I Don't Hate Mondays
I own nothing. And even if I did, there is no way that I could make the show even close to what it is now. I bow to you, Falchuk and Murphy, gods of television.
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Chapter 2: Lovely Girl, You're the Murder in my World
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"Lovely girl, you're the beauty in my world, without you there aren't any reasons left to find…"
-Smashing Pumpkins, 'Ava Adore'
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Tate felt… bored.
Leading Dr Harmon in circles was just as easy as manipulating any other poor fucker in the world.
It was just too bad that that cocksucking bitch he called 'Constance' (not mom- never mom) had called up Sigmund Freud here and scheduled an hour of the same shit he'd dealt with for years.
Apparently, psychiatrists dealing with patients with a history of violent behavior now required they attend sessions or else they called the cops. Something about 'being a danger to others as well as to themselves'. So that was new.
"Look, Tate. I know you don't want to open up to some guy you met half an hour ago, but at least try. You need to give me something to go on", 'Siggy' pleaded.
Wow. That sounded almost half-genuine, Doc.
How ironic it was to him that the people 'treating' him were just as removed from feeling emotion towards others as he was. They were just pickier about who they didn't include in their little circle of feelings.
He decided to humor the dear old doc. Just a bit.
Who knew? Maybe if he told the truth for once, he'd succeed in scaring him away and get off scot-free. Or he might get wrapped up in a pretty white jacket like a present and taken away by men with a thing for beating people with sticks to go live in a nice, quiet padded cell. And the gig would be up, they'd figure out that he wasn't real and he wouldn't have to go to share his feelings with the nice man with a stupid fucking boy band haircut anymore.
Either way, he won.
So he talked.
"I prepare for the war", Tate began, keeping his expression carefully blank. "I know that it isn't noble. It's far from that. It's messy."
He practically spat the last word from his mouth in disgust. Of what, psycho? Yourself?
"I'd like to think that I'm calm. But I know that I can't keep my hands from shaking when I look at them. How the hell am I supposed to aim a gun when I can't even hold it properly?"
Ben took a moment to write something down in his notebook. Tate copied his wrist movements, drawing the observations his new shrink had jotted down on his exposed knee. Take that, Constance. Holes in jeans are good for something.
'Fantasizes about school shooting', Harmon had written. 'Dangerous?'
The question mark felt heavy. Even so, Tate continued.
"I end up killing the people I like. I don't even know them. I don't talk to anyone at school if I don't have to. So I sort of pick them out because they aren't complete dicks. They just seem like good people from what I've seen of them so far. The sad part is that it seems so easy to me while I'm doing it. Like rocking a baby to sleep."
I would've done it. Oh god. I actually would've done.
Should it bother me more than it does? It should.
"Some of them beg for their lives. They're crying and snot is running from their noses. It's like they're toddlers with scraped knees all over again. That's the real messy part. Not what the bullets do. Their last words don't even make sense. Most of them are lying when they tell me they believe in God."
He didn't believe in God. Because he knows better. He's seen that bright light at the end of the tunnel. And he knows that there is no God.
His sick fantasy (could've been a reality, psycho) makes him want to laugh. And puke. And then laugh some more.
"I don't feel sad. I don't feel anything. It's like someone's locked me away, and I'm just an outsider looking in."
Okay, maybe he was laying it on a little thick. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was in complete control.
"It's a filthy world we live in." Okay, psycho. That's enough. Shut your mouth, pretend to keep your head down and take your meds. Siggy's had enough now.
"A filthy goddamn helpless world. There's nothing we can do about it. That's the worst part." Seriously. Time to go back to telling the doc fairy tales about other crazies now. Shut up.
He couldn't help himself. It was as if Harmon had slipped a verbal laxative in with his demand for real information. He knew he should stop.
"And honestly, it feels like when I kill them, I'm taking all of that good away from the shit and the piss and vomit that run in the streets. I'm making this filthy world an even worse place to be. And I'm watching all turn to shit." Great. So you're back to being a pottymouth so you can seem like you're more insane than you are. Good job, psycho. Tell the man with the power to make them shove you in a room with padded walls forever more about how you planned to murder fifteen kids in cold blood.
"I'm helping to take them somewhere clean. And kind. Somewhere that deserves them and all the good they can do. Because god knows that we don't deserve it."
Harmon's face twitched before he asked his next question. "Why do you think that we don't deserve good people, Tate?"
The doc had included himself in the statement. Good. Because I can already tell that you aren't a good person.
"We've twisted the world into a horror show. Filthy. We're all the monsters. That's why they tell little kids all those fairy tales about the big bad wolf and the wicked witch. They know that we're out there."
Tate thought of the kids in the house. It made him want to laugh. Thaddeus was a sick infant version of Frankenstein's monster. And the twins. Like little devils. There was no way that they got that little moral message before they died.
"There's so much pain. That's why growing up hurts. It's like you know that one day, you're going to be the thing you were so scared of as a kid."
'Talks about children and childhood more than usual. Discuss.' The pen continued to scratch away.
He ignored the last note that had been jotted down and continued down the path he'd already set himself on.
"There's something about the blood. I drown in it. I can feel it filling up my lungs until pulls me down. It feels like I'm choking on air- like I'm breathing blood."
'Psychotic', Harmon finally seemed to decide. 'Medication.'
Tate wanted to scream.
Something- anything to change this stinking routine. It just happened over and over and over and freaking over again. Same story. Every. Damn. Time.
"The Indians used to cut themselves every month in ceremonies to let the spirits out. That's smart. I like that. The idea that you being a monster isn't your fault. That it's your parents' fault. That it's their blood's fault."
His tone was flat. Take that, cocksucker.
"Do you want to talk about what happened with your father?"
Oh god. The shrink sounds like he's about to piss himself with excitement. Yeah. You brought up the taboo little elephant in the room and I didn't rip your head off. Whoop-dee-doo. Fucking great.
"You know, he ditched me when I was six. Packed up and left. Didn't even bother to say goodbye or offer to take me with him. Would've been better than what he did."
"And what was that, Tate?"
Take it easy, Siggy. You might just crap your pants if you don't slow down.
"He left me with my whore of a mother." Tate smirked. It felt good to associate curse words with Constance. Helped to relieve the tension building in his brain whenever he mentioned the bitch.
Otherwise he would need to hit something. Break something. To take something perfect and watch it smashing into a thousand fucking perfect tiny pieces.
God, will he just get over with already?
Tate realized how often he said the word 'god' for an atheist.
Fucking repetition. It was like 'Groundhog Day'. Except no sex or Bill Murray. So in summary, a huge bummer.
"She used to screw the neighbor, you know. Until he got caught on fifty to life. Torched his entire family. Wife and two little daughters. He was a real prick."
"Maybe they're why I'm so screwed up", he mused, smirking. "It'd be nice to blame someone else for once."
"Do you really believe that?" the doc inquired. He'd put down his pen. Finally.
"Nope." Tate popped the 'P' in the word. He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I know that I can't change what I am. I've spent days on end tearing my hair out over it. But I know that I'm a monster. And that's fine by me."
Harmon paled. "Tate, I believe that no one is untreatable. With the right combination of medication and therapy-"
Tate cut him off with a single look.
"Whatever you think Doc." He glanced at the clock. "But I know that there's one thing about me that isn't so bad."
"And what would that be?" Siggy's voice tried to disguise uncertainty and shakiness behind good ol' sterile cold professionalism.
Bad move.
Tate could smell lies better than a shark could smell blood.
He leaned forwards. His grin widened.
"I could have been so, so much worse."
Silence.
"I believe that's all our time for today, doc. See you next time."
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The smoke made the bitch's eyes water.
"Don't you fucking get it, you freak? No smoking on school property!"
Fucking valley girls. And 'Leah' was the pushiest, most manipulative egotistical one of them all.
Violet had had more than her fair share of encounters with the school bitch squads. Maybe they didn't like her hair.
She snorted, both at the thought and at the Supreme Queen. Firstly because she knew all too well that they just didn't do different and felt the need to stomp out individuality. Secondly because it got more smoke in the whore's face. Hah. Hope you get cancer, tramp.
Just a minute earlier, she'd been peacefully walking along, glaring at everyone she passed. School fucking sucks.
And the next thing she knew, this bitch and her posse had her surrounded and she was listening to a high-pitched voice ramble on about school rules.
I don't have time for this bullshit.
"You understand? Never smoke here again!"
Violet scowled, dropped her rig and squished it beneath her shoe. She could feel the heat through the sole of her chucks. "Got it."
She didn't have time for this. She needed to get home and scream into a pillow before she broke her hand hitting this bitch's face. Besides, Vivien promised to order Chinese.
Okay. Deep breaths. In. out. In. out. Just think of the mu shu pork. Noodles. Stay calm, Violet.
The bitch looked ready to do something crazier than having some guy do coke off of her nipples. Besides, she'd already done that. Violet had overheard her gossiping to her friends about it like some twelve year-old who just got their first training bra.
So she put her head down, looked regretful, anything, anything for this crackhead to go the hell away and leave her to sulk in peace.
She thought back to the one positive (if she could even really call it that because it was more weird than anything else) recollection she had of this place. Tate.
Maybe if she didn't have that one good memory of this shithole, she'd have done something to Leah. Like spit in her face. Or burn her with her cigarette.
But she did. So she didn't.
Mu shu pork, Vi. Mu shu pork.
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Tate felt satisfied.
He'd succeeded in at least shaking up the wallet munching quack in there.
All in a day's work.
The smug smirk of victory stayed plastered to his face as he strolled down the hallway, tucking his hands in his pockets. Huh. Didn't realize I'd left my lighter in there.
He fingered the warm metal, humming the tune to 'Wave of Mutilation' by The Pixies.
The carpet was uglier than he remembered. And it was pretty bad before from what he recalled. Fucking Patrick and Chad.
Tink.
The unmistakable sound of metal hitting porcelain rang from behind the bathroom door. It was ajar. And Tate knew exactly who was inside.
I put the shrink with the ego the size of Constance's hair in his place, didn't strangle him in the process, and now this. Can this day get any better?
Next thing he knew- "Hey"- he was leaning against the door frame and waving hello to Violet.
She looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Only paler. And perfect. Perfect.
"So…" his voice trailed off as he looked down at her bloodied wrists and back up at her face again.
She stared, mouth open as if she wanted to say something but the words kept slipping back down her throat.
"You're bleeding and I'm crazy. What's with that?"
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Oookay, so that wraps this chapter up. As you can see, getting through each episode is gonna take time because I don't have the gift of being able to limit and condense my words all while still making sense and sounding interesting. To those of you that have this talent, I am so so very jelly. Grape jelly.
Also, a great big thank you to the wonderful people who have been so kind as to favorite this story or add it to their alerts :D
The rest of you still get a thank you. It's just not as big. Sorry :P
That's it for now. Carry on now.
(My wayward son.)
Couldn't help myself. So sorry.
...
No. I'm not sorry.
-Merida