Okay, I admit it. I don't own American Horror Story. Yet. But you just wait, Murphy and Falchuk. You just wait.

Alsoalsoalso, please see the author's note at the bottom (I do this in order to avoid any potential offense and all of that technical jazz for now and the future)

-O-0-o-0-O-

CHAPTER 8: When You Lie in Your Bed and You Lie to Yourself

-O-0-o-0-O-

"I hear what you want and I feel that way. I hear you fade away and I hear you crawl. I gave my life away and I feel no pain…"

-The Smashing Pumpkins, 'Silverfuck'

-O-0-o-0-O-

Violet didn't even know why her parents even bothered to have conversations without her anymore. They shouted loudly enough that she could hear every word from her room anyways.

She knew exactly what Vivien wanted. What Ben wanted.

What about what she wanted?

What about poor broken Violet? Poster child for the suicide hotlines, independent-not-by-choice-but-by-choice-as-well. Where was her vote in all of this? Surely, not every ballot in the box was labeled 'Vivien' or 'Ben'. Was it?

She sat there on the windowsill, passing cigarettes back and forth along with light conversation. Nothing serious. No 'what about your parents?' or 'so, how did you die?'

But along came the Wicked Witch of Next Door, Constance, walking her little dog too.

It was as if the world grew still and no one could move but those two.

Her eyes grew wide and hopeful, her hand rising to clutch at her chest, as if she was attempting to give a physical reason for her emotional pain. Her spindly old legs stalled, stopping only to start again only to stop again. Like a windup toy with jammed gears and a dying battery.

Who knew? Maybe Little Miss Blanche Dubois's luck was running out, or maybe life was getting just a little too real.

And then she saw the expression on Tate's face.

It took every ounce of her self control to stifle the whimper of fear threatening to escape her mouth. Her teeth bit through the thin skin of her lip, drawing the pungent coating of salt and rust into her mouth that made her want to gag. Her nails did the same to her palms, her knuckles white from the pressure.

His eyebrows were so furrowed that she could hardly see the dark and heavy hate emanating from his eyes, rimmed in a weighty reminder of sleepless nights past. The shadows in his cheeks grew more defined. It was as if he'd aged ten years in an instant, and in a bad way. His complexion turned to wax and purple-blue-black bruises flowered across his left cheekbone, reaching down, down, down to his jaw. Thin scratches painted themselves at random intervals. One ran from the corner of his right eye. Another from the left side of his nose down the crease that should've appeared when he smiled. The same side's mouth corner suffered the same fate. More still-healing scabs on the opposite.

It was when the blood started pouring that her self control (what little modicum she had of it anyways) shattered.

Gushing from-from-from…

Oh god, it's everywhere…

A black-red syrup of bodily fluid, dripping from the whites of his eyes, dyeing the sclera a sickly shade of crimson. Pouring from both of his flared nostrils to fall over a set of snarling blue lips. Rivulets weeping from between his gnashing teeth.

Tate was dead, and there was no denying it.

Just when she thought she could forget that, he came back with the Mother of All Post-It Reminders.

Wrenching her gaze away from the confirmed walking corpse, Violet turned back to look at Constance.

This was the end, wasn't it? The woman would go insane trying to prove that what she had seen was in fact real. She would go crazy trying to prove that she wasn't.

But as the color drained from her bottled tan, she allowed herself only a moment before she squared her shoulders, slipped her usual mask of ancient elegant disdain back into place and carried on, a tremor in the hand holding her pet's lead.

It was then that Violet slipped.

A quiet squeak emerged from her bleeding lips, still open from when her jaw was left hanging.

The cigarette she'd been taking deep pulls from finally burned away, singing her limp fingers. The scent of bubbling human flesh permeated the air along with the heavy musk of coppery salt.

But she did nothing to stop the pain she couldn't feel anymore.

Shock? Fear?

Or have I just lost my mind?

It was then that Tate seemed to finally recover from his state of immobile rage, his snow-cold fingers, no more than sticks dipped in wax probing at hers, feeling the burn with dead hands.

"Violet."

His voice was no more than a heavy rasp as he seemed to shake with every lungful of air he pulled in. Not that he needs it. Not anymore.

"Look at me."

She turned her head but her stare remained firmly fixed on their intertwined fingers. She wouldn't look up. She wouldn't.

"Look at me."

This was the part she hated the most. The way that she couldn't ever possibly refuse him. Not when he sounded so tired, so broken.

But this time, there was an undercurrent that was almost tangible. An underbelly of white-hot anger. Not directed at her, that much she knew, but how little would it take for that rage to be turned on her?

She glimpsed him angry once before. And she'd run like some coward.

Actually, come to think of it, it was because you were running that he was so mad. Because he knows that he's a monster. And he wants you to know that he knows. And there's nothing. You. Can. Do.

Shut up.

Shut up.

Shut up!

Violet looked up.

Tate was still dead.

That would never change, she knew, but he still looked it. He'd never looked it before.

It made her wonder even more how he died. It was quite obvious that it was violent. But not obvious enough that she could tell at a glance what the cause of death was. It wasn't like she could go asking either. It seemed far too personal a matter to be divulged on a whim.

His lips were blue. Thick blood everywhere. Bruises. Cuts.

"Do you see this? This is what happens when you try to leave the house. This is what happened when I tried to leave."

Tate knew exactly what he was doing from the moment Constance left his sight. Of course, while she was present, he'd had absolutely no control over his emotions or, god forbid, his appearance.

His mother always did bring out the worst in him.

The best part of that however, was how easy it was for him to remind her of every mistake she'd ever made with a single glance. He was the memory of Hugo. He was the Prodigal Son. He was every insecurity she'd ever had wrapped up in the most painfully perfect package.

'Her angel', she'd called him.

Of course, Lucifer was the most beautiful and dedicated angel of them all.

But he fell, tumbling down to Earth, all because he'd loved too much. And in the hearts of righteous and meek, such emotion is the greatest sin of all.

Tate was a sinner. His life paralleled that of the original betrayal, which, if you looked closely, was not a betrayal at all.

It's always just a matter of perspective.

He figured that a bit of twisting the truth to his advantage in order to ensure Violet's stay here was extended despite her parents' unease with the history of this house.

To be completely honest, they were right. Murder House was poison. It called for the blood of innocents and sinners alike, reveling in the destruction and pain that its walls contained with an air-tight and silent seal. If it was to reveal its true nature to all those that entered, the floors would be stained and the chandeliers dripping with reminders of the past and the suffering to come.

Even so, he needed Violet more than he could say. He had no words to describe the full extent of his utter need for her.

So he made some up to fill in the blanks and create and insurance policy for her residency.

What better motivator than fear?

"I tried to leave. I tried to get out of here for good. Look at what happened to me", he rasped through his swollen throat and the blood flowing up from his lungs and his kidneys and liver and stomach and everything else in the human body that could rupture and turn to mush.

"Look at what happened to me."

Violet's gaze never wavered, but the corners of her eyes began to leak what appeared to be involuntary tears, her split lip trembling as she watched his dead fingers rise to caress her cheek.

"I don't want you hurt like me, Violet. I want you safe. You have to stay here. Not for me. For you."

He wasn't completely speaking out of his ass. He really did want her safe.

Safe where he could watch her every move and fight away the other monsters lurking behind every corner so he could be the only one who knew when she was sleeping, when she was awake, when she was good and when she was bad.

Slow down there, Santa Claus. Christmas isn't for another two months. The department stores have only been playing carols for five weeks.

"Will-will… will I be safe if I stay?"

It took her a couple of seconds to be able to keep her voice from shaking as she spoke. She was drawing on every little bit of inner strength she possessed.

You were just told that you'll die if you leave. And it's almost certain that Vivien and Ben won't give you the option of living. Of course, they don't know that, but that doesn't matter.

And then she remembered Addie. Poor Addie.

"You're gonna die in here."

"Will I be safe if I stay?"

The reminder of what that hauntingly innocent and honest woman had said reminded her of how important it was to know every detail of what people in this house said. Every possible loophole and chance to be taken whenever you placed your blind trust in dead things.

"I can't promise that."

With that, Tate reverted to his usual appearance. "But I can promise that you'll have a fighting chance. As long as I'm around, I can promise you that."

"I promise you only one thing. I won't make any promises."

She realized in that moment that he only spoke twisted versions of what she didn't want to hear. And he made them sound like everything she wanted was everything she didn't.

He was smart, she would give him that.

He knows that you'll do almost anything he asks of you. He knows that you'll swallow any sweet lie he feeds you without the usual grain of salt.

You're his puppet, and you know it.

You just don't want to admit that he has that much control over you.

At least, not yet.

"Okay."

It escaped before she even realized that she had opened her mouth to speak.

"I'll stay."

-O-0-o-0-O-

Vivien had discovered the origins of the house.

And apparently, it wasn't all that great for the family-adhesive fetus. She'd experienced a rather extreme case of spotting. In white pants, nonetheless.

Talk about unlucky.

And Ben had continued to disappoint. This time, he'd claimed that the matronly old maid, Moira, was trying to seduce him. He called for her resignation. She'd retaliated with the threat of suing for sexual harassment unless if they let her keep her job.

Score one for the housekeeper. 'Attempted seduction', my ass. What did she do? Tickle him with a feather duster?

It sickened her to even believe for a single moment that the man who had aided in her conception was so desperate for another woman that he would attempt to hit on an innocent old woman who was clearly in her sixties.

Sure, maybe at one point way, way back, she'd probably been a knockout.

Poor Moira. She probably received a lot of unwanted attention from male clients in particular back in the day.

This wasn't her first time at the rodeo.

At least for now, Violet had discovered that they wouldn't move. Not until they sold the house, that is. And with the whole city aware of the goings-on on the property, that wasn't any time in the near-future.

The only person who'd come to visit the open house was dead, according to Tate and judging by the injury she'd glimpsed on the back of her head from the upstairs landing.

She really had to listen in on her parents' affairs more often.

Tate really is rubbing off on me.

Does that make me impressionable, or does that just make him even more manipulative than I could anticipate?

She was scared to know the answer to that question.

But you already do…

-O-0-o-0-O-

Constance was digging a grave.

Her bony wrinkled hands shook with the exertion required to move shovelful after shovelful of dirt. She paused every once in a while to wipe at her forehead, her makeup running.

Moira watched on from an upstairs window as her bones were exposed to air for the first time in thirty-five years.

"Oh god", she whimpered, allowing herself to weep for the first time in almost as long.

Tate appeared out of nothing, wrapping his arms around her shaking shoulders. He let her rest her head on his shoulder, stroking her fading red hair.

The woman hadn't deserved anything she'd suffered, especially not at the hands of his parents. One mistake didn't make her a bad person. He should know, he was one.

Constance dragged the corpse of a young woman into the hole, dumping her unceremoniously over Moira's decayed body. The hole was then filled again.

She left and Ben arrived a few moments later, dragging a wheelbarrow filled with cement and tools to install and spread it. He set up a perimeter to cover the grave and began pouring it, smoothing it until the cement was level.

Moira's sobs grew louder and Tate continued to hold her.

She would never leave now.

None of them would.

-O-0-o-0-O-

Righty then.

So, I do mention religion in this story (it will be brief, but I still feel obligated to say that...) and I would like to make it clear that these references and opinions are only made in order to illustrate the characters and are not necessarily my personal views. I would also like to state that though I do not practice religion, I do respect the beliefs of others and their right to practice their faith.

On another note, I have now graduated :D

This means no more high school (YES!), so more time to write.

Speaking of which, I DO have another chapter written. This is in fact a first. I generally tend to sort of write bits throughout the week and only post the moment I finish. I might post it sooner or later depending on how much feedback I get on this chapter (HINT HINT) (I kid) (No, I don't).

And allow me to rant about my personal life for just a moment; I recently had my prom, and while it was in fact quite fun, the after-party was slightly... less so. If any of you have ever been the only sober person in a room of drunk/tipsy people, I feel for you. I feel for you so hard D:

On to the usual thank yous:

Readers: You guys rock. Don't ever change. (REFERENCEEEEEE)

Favorites/Alerts: Always appreciated and treasured forever in my heart.

Reviews: EVEN THOUGH I HAVE HEARD BACK FROM MANY OF YOU ON THE POSSIBLE M SCENE, I AM STILL OPEN TO OPINIONS. Just sayin'.

rko-luver: Thanks for the feedback :)

jandjsalmon: WONDERFUL WALTER, Iron Man, thanks, but can I pleasepleaseplease have your opinion for the M-ness? :3

vixenXfreezepop: I love your long reviews. They give me moar of the stuff to work with as in what you particularly enjoyed or what you want to see. And yes. Yes, I did have to ask. ;)

Sarah v: Yay :D Thanks for continuing to give me feedback and don't be ashamed to tell me if there's anything I should change or improve on :D

Demy: Thank you so much, and don't worry, I'll keep on powering through this story xD Better late than never, and don't worry, there's a lot more to come and your compliments have brought joy and happiness to my heart (no, seriously. And I'd say you brought joy and happiness to my soul, but everyone knows that gingers don't have souls ;D)

That does it for today. Bye for now,

Merida