"He's not lying, sweetie."
Her mom is sitting beside her, stroking her hair lovingly. She looks beautiful, so beautiful, and it kills her to look at her own mother because she's dead. She feels it in her bones. The little girl inside her feels it, too, because her stomach's in knots. "I'm so, so sorry baby." Vivian coos, helping Violet sit up so she can hold her to her chest, rocking her like she was still her little girl. No matter how she acts or what she's said, Violet knows she'll still be that little girl, because no more than ever she needs her mother and there she is. "But now isn't the time to give into self-pity, Violet: now is the time to find that strength I know you have. Now is the time to be a mother and get up, be strong, and get out of this house."
"Mommy…" Violet chokes, snot running down her lip but she doesn't care. She's just clinging onto her mother because she doesn't want to let go yet.
"No." Vivian pulls Violet away, gently, but sternly. "You don't have much time, sweetie. The longer you stay in this house the more my precious grandbaby is at risk to being engulfed by it. I lost my babies to this place: I don't want you to ever, ever know how that feels." Vivian places cold, gentle lips on Violet's sweaty forehead, causing the teenager to renew a fresh set of sobs. "I'm sorry for not being there for you, not giving you the credit you deserve, but now it's time to learn from my mistakes. Go. Make sure that little girl is every bit of a bad ass her mother is."
Violet gives a soft laugh. She feels another presence, the maid, Moira's, as she helps the pregnant teenager from the bed gently. "Come, Miss Violet; while I would normally say I'd regret to see you go, I can't share that sentiment. I've seen far too many good souls fall victim to this house. I won't let another suffer the same fate."
"Moira said if we helped," one of the ginger twins began, "she'd let us touch her younger self's boobs."
"How far along are you, anyway?" Asks the other, "I mean, you look like a whale."
"What the fuck is going on?"
It's Tate. Everyone and everything freezes and Violet is torn between slapping his face and kissing it. God, this is all fucked up. There's a sharp twinge of pain in her stomach, then another and another, and he's picking her up like a child to lay her on her bed. She wants him to go away—far away!—and she wants all of this to be some fucked up dream, but the cramping, blinding white hot pain only maximizes to where she can hold back a scream.
She feels a rush of water leave between her legs, making her feel oddly lighter, but her face pales as she looks at her mother. "How far along are you, Violet?"
"Dude, she's leaking!" Observes one of the twins, while his brother makes a disgusted face.
"T-Twenty-eight weeks, I think." She doesn't know. She can't keep up with the time anymore. All she knows is that it's still early and this can't be happening—God, why can't Tate stop looking at her like he actually gives a damn? She isn't sure if its hormones or just the fact he raped her mother, a psycho killer, and actually fooled her into believing he gave a damn, but she wants to stab him repeatedly. "Holy shit!"
"What do we do?" Tate asks, having the gall to look to her mother with doe eyes for advice. Her mother, showing the same strength during that Home Invasion shit, stares at him and her words are full of venom: "I think you've done enough, Tate." She spats, deadly, but turns to Violet and her cold demeanor fades into nothing but warmth. "You're going to make it through this, baby. Breathe. Moira is going to get Doctor Montgomery; he'll help you. This house won't get you or your baby."
"She's so young…" says Moira when she brings Charles up to Violet's room. He's still covered with her mother's blood, and the traumatized nurses are right behind him. "She'll survive, won't she? What will happen to the little girl if she doesn't?"
"We'll take care of her," chirps Tate, looking at Violet as lovingly as he strokes her hair it makes her sick. She can't fight, she can't show Tate that she knows what a filthy goddamn liar he is and that he sure as hell not going to be anywhere near Adelaide, because her back arches as another contraction ripples through her body. There's a sheet draped over her body for modesty's sake, while her underwear, is pulled off by the doctor's hands to make the delivery easier. God, she wanted a home birth, too: now all she wants is to be far, far away and in a hospital where she knows she's safe. She isn't safe here. "She's already ten centimeters dilated. Violet?" He asks. "I need you to sit up and when I say push, push. I also need you to breathe and focus on the sound of my voice: understood?"
Violet nods weakly, being helped by both Tate and her mother, the obvious tension between the two is suffocating.
Charles counts down from ten—push!—another—push!—another—push!
She's so tired and it hurts so badly. "I can see the head—oh, Violet, you're doing so well!" Coos her mother, encouragingly. She wants to ask where her dad is, but every time she opens her mouth it's to scream.
"Push!"
Everything is in slow motion, she can't hear anything besides her own heart, and suddenly the life she's been carrying for who knows how long is severed by a snip of the cord, washed, and swaddled with some bath towel by Moira as she hands the infant to Violet, her good eye blurry with tears. Suddenly everything and everyone disappears and it's just Violet and Adelaide: two odd balls against this fucked up world. She's breathing, she bright-eyed, but she isn't crying. It's like she's too thankful she's made it out alive to make a huge fuss about it. Violet's sweaty, in need of a shower, a hibernation period that's ungodly, and food can't hurt either—
That doesn't matter. Everything else is insignificant. When a tiny fist captures her index finger, Violet rethinks the possibility of God, or something like one, because this is the closest she's felt to a spiritual experience, regardless of being surrounded by ghosts. "Hey," she greets her daughter, unable to help the smile that's making her face ache. "Hey."
The room becomes alive again, her mother is sobbing tears of pride as she places kisses on the babies matted head, while Tate stares in wonder, frozen in awe to where he can't move. Charles stitches Violet up while the dead nurses begin to help Moira clean up the blood and placenta that landed on the floor. Violet can hear the ginger twins saying something that what they've seen cannot be unseen and how they regret looking when the thing—Violet chooses to ignore them calling her daughter a thing—started to come out.
Violet's too busy falling in love to really notice much else.