The instructions had been clear. Meet me up in the attic after everyone leaves. The Littmans were going away for the afternoon, leaving plenty of time for Violet and Tate to make as much noise as they wanted to. Right now, she was pacing around the attic, fists clenched as she grumbled.

"This is insane. God damn it, it's insane!"

"Well, he deserves it. He said so himself." Chad scoffed from his spot on the dusty floor, a smirk on his lips. "And you can call it off anytime, sweetie. I don't see you calling it off."

The truth is that, as much as it sickened her, Violet wanted him to suffer. It was true, he deserved it. He had done exactly that to someone else. But… It was Tate. The man she was in love with. The one she lost her virginity to, voluntarily. Eagerly. The boy she'd thought of as an angel for the first few days after they'd met.

Now… Any resemblance of the angel she used to admire was covered in blood. Blood and dirt. It disgusted her to think of all the things he'd done, to think she'd ever let those same hands touch her. The hands that had held a man's head underwater until he died, then snapped his neck, had also held onto her hips with such tenderness and love that – Violet, shut the fuck up. For fuck's sake. Feeling sick to her stomach, the girl stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, her eyes closed.

Maybe his plan was a good idea. Maybe it was right to purge him of his deeds. Every one of them. After all, there was no Hell for them – there was only eternity in that damned house; if there was no Hell, someone would have to take matters into their own hands.

Her resolve faltered when Tate appeared at the door, if only for a brief moment. The few seconds it took her to put on the brave face were more than enough to see the dirt again. The filthy fallen angel – hey, she thought, Satan was one too. Now that she had finally been able to put it into words in her head, looking at him was becoming unbearable; not because of any guilt she might have felt, but because even the air he touched seemed to be contaminated. Sin and tragedy and heartbreak and murder and sadness, so much sadness, it sucked in the energy around him like a black hole.

But she couldn't… Well, she couldn't do it herself. Not yet. Not with her own hands. And so as soon as he entered, all she did was all she could do.

She sat down.

She crossed her arms.

And Tate just looked at the bucket full of water, dropped to his knees before it, and locked eyes with the blonde across the room.

"Now, Tate… Tell me what you did to deserve this." She managed to keep her voice from shaking, but it was probably a good idea not to push her luck much further.

When the boy replied, his eyes weren't humble. They were trying to be, but so many concrete walls had been put up, it was like the attempt wasn't even legitimate.

"I drowned Chad in a bucket of water and broke his neck."

"Leaving me here in this house forever with a man who doesn't love me back. Which, if you think about it, is actually really ironic." The dark-haired man remarked bitterly, eyes narrow and a smirk full of vengeful anticipation as he knelt beside Tate.

A tan hand gripped the blond locks firmly, waiting for the final command.

It came in the form of a hesitant nod.

And so it began.

What amazed Violet was that he didn't fidget once. Even when his natural body reaction would have been to try and come back for air, he did nothing more than jerk up a few times with his torso. No squirming. Not a single voluntary movement, not one subtle attempt to get out, until his body went limp and Chad pulled him back up.

Her eyes welled up again. Damn it, Harmon, are you a water fountain now? But seeing Tate so dead – and the fact that he was a ghost was of little relevance right now – hit the panic trigger in Violet's chest, and she was seconds away from screaming when the brown eyes shot open again.

Then it hit her.

They were red, sure.

But they were also… Pleading. Desperate like she'd never seen before. Not desperate for her forgiveness, not for attention, not really for anything. They were desperate from his suffering. From understanding just what he had put Chad through – mind you, that was just one person. And so she knew, she knew from the bottom of her heart, that his plan was right, if not for him, then for the strange pleasure it brought her.

"Again."

They went again and again that day. Tate gasped and sputtered and held his breath until he died, and came back, and died, and came back, over and over until he could barely remember how to breathe. Until Chad pulled his hand away, and even he was too exhausted to be satisfied. It wasn't until Chad left the room that Violet nodded faintly to the blond boy, her face stained with tears, but her heart oddly lighter.

Still on his knees, seemingly in no condition to stand up just yet, he crawled his way over to the girl, but no words were spoken. She didn't know what to think – it had been at the same time a liberation and a nightmare. Seeing him suffer at her hands, even indirectly, made Violet's chest hurt. However…

That look in his eyes. He understood now. The reality, the size of his own monstrosity had just begun to dawn on him, and she could see it so clearly; the walls were breaking. By the time they'd gotten every single one of them down, it'd be like a hurricane had blown him away.

Only then, if ever, could she contemplate forgiving him. When he had comprehended the true dimension of his atrocities, that's when he could truly know what he was sorry for. And when she had inflicted enough suffering upon him, maybe she could see him as something other than a monster. Something other than that blood-stained, filthy mess of an angel in disgrace.

Violet wondered if there'd be any of him left when they were through. When he had understood exactly what he'd done to each and every person he'd caused harm to, when he'd felt it all in his own everlasting, ever-healing, but still very humanly sensitive flesh. Would he go mad? Would the Tate she loved still be in there somewhere, or would she discover that what she truly loved was his insanity itself?

The boy's mouth opened, his strength very slowly returning. Before he could form any words, Violet silenced him with a finger placed to her own lips.

"No talking. You did good today. Now you have to go. I'll call you again in a few days so we can get on with this."

With a shaky nod and a deep breath, he disappeared, leaving Violet just as empty as she had been since their goodbye.

The following sessions turned out to be just as brutal as the first, if not more. The more Violet watched her favorite monster get purged of his deeds, the more honestly exhilarated she felt. And he came on his own, never hesitating for a second, let alone disobeying.

Lawrence was avenged, pale skin turned black and leathery, the whole basement smelling of burnt flesh and regret and sorrow. Patrick, too, with the fireplace poker drawing more and more blood every time it went in and out of the boy, his shrieks becoming progressively louder and more pitiful with it. A woman he had quite literally stabbed on the back, in another occasion involving drugs, could now rest in a little more piece; the attic floor covered in quickly disappearing ghost blood and Tate entirely still on the floor, not a square inch of skin unmarked.

Every wound, every burn, everything would heal within a few hours, sometimes even minutes, but that didn't make Violet panic any less until she saw it for herself. He started it, she kept reminding the stupid part of her brain that still wanted to stop. He did all of this to innocent people. He has it coming. He needs it. He knew he needed it, too; what else could his perfect obedience be a sign of?

To be completely honest, Violet was shocked, in a good way – if nothing else, by his perseverance. Throughout the repeated assaults to every part of his body, in every conceivable way, Tate was surprisingly solemn. As silent as he could bring himself to be, until the pain became too much; and even then, not a word would escape. Sobbing, yes. Whimpers, screams, grunts – Violet didn't mind the screaming as much as she did the pitiful, broken wail the boy sometimes let out when she'd pronounce that dreaded little word. "Again".

At times, she did it just to shut him up. Any sound he'd make was better than this. Others, she'd make the last round mercifully short. In any case, while he lay limp on the floor, waiting breathlessly for everything to heal, she'd always sit by him and watch… And his quiet little whimpers would sometimes make her want to reach out and offer some comfort. Maybe a short hug or a kiss. Maybe play with his hair. Something small.

She never did, though. At least, not in that way. The first few times, all she gave him was enough time to recover – maybe an hour or two, no more – and even that was for her own peace of mind more than to the boy's comfort. He was paying, and it was good, but he was still dirty. Still disgusting. She loved him, she loved him more than words could ever say, but it didn't stop her from looking at the bloody, broken mess on the floor and only seeing malice. Malice and sin and lives taken away. She couldn't bring herself to touch that. He didn't deserve it, not yet.

Whether it was hours or minutes later, when Tate's pale skin was back to its original state – or almost so, she would always do the same routine. Violet would scoot closer to the boy, take a deep breath, and just look straight into his eyes. It was an assessment, and what she found pleased her greatly; with every time she purged him of one more crime, another wall was taken down. The brown eyes were soon becoming completely lost, more and more desperate as the reality of each misdemeanor dawned on him. He would hold her gaze like it was his only grasp on sanity, and none of them really doubted it.

And then a question would leave his lips. The only exchange of words they would have after each purging was over.

"Was I good?"

"Do you think you were?"

No matter the answer, she'd agree. That part, she'd admit, was just to mess with him a little bit.

That's how it went down until the seventeenth session.

To say it had been intense was a gross understatement. When Violet announced it to be over, Tate's body collapsed to the floor like a crash test dummy, blood oozing from every possible surface. The noises that escaped him – pathetic, distressed howls still echoing through the basement long after the torture had ceased, were getting to Violet's heart in a much deeper way than usual. He always took it willingly, but the scene before her was becoming unbearable, and even in her most vengeful state, Violet wouldn't have had it in her to make him leave just so she didn't have to watch. Don't be a hypocrite, Harmon. Face it.

It took Violet ten minutes of wet cheeks and a shaky chest to realize she was crying almost as much as the broken man on the floor.

But she couldn't comfort him. Not even with a kiss. Tenderness was dangerous to them, perhaps even more so than violence; tenderness meant love, and love could mean forgiveness – forgiveness that he didn't deserve and she wasn't ready to give.

There was another option, though. An idea that came into her mind as the cries dwindled and the wounds began to heal. Such a perfect compromise, she didn't know how she hadn't thought of it sooner.

"Tate?"

"Hm?" His handsome face turned to her in confusion, eyes wide and slightly unfocused.

"Let me know when it stops hurting too much. I mean, on your body."

"Why?"

"Because I wanna fuck."

If the atmosphere in the basement hadn't been so heavy, the double-take Tate did when he heard the girl could have been reason for a good laugh. Back when he wasn't nearly irreparably tainted in her view, she'd call him a dork and kiss him, but now all that happened when the boy turned on his side with his mouth agape was a tiny, humorless chuckle from Violet.

"You… You wanna have sex again?"

"I didn't say sex, I said fuck. Sex has kissing and sweet stuff in it. I don't want that. I want your dick."

"Why?"

Tate seemed even more confused, which only made the girl shrug.

"Because you're really good at this stuff. And I haven't gotten any in almost two years. Don't you want to?"

Maybe that was true, too, but it wasn't the reason why she'd had the idea in the first place. Fucking – not sex, fucking – was the perfect way to compromise the gnawing need to comfort him and the knowledge of how very fucked up that was. A way to touch without the tenderness, without the love. If there was one possible way, that was it.

"Give me two minutes and I'm good."

"This isn't supposed to hurt, Tate, take your time. I'm not going anywhere." She assured him, eyes on his. Yet another successful session. It was amazing how much darker they looked now. Liquid, almost. Beautiful. She wondered how much better it could possibly get… Perhaps, maybe, good enough to forgive? Good enough to welcome back… Maybe even to love without any overwhelming guilt?

Time would tell.

For now, all she knew was that he still looked as goddamned handsome as ever when he pulled his bloodstained shirt off, and it still felt as thrilling as it used to when she straddled him on the floor.

Clothes came off in a matter of seconds. There was no hesitation, no small talk; this was not about reconciliation, after all. No, it needed to be as rough as it could, and for what it's worth, Tate understood; he understood at the first harsh bite to his bottom lip when he attempted a kiss. From then it was almost a competition. It was his hands on her hips, tight enough to bruise, and her teeth closing around his nipple. Fingers slipping inside at a frantic pace, purple marks distributed all over pale skin, hair being pulled and moans filling the basement as the two moved together. It was Violet pushing him off of her as soon as she could regain her breath, and with the faint whisper she could manage, making him go away for the longest time since they started his purging. Before looking in his eyes. Before realizing how much of an even bigger mess she had just gotten herself into.