's head and smash it against the counter edge; instead he retreated a step, though the force of the blow would have knocked anyone else down. "Ah, ah, ah," Michael said, holding the lighter away as if Tate was a child. There was a tension now, subtle, but present. Tate could see it in the way Michael shrugged in his jacket. Something had finally surprised him. "Now is that any way to treat your son? Trying to smack some sense into me?"

"I could do a lot worse," Tate murmured.

"Yeah, sure. You're nothing without a gun," Michael said. Tate knocked a fist against his thigh.

And you're nothing without a match. "Wanna bet?" he said, though he was uncertain how brutal he'd let himself become. What if he accidentally killed him? No one wanted him here.

Michael snorted. "Oh, this should be good. Winner takes...this?" He waved the silver box at Tate. He nodded. "All right then." Tate approached as Michael pocketed the item.

Take it easy, his better judgment warned but everything else ached to break bones.

"I don't know how much damage a runner could do," Michael said when Tate was close enough to see the pores on his forehead. He looked so much older than eighteen. "It wasn't like you were a star athlete or anything. Popular kids don't usually bring guns to school, do they?" Michael's provocation was certainly effective. Tate drew to his full height, gaining an inch on the other. "Honestly, how'd I ever get started?" Tate let out a hot exhale and stared him down.

"Easy," Tate wheezed.

"With your glowing credentials, I wonder, who was desperate enough to fuck you?"

Tate couldn't remember the next few seconds very well. Punches were thrown, most deflected, some achieved. All he knew was that his lip was puffy and Michael was in a choke-hold. His arm trembled around his son's throat, his other hand gripping his head as he regained consciousness. The gas fumes overpowered his nostrils, settling in his brain. Michael's fingers clawed at Tate's arm, but he was numb, so numb and ready to finish this. "I can break your neck," Tate said, his eyes shut tight. He twisted Michael's head just the slightest and heard strangled curses and labored breathing over the groaning of his spine. "I'll do it if you don't leave."

"Screw you," Michael managed and his hands left Tate's arm. Tate felt him fumbling for the lighter and braced himself for the explosion, knowing it might hurt, knowing he'd be fine. But all he was greeted with was silence. The burner stopped hissing gas. Even Michael stopped struggling. Tate opened his eyes, his vision blurred. He blinked slowly, and there she was, beside the stove, the lighter tucked in her white-knuckled hands. Her hair masked her expression, but Tate caught half of her right eye, wide and curious.

"Violet."

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Author's Note: Goodness, I can't finish this! Psycho Tate and Michael have grown on me. I think the next chapter will definitely be the last...or not. We'll see, haha. Hope you enjoyed Constance/Tate & Tate/Michael interactions. Had a lot of fun writing them. Thank you so much for reviewing and most importantly, reading!