Soo... it's taken me so long to get this chapter out that I actually feel kind of guilty about it. I blame writer's block. And the overabundance of South Park episodes made available to me through the internet.
Disclaimer: I own a portrait of Ziggy Stardust, a crate of Lindt chocolates and a little brother who IS Eric Cartman. I do not, however, own American Horror Story. Sigh.
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CHAPTER 15: Cold in the Ground or Fast Asleep Tonight
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"Maybe I didn't see I was buried today, wasting away and sleeping all alone. Maybe I'm not a man who sees so well; knows when his heart began to fail. When I looked in your eyes today, I saw one of us was dead, but it all began to fade…"
-The Earlies, 'One of Us Is Dead'
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Violet Harmon died on an early November morning, held tightly in Tate's arms. She died in the shaking embrace of a dead boy. She took her last breaths alone save for the presence of her murderer.
Death was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.
It wasn't at all as sweet and effortless as falling asleep; no, dying was akin to a forced surrender, her limp hands waving the white flag she never knew she'd had until her arms moved without her consent. She had lost the will to fight. She couldn't even bring herself to whimper out an almost inaudible cry of protest in order to make it appear as if she still cared about her life.
Her life.
She'd taken it for granted. She only realized in the very moment her heart stopped, her thoughts buried beneath the heavy goose feather duvet-layer between her consciousness and reality caused by her medicated coma.
She could still taste those fucking orange-flavoured whatevers that Tate had slipped her burning in the back of the throat that was now nothing more than a cold piece of meat. That's all that she was now. A large, useless piece of rapidly cooling flesh.
Violet would never smell orange again without wanting to throw up- which she couldn't do, which made her want to puke even more.
What she would give for just another moment to live as her old self again. All of that angst aimed at anything that was an annoyance or inconvenience. Her sullen, snappish attitude towards the parents who hadn't bothered to bother her in so long that she secretly kind of actually did miss it. The possibility of regaining the control stolen away from her by a boy with blond curls and dark eyes from the moment he opened that deceptively handsome mouth of his.
At least back then she had a heartbeat.
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Violet Harmon awoke after her death for the first time alone.
Her killer was gone and her corpse stiffening, her hands encrusted with the off-black of dried blood. He'd left her eyes open, probably in some effort to make it seem as if he had been lying with her like they used to. They'd begun to cloud over in a film of milky white. The rest of her was that same shade of sickly pale, the heavy slashes on her wrists still gleaming with hints of sticky red.
He'd even written her a suicide note.
Her white flag, held loosely in her curled up fingers.
The black nail polish she'd applied one night while speaking to Beau was chipped. Reaching over, she stroked the bloody hand of her empty shell and stared into her own filmy eyes.
What irony was it that she had awoken right next to herself, face-to-face with the worst moments of her life- or should she say existence now? There was no escaping or denying this new facet of her reality. She couldn't bear or afford to feign oblivion in the face of the one certainty of life.
Death was cruel and undiscriminating as it gazed upon the dead and dying with empty sunken eyes.
Violet continued to hold the limp-noodle of what was once her own hand as if to comfort herself in a very impersonal way. She continued to contemplate and take in what she had looked like in her final moments alive- albeit she was comatose and unawares of the plot to end her life.
It was in the moment that she began to begin to accept that this was how she had died and that that would never change when there was a knock on the door.
"Violet?"
Vivien Harmon always did have a horrible sense of timing.
"Violet, you're going to be late for school. Hurry up, or I'm coming in!"
This was usually when she would grunt in acknowledgment and roll out of bed, grudgingly shuffling over to the door and opening it just enough for her mother to see that she was in fact out of bed and on her way. But she didn't, because she didn't want to leave herself just yet.
Well, that and the fact that she was lying on her bed, an unknown medication floating in the puddles of blood around her corpse.
"Vi?"
She could detect the note of worry in her mother's voice. As well as the telltale tremor of budding terror.
"Violet, open this door immediately!"
Well, she could attribute that sudden escalation Vivien's increasingly frantic and erratic reactions to his father's fuck buddy's fucking around with her head. At least it made the great reveal more expedient.
She didn't feel particularly comfortable with the idea of allowing her body to decompose before her very eyes. It sounded almost twisted enough to be something that Tate had dreamed up in the moments where she was certain he'd fantasized about slitting her throat.
She clenched the hand holding her own hard enough to crush bone. And she did, feeling the fragile extensions of bone cracking beneath her grip.
At the very same moment, her mother jiggled the door handle open.
Perhaps he'd left it open after he'd left her empty body rapidly cooling alone to rot.
When Violet got her hands on him, she swore to herself that she would gouge his eyes out and squish them between her bare toes. She would watch as he bled onto the grey carpet of the room where he'd ended her life- was it even her own room anymore? He was going to suffer a very physical pain. One to rival all of the emotional torture and psychological manipulation he'd bestowed upon her with a sweet smile, as if he was giving her a present.
She'd return the favour, gift-wrapping his torn-out mangled heart in ribbons of red blood.
Vivien Harmon shrieked.
As her mother fell to the floor, Violet noticed the rapidly growing splotch of crimson on the crotch of Vivien's beige pyjama capris.
Good.
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In the end, her mother had lost the baby.
Not surprising, seeing as to how she'd suffered through both accidentally shooting her soon-to-be-ex-husband and the shock of her finding her (suicidal) daughter dead.
Maybe the miracle family-glue foetus would haunt her for real now instead of forever remaining that niggling little bruise on the bottom of her foot. The one insignificant injury that simply refused to heal because you keep walking; stepping on pins and needles and that sensation of sore static.
It seemed almost too appropriate that that squishy-not-yet-person died at that moment in time, as its purpose would remain unfulfilled no matter its unconscious efforts. Vivien and Ben were done, and that was that. Nothing more to do there.
Except send her mother to the nuthouse.
Ben Harmon had arrived to confront Vivien about her actions the night before (or, to be less polite, yell at her for shooting him) after having received medical attention and found her, bloody and cradling the head of their (dead) daughter. Needless to say, he freaked the fuck out.
One visit from L.A.'s finest later, Violet found herself sitting on a mess of yellow police tape that they'd put up (and she'd torn down) after they moved her body to the glamourized meat locker on wheels.
It was an odd experience, watching yourself get taken away with the complete knowledge that you would never see yourself ever again. She wondered what her funeral would be like. Open casket? Maybe, Tate (the bastard) had had enough sense not to fuck with the face he'd often mashed together with his own in that sick parody of what was called 'kissing'.
Or would they cremate her? Violet liked that idea better. Less messy. Mess was reserved for the boy who had smiled as he watched her die.
Maybe they'd hold a wake at The House. She'd make faces at her Aunt Margie, who thought she was so much better than everyone else. She'd flip off her Grandpa Norman, who had the nerve to ask her 'what the hell was wrong with her' and 'why couldn't she just act like a regular kid' every Christmas. She'd laugh as Ben would depict her as 'a wonderful girl with good grades and plenty of friends who, though a little different had so much to look forward to in life'.
That was what she really had to look forward to. A few crocodile tears from relatives she didn't speak to and a nice bundle of lies from her absentee father.
Hey, it couldn't get any worse, could it?
But of course, as Murphy once said, "what can go wrong, will go wrong."
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As the ghost of Violet Harmon drifted towards the attic for her habitual visit with the eldest of the Langdon children, she paused, considering the possibility of encountering her killer.
And then she shrugged to herself, as if the mere idea of Tate's presence didn't make her clench her hand around her wrist hard enough to make her jagged radius poke through the now smooth skin there. She also pretended not to wince when she shoved the shank of bone back under the surface.
She was dead. She shouldn't feel pain, and she would pretend that it didn't hurt until it no longer did.
Climbing the stairs leading to the uppermost floor of The House, Violet paid attention not to pay attention to her broken limb, which was knitting back together almost as quickly as she'd cracked it apart.
Willing herself almost immaterial, she smiled faintly as a bright red rubber ball rolled across the uneven floorboards to halt at her bare feet. At least she still had these few fleeting moments of peace left.
Crouching to the ground, she reached forwards to grab Beau's toy and roll it back. A leather boot stepped on it before she could collect it herself.
"You know, I used to feel kind of bad for making your dad cheat on your mom. But now, watching them, I can clearly see that she really did deserve it."
The Slut's voice echoed throughout the rafters of the dusty attic. Violet already knew exactly what it was that she wanted.
"So cold, so distant. No time for her daughter, the member of her family she should care for the most. So selfish. She had a loving husband willing to overlook her episodes and her poor attitude. A daughter, ready to leave her life behind to start all over again just so that she could live somewhere that didn't remind her of miscarriages and cheating husbands. But that wasn't enough for her, no, she wanted more. She was ready to leave everything behind all over again just to have a new start with that baby. Not just without Ben either."
Violet slowly stood, brushing the nonexistent dust from her skirt. Stupid Slut. Thinking she can tell me whatever she wants just so that she can see my mother institutionalized with my help.
Joke's on her; Ben's one more meltdown from sending her to the nuthouse himself. Voluntarily or not. And all that based on the events of last night. So, that does in fact make me partially responsible for any future psychotic breaks.
Ironic, isn't it?
"Your mother was going to send you to live with your aunt. She couldn't stand to see you around to remind her of all those years that she wasted on a marriage and a family that just wasn't right for her."
As The Slut spat her venom, a grin pasted itself to her face spanning all across her cheeks. She looked like a bedraggled fox having fallen down the rabbit hole and emerged with its fur ruffled by the Red Queen.
Off with her head, my ass.
She'd obviously dug through Vivien's clothes from a time before she had gained weight from her nine months bearing Violet. Where else in this House would she find designer labels for her size?
Somehow, this didn't seem to raise even the smallest of alarms in Violet's mind. Sure, The Slut was obviously doing whatever she could to put herself as close to Ben as possible, even if that meant pretending that she was Vivien Harmon until he acknowledged her presence in this limbo. But that didn't really matter anymore.
Violet Harmon was nothing more than a name for a dead girl now. She didn't have to be the same person anymore.
She didn't feel the need to cling to the life she'd once lived, snuffed out hours previously. Sure, the logical thing to do was to do all in her power to hold on to the person she'd been in an attempt to maintain some façade of humanity in death.
But humanity fades away when a soul loses the body that grounds it to life and the sanctity of it.
Besides, Violet Harmon didn't really feel like listening to logic and reason anymore.
There was no point to doing anything, really. It was all subject to her thoughts on a whim now.
She didn't have to worry about consequences. She was untouchable now. Nothing could lay even a finger on her. Not unless she wanted it to.
"And you think I didn't know? God, you're stupid."
She surprised herself with her cruel words. They'd sprung from her head to her mouth before she could even acknowledge the risk that they posed. Or rather, would have posed, were she still alive and not just a dead girl named Violet.
"Why do you think I killed myself?"
Liar. Liar, liar, pants on fire…
"I'd rather spend my afterlife wasting away in this god-forsaken tomb until the end of time than to have to put up with being nothing better than an old piece of furniture. Because that's what I'd end up feeling like. Passed around among my relatives until I wear out my welcome."
Hanging on a telephone wire…
She stared into the glassy eyes that reflected her appearance directly back into her own. Her features artfully arranged themselves to drip with disdain.
The ghost of Violet Harmon now wore her death like a second skin.
"You disgust me."
She spoke both to the frail girl she saw in the eyes of The Slut and to the bitch who'd torn her family apart the moment she'd opened her legs.
If Hayden McClaine was in any way surprised by her behaviour, it didn't show on her face. If anything, her smirk grew wider.
"That doesn't mean that you don't want Vivien to suffer. I mean, she did drive you to suicide after all."
Her voice had taken on a luring quality, as if she was trying to draw Violet in with her words like some sort of well-respected politician. Her tone was a hot knife sliding through butter and her demeanour confident.
Isn't it unfortunate for her that I know better than to take someone at their word?
At least I can thank fucking Tate for one thing; scepticism.
Violet scoffed. "Please. As if she would get to claim credit for the entirety of my death."
She suddenly leaned in close, her hair brushing against The Slut's cheek. Her lips were almost touching her ear as she whispered, "Have you ever dreamed of death?"
God, could I get any more clichéd? This all sounds like the dialogue from an unauthorized sequel to The Evil Dead movies.
I don't even sound like myself anymore. Can I even call me 'myself' in reference to my life anymore? Or is that just some sort of convoluted bullshit that I don't want to touch with a twenty-foot pole?
Should I care about anything but the moment I'm in now?
She'd already made up her mind. She'd been decided from the moment that she woke up next to her own corpse.
The dead girl called Violet Harmon fixed her teeth to Hayden McClaine's earlobe. She dug in viciously and pulled away as The Slut screamed, blood running down her chin and the ear she'd just torn off clenched in her wild grin.
No.
She spat the piece of flesh out onto the cold floor at her feet.
"Hail to the king, baby."
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So that kind of took me forever...
And as you can see, this is mostly filler (sorry). It took me forever to get all of this done, but I hope that you still enjoy it anyways.
Love for everyone!
And also,
jandjsalmon: He might've been 'kind' to her, but she's going to be anything but that ;D I hope you like this chapter too :D
ExcitedTurtle: Your review made me feel so accomplished xD Thank you. Though you enjoyed the dark Tate, I hope that I can shape Violet can grow to be just as strong a character. And your English is impeccable, don't you worry xD
All right, I hope that I can finish the next chapter BEFORE the end of the world.
(Even if You killed Kenny! You bastards!)
(...I have a problem, I know.)
Merida, out.