She knew it wasn't right, knew it was poisonous and self-destructive, and Tate had told her time and time again that she was simply torturing herself, but Violet couldn't help it; watching her body rot in the crawl space of the basement was strangely soothing to her.

It helped remind her that there had been other things than here, a world outside this house. She'd gotten those Converse at the mall in Boston; that dress from a little boutique she and her family had stopped at their first day in California. She'd gotten that bracelet from her friend Stacey on her last day of her old school, and it was tighter than it had been originally because she'd snapped it on the drive over, and had hastily collected all the beads off the car floor, cranking her music up louder to drown out her mother's dog's incessant yapping as she strung all the beads back through the string, tying it again and settling it back over her wrist.

She'd gotten the pills that had stopped her heart from Leah at the skate rink a block from the high school.

And examining her sunken cheeks reminded her that eating was a necessity, but impossible in her ghostly state; she'd tried, many a time, but the food turned to ash in her mouth and choked her, punished her, and she'd hide herself from everyone and cry silently to herself.

Because this had all been a mistake, a terrible, wretched mistake. She hadn't wanted to die, she never had. She was an attention seeker, that was all; she did things to get a rise out of people, her parents, something, anything to get them to get their heads out of their asses and realise they still had a very present daughter, one that was getting caught in the cross fires of their imploding marriage. She hadn't expected to die; she had fully expected someone to rush to her aid within 20 minutes, for someone to notice the startling silence coming from her room. But she should have known better than to count on people, especially when said people were Ben and Vivien Harmon. Her loving and oblivious parents.

Violet sighed out a bitter laugh then, swiping harshly at the stray tear that rolled its way down her cheek. She'd told herself that she wouldn't cry during these corpse vigils, wasn't going to turn it into some warped and fucked out-of-body experience where the mourning teen floats above her lifeless form and cries to the heavens. This wasn't going to turn into a pity party. This was simply her way of coping with being dead. That's all.

"God, even when you're dead, you're a depressing little shit, aren't you?"

Violet huffs as she hears Hayden move out from the darkness, feeling the not-much-older woman's eyes on the back of her head.

"I mean," she started as she moved closer to Violet, much to the girl's chagrin. "You don't see me sitting out on that shabby little patio out back yelling 'woe is me! I got headbutted with a shovel -!'"

"What the hell do you want?" Violet snaps, cutting the woman off and shooting her a glare as she squats next to the girl, looking into the crawl space and wincing at the decomposing body there.

"Just thought we could take part in a round of friendly banter," Hayden says, offering the girl a smirk and recieving another glare in return.

"Okay, okay, easy tiger," she says, raising her hands, before moving to stand again. "I'm just here to let you know that your tortured Romeo is upstairs, awaiting your return."

Violet frowns, giving her body one last look before she too stands, brushing her clothes off.

"Why didn't he just come and get me himself?"

"Well probably because you're down here making friends with your carcass, I assume that's a little too much brooding for even him."

The two stood there for a solid minute, just looking. Violet at least didn't think she was glaring anymore, just looking at the woman in ponderment.

She found it weird. If the situation had been any different, she might have actually liked Hayden; she was the only one in the house, dead or alive that could match her in wit and bitchiness. But the situation remained the same. This was the woman that had helped turn her whole family to shit, this was the woman who had laid on her back and let her married teacher fuck her into a mattress that he shared with his wife, and this was the woman who would do it all again, if Ben's screaming conscience didn't keep interfering. So Violet lets her eyes go dark and hooded again, and huffs as she walks around the woman and climbs up.

"You shouldn't come back here," Hayden calls over her shoulder. "It's not healthy."

And Violet simply continues crawling, not bothering to give her answer. Because she knows it's unhealthy, knows it's stupid, but that's the fucking reason she's doing it.

She's dead.

What has she got to lose?