Chapter 4

Ocean of Noise

x

Her name triggered the explosion, though no one felt it except Tate. The blaze of old guilt and desperation ripped him open, jerked him inside out, and in the aftermath he let his hands slip from Michael's shoulders. A distinct ringing started in his left ear. It was like picking open an old wound that hadn't fully scabbed and probably never would. The sound of her name felt new in his mouth and he hadn't said it in so long. Now that it was out there his face felt hot with embarrassment. Michael must've picked up on his tone, must've figured out their history because he turned his head in Tate's direction. With her free hand Violet gathered her hair behind her ear and Tate focused on her pink lips turning red as she mashed them together.

His eyes dropped from Violet's to the floor, unable to register her presence, her sudden proximity to him. She was no longer separated by windows, doors, or walls. How long had she been listening? Why had she stepped in? Despite having her family, Tate knew there had to be some sort of resentment towards her situation. Whenever he saw her she didn't seem happy, but that also might have been because she was looking at him. Michael moved slowly, grabbing around his neck, his fingers in perfect alignment with Tate's residual prints. They had the same sized hands. Tate threw one more sheepish glance at Violet, but she was staring at Michael, and by all accounts he was staring right back. He couldn't imagine what was running through her mind, the evidence of Tate's betrayal standing right in front of her. Silence pervaded the distance between them as Tate cowered behind. Then, a strangled release of air.

"Mom?" Michael said on the breath. Tate's head shot up. Seeing the product of her mother's rape was one thing; being confused with her must've sent Violet over the edge. Her face tightened as a fresh wave of nausea gnawed at the pit of Tate's stomach. There was no way of winning her back now. He knew why Michael asked – the resemblance was unmistakable and teen parents weren't uncommon – but the question didn't make him any less pissed.

"No," Violet whispered, crinkling her forehead as her eyes glazed over with some unspoken emotion. "I'm not her." She struggled with the last part, quirking her mouth in a way that made Tate ache.

"But – ," Michael started.

"Hello Michael," Vivien said from the doorway. Tate mentally smacked himself. This whole situation was guaranteed to become even more awkward now though he see-sawed between relief and frustration. Vivien momentarily threw Michael's attention off Violet, but it wouldn't be long until Michael knew the truth once and for all. Vivien's arms were crossed and a sad smile accented the wrinkles around her mouth. She looked about as melancholy as she did when Tate finally apologized for raping her. He hadn't spoken to her before that, and he'd spent days, years, working out the right thing to say, though nothing ever sounded right.

When he'd mustered enough courage to face her alone ten years had passed. He'd found Vivien in the kitchen, cutting flowers for a spring bouquet, and after he owned up to his guilt and stopped counting his sorries, she held up her hand and stood staring.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," Tate said after a while, remembering Violet's words that she'd never forgive him. That botched any plan to remain tear-free in front of Vivien.

"I don't expect to either," she said, her one and only verbal exchange with Tate. He nodded through sniffles as she rounded the island with the scissors she'd used to snip the stems, wiping the blades clean on her shirt. She stopped two feet away, the same sad smile fading as she jammed the scissors into his crotch. He held out for a few stabs, at least until the pain was so consuming he collapsed, holding his severed everything. She followed him down, slashing his thighs and stomach, her brow furrowed with the effort. Then, when she was satisfied, Vivien sat back, took a breath, returned to the sink and ran the scissors under the faucet. Tate vaguely remembered Moira walking in and tisking at the mess as he blinked into the basement, curled in on himself. The pipes shook with the house's laughter at his misfortune. The jeans were saturated with blood, but Tate continued to wear them, his criminal blotch running down the front as he blacked out over and over again. His genitalia eventually reattached, but the pain lingered, and lingered still. He was numb down there now.

"Who are you?" Michael shot back at Vivien as she drifted over to Violet.

"This is your half-sister, Violet," Vivien said, slipping an arm around her daughter's waist and giving a gentle squeeze.

"What...?" Michael said. Tate felt himself moving backwards, away from the surprise family reunion. He didn't want to stay for the big reveal.

Violet muttered a faint "Yeah" and shoved her hands into her dress pockets. Tate saw the outlines of her fingers kneading the fabric.

"I think I saw you once, here, in this room," Michael said. Vivien shifted, lifting her eyebrows.

"I'm surprised you remember. You weren't even a month old," she said. The smile waned for a moment and Violet looked at her. Her mouth parted in anticipation for another betrayal. "Michael," Vivien started, releasing Violet and approaching him. Tate thought he'd flinch away, but Michael just stood there as she framed his face in her hands. "Look at you," she said cautiously, stroking his cheek with her thumb, "all grown up." Tate couldn't determine Michael's reaction. Violet seemed lost without her mother by her side. She leaned against the counter, her arms slung helplessly around herself as she watched the interaction. Tate would've willed himself over to her if he could, wrap her up, feel the shape of her body and smooth her hair the way he used to. Protect her, make her forget that she was dropped for his son. But before Tate could move, Ben filled the space beside his daughter. He kneaded her shoulder and leaned forward to whisper something unintelligible. She was better off. "I'm sorry I wasn't in your life more. You don't know how much – " Vivien faltered, pressing her lips together like Violet had done.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Michael shrugged away from her touch. "Who are you?" His voice sounded hollow, like he already knew.

"I'm your mother," Vivien said. And there it was. All eyes flicked to Tate, the psycho elephant in the room. He slouched in submission but didn't disappear. Leaving would only make him more pathetic. "I know it's difficult to understand right now, but..."

"Well," Michael said as he turned to Tate, "this shit keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" And after a pause: "Someone was willing after all." He shook his head in mock disbelief, the same way Constance would if Tate tried to talk to her about anything. Ben bristled at the comment, moving forward to deliver a beat-down or whatever he meant to do to Michael. Vivien stilled him with a hand to his chest, the other pressed to her mouth. Tate searched for Violet but she was blocked by Ben's shoulders.

"It wasn't consensual," Vivien said slowly.

"What?" Michael said again.

"I'd like to speak with Michael alone," she said to no one in particular.

"I honestly don't think I want to hear anymore," he said.

"I'd like you to, please." Vivien indicated the chair at the island as Violet looked on, dragging her palms up her arms.

"Mom?" she mewled. Tate's chest heaved with a suppressed sob as he turned on his heels, hoping to erase the unhappiness in her tone from his mind. Too much, too fast. Tate willed himself into the basement and the comforting, quiet darkness which surrounded his lonely rocking chair. But it wasn't quiet and his favorite place to rock wasn't vacant.

Larry's wife and children peered out with Travis from down the hall, and Dr. Montgomery paced at the foot of the stairs, muttering on loop about the incoming patient.

"My baby's up there, isn't he? The one your bitch of a mother stole," Hayden said from Tate's spot. Her raccoon eyes leered at Tate, an expectant smile on her face. "I want to see him."

"Doubt it. Now get the fuck out of my chair," Tate whispered. The rustling of the other ghosts and the scratching of Thaddeus' nails against the cement were too goddamn distracting. "Just...go away, all of you." When the noises didn't abate he said it louder until his seat was empty and silence finally prevailed. The chair creaked as he rested and smoothed his hands down the white-washed arms, curling his fingers around the knobs. He was so tired but he couldn't sleep. His concentration lingered on Violet's last plea to her mother. What did she hope to accomplish by calling her? What did she want to ask? Michael was no longer a threat, not without a weapon. Was she worrying about her baby brother? Michael did have a hand in killing him. Tate didn't know his name, but sometimes he caught a glimpse of the other twin, the normal one, as a teenager, the age he would have been if he was still alive. He knew who it was because he resembled Ben. That must have been the house's doing because Tate hadn't seen anyone grow old before. He knocked these thoughts around, losing track of the hundreds of possible routes the conversation upstairs could go, trying to understand that someone inherited his genetic makeup and was wreaking more havoc than he ever had. And Violet. He wouldn't stop replaying her lackluster replies, the blank roundness of her brown eyes. He didn't deserve her attention but he wanted it – fuck, did he want it. It was the crazy hope she'd actually give him a smidgen of a chance that had been holding him together...

Footsteps rasped down the basement stairs. They hesitated on the bottom step for a few long minutes, piquing Tate's curiosity just enough for him to rise and step towards the sound. They were too light to be Michael's. Tate stared into the darkness and listened to the purposeful breaths of the visitor. She knew he was there.

"You lied to me," the darkness said in Violet's voice. No greeting. Just that simple statement. Tate leaned against the wall opposite her to steady himself. "At the beach on Halloween, you blamed the pills, but you didn't want what happened to my mother to happen to me. Because you knew you could, if you let yourself. You'd gotten her pregnant by then, right? I just had to be dead first."

Tate chewed on his bottom lip, tasting salty tears. "I wanted it to be special with you," he said.

"Huh, special," Violet echoed.

"It was special, Violet. When the time was right," Tate asserted, his voice nearly keening to a whine. He was the most real he'd been in a while with her, didn't she know that?

"Because you didn't have to worry about knocking me up with a homicidal monster," Violet said through a choked sob. "Dead girls can't have kids. But dead boys can. You knew all along, even when I said we couldn't have children. How?"

"I don't know." He managed to keep his voice staccato.

"You had to have known or else you wouldn't have raped my mother. Who else did you hurt?" There was a slash of muted streetlight shining through the basement window, and Tate could see Violet's battered Converse and her fist hugging the banister. Interrogation was definitely not the way he fantasized speaking with her again.

"N – no one, I swear!" Tate said, horrified.

"There had to be other women."

"It was the house, Violet. The house knew, not me, not until it was over."

"That's bullshit."

"No," Tate gasped through tears. He wanted to tell her that before her mother, he hadn't been with anybody, even when he was alive. He was so sick of people that sex was definitely out of the question. No one wanted him in high school. His mouth was cottony and helpless and he curled a finger around a stray lock of hair until the feeling in his fingertip dulled. "Nora was always going on about her lost baby, and she wanted one so badly that I thought I'd help her out."

"So you raped on purpose. You made a conscious decision to – "

"It wasn't me," Tate said, pushing off the wall. "I was controlled, Violet. In the suit I had no idea what was going on." He hoped that partial truth would settle her. Of course he wasn't oblivious to everything. He remembered, when he did snap back, being terrified and wanting to stop, and after, waking up in the bathroom, pulling off the mask and asking his reflection what the fuck he just did.

"The suit?" Violet repeated and Tate was close enough to see the tears in her eyes.

"Don't cry," he said and didn't stop himself from reaching out to close his hand over her fist, the cool skin like fire on his palm. An old thrill ignited in his limbs at the overstepped boundaries. They were themselves again. Next he'd step closer, and she'd warn him about the likelihood her parents would come down at this exact moment, and he wouldn't give a shit because she was so pretty and she was rocking on tip-toe, waiting, and finally he'd kiss her, something slow, warm, and tingling. That's the way it should've been. But Violet whimpered and yanked her hand out from under his. "I'm not like that anymore, Vi." Violet blinked rapidly at the nickname. "I don't hurt people. I don't want to."

"You haven't had a reason to."

"You still think I could?" His voice came out soft, morbidly curious. Haven't you seen my progress? Tate wanted to scream.

Violet considered for a moment, her stare rivaling his. "If you really wanted to, yes."

"That's not fair," Tate grumbled.

"I didn't say it was fair."

"Why are you talking to me? I thought I was the last person in this house you'd want to see."

"I thought – " Violet shrugged, wedging her toe into a crack in the floor. "I don't know. Forget it, I was wrong to come here."

"Tell me," Tate said, a little more firmly. He resisted grabbing her arms and pinioning her to the spot. "We're being honest, aren't we?"

"It's about Michael," she stammered out.

"What about Michael?" Tate said. Violet sighed, a wet, crinkling sound that Tate felt down his spine. She crossed her arms, her hands snug in the crooks of her elbows. Protecting herself from him or what she was about to say.

"My parents won't listen, but something needs to be done about him."

"What should I do about it?" Tate asked. He rolled his eyes, laughing softly. Violet's eyes narrowed at his reaction, but she remained silent. He tried to think of a non-violent approach Violet would like and imagined the epic fail lecturing Michael would turn out to be. "Kill him or something?"

Violet wrapped herself tighter, swallowing hard, and murmured, "Yes."

x

x

x

A/N: Hello readers! I hope this was worth the almost month's long delay and that Violet's voice didn't sound too OOC. :-D My favorite scene to write must have been Tate's apology to Vivien. He totally deserved it.

Was on a major Arcade Fire kick while writing this, so that's where the title's from. Epilogue will be up soon.