Disclaimer: I don't own anything having to do with American Horror Story
Warning: Violence and language.
The next family to be brave or stupid enough to take up residence at the murder house is an unexpected crop of people—normal.
The mother and the father are obviously in love, and have been happily married for what seems like their entire lives. They only have one child, a daughter, and she's probably the most innocent creature to set foot on the premises in a long time.
Violet feels the house's volatile reaction to having such light and goodness inside of it, feels its need to either expunge the problem or destroy it from within, and she fears for the outcome.
Specifically, she is wary of the way the house is slamming about in her skull, wrapping voices of hate around her brain as she spies the small child jumping on the large, annoyingly pink princess bed in what used to be her room, giggling the carefree way children do when they're completely submerged in playfulness. The words are slowly convincing her to do all sorts of horrible, unbelievably brutal things to that sweet little girl.
Violet doesn't know a time when she's felt more guilt or hatred for herself and the fucking house than when her minds flashes an image of her hands around the girl's small neck, watching in morbid delight as the lively light leaves her eyes and her body goes limp with death.
Violet's nails dig into her palms as she clenches her fists to keep her vision from coming to fruition.
She leaves the room in a flurry of pain and a disgusting hunger, desire, to spill an innocent's blood.
She hates herself so fucking much.
Violet thinks that maybe time and staying away from the girl—Samantha, as she had learned was her name—would soothe away this onslaught of bloodlust.
But after a while, she realizes that it was a mistake. Staying away only made the craving deeper, tearing more into her mind where she can actually feel the voices as they speak to her.
As much as she begrudges it, she knows the only person who can help her at this point is Tate. She is wary of going to him, but she'd rather bite that bullet than give in to her cravings, her sick, twisted cravings.
She finds him without even looking—he never hid himself from her, in fact, it was the other way around. Violet never allows him to even catch a flash of her hair or the fleeting presence of her smell.
He's sitting out behind the gazebo, a favorite spot this time of year because the family never really ventures out there during the winter.
She waits a few moments before making her presence apparent to him. Those moments allow her eyes to sweep across his lanky body, taking in every inch of the boy she misses desperately, but can't allow herself to have again.
She doesn't know exactly how to approach this particular subject, but decides to give a stiff upper lip, and bluntly state it to him.
"Tate, I need your help," she seems to startle him back into focus, causing his darkened eyes to flash to hers, "I want to kill Samantha."
Tate's eyebrows shoot up in what can only be described as immense shock before he quietly, somewhat sadly asks, "You want me to help you kill her?"
No matter how much he abhors the idea, if Violet needed him to do that, he would.
Violet's eyes widen in horror, her head furiously shaking.
"No, fuck, no. I need you to stop me from doing that. The house…I can't…it's…"
He realizes immediately what she's getting at.
In the time he's spent in this godforsaken hell hole of a house, he knows its power, what it can do when it wants something. He's felt firsthand how awful it is to have the house inside of his head, cajoling him, coaxing the darkest parts of his very being out into the open. The craving he couldn't fight was brought to him by the house, making him want to do all those awful deeds, and now he can see flecks of the fiery flame of bad desire in Violet's brown eyes. The house is ruining her like it did to him. Making her want things that he never wanted her to experience, the things he kept in the dark when they were together; she's feeling everything he hated.
And because she's his—no, not anymore—Violet, he'll never be able to say no, especially when she so desperately needs him. After a short pause, he speaks, the voice she yearned to hear every night since she told him to go away, to whisper in her ear, "For a price."
"What?" Violet asks, shocked. She always believed that Tate would do anything for her, and helping her not kill an innocent seemed like a simple favor, out of all things she could've asked for.
"I'll help you, Violet," he loves being able to enunciate the sweet syllables, relishes the feelings it gives him as her velvety name rolls off his tongue, "but I have a condition."
She is instantly on edge, her mind conjuring up all sorts of sadistic things he could ask of her.
"No more ignoring me. You have to start spending more time with me." Before he can even let that fully settle in her mind, she's furiously shaking her head, a little hint of anger creeping in.
"This isn't something that's going to magically bring us back together. I'm not going to fuck my way into your help, so fuck you for even thinking that."
Her words wound him.
No matter how much he'd enjoy having her around—barring the inevitable pain he will feel by having her so close, yet ultimately out of reach for the embraces he pines for—the major reason he needs her with him is the fact that he knows what happens to people in this house if they're unable to have contact with others who understand them. He knows what happens when people let the ache of loneliness creep into their bodies and minds.
He can't really blame her for thinking the way she does, but it still stings all the same.
"Think whatever you fucking want, Vi, but those are my terms." His tone is somber, final, and she knows by the set of his face that this is something he will not yield on, not even for her.
Too bad she doesn't know that it is for her—it's always been for her.
"Fine, but if you try anything, I'll castrate you myself."
Their first 'get together' occurs the following day, and is, in short, awkward as fuck for the first hour.
It's been so long, and so many things have been revealed to her about Tate that she has no idea how to act around him anymore.
She wishes so much that they could go back to black-painted roses and carefree embraces with sand entangled around their limbs and the ocean roaring in the background.
But they can't.
And that sucks.
She shakes her head to rid herself of those thoughts before dealing his cards for a game of war. He hasn't tried to talk to her since they met up in the attic, but she can feel his eyes on her, and knows that he wants to say something to her. He represses that desire because he can sense that she can't handle words right now.
Not with the way the voices are tormenting her restless mind with such ugly ones.
Violet is able to ignore their pulsating auras of hate for the most part when they get going with their game, but by the second time Tate slams down a Jack hard enough to shake her, she thinks she might be on the brink of insanity.
Then they both hear the tinkling peals of Samantha's laughter echoing from below.
Violet's spine goes rigid and the voices do nothing but intensify—in their sound, their furious murmurs telling her to go now, to act now.
Tate whispers a string of curses, flinging his cards away when he sees Violet unsteadily begin to rise, the soft flecks of amber in her eyes lighting up, muscles coiling, ready to make a quick dash. He uses those long-forgotten track skills to sprint to her in haste, capturing her trembling form in his arms, the momentum of their combined motions sending them both to the ground in a large, heaping crash.
The sounds swirling about in her head aren't so easily deterred, and Violet is soon kicking and clawing at anything, the floor, Tate, even herself, to get out from under his grip. She catches him in the shins a couple of times, but he masks the pain with a grunt, never letting her get even an inch away.
He says nothing as he holds her, only places frantic, loving kisses to the top of her head, rubbing his cheek soothingly against her forehead. She continues to wiggle and catches the floor with her nails—he winces when he sees and hears a few of them snap off—before finally slumping in his arms, crying out as she realizes just what she was going to do.
Tate continues rocking her, trying anything to comfort her, but she's so far gone, and all he can hear is her whispering sorry over and over again.
He can't help but cry silently, wondering if he could even help her at this point.
He doesn't know, but he'll never stop trying.
The next two weeks since that awful afternoon pass by without incident, but by the start of the third, she's once again restless.
No matter how much time she spends with him, she can't escape her gruesome desires.
Tate catches on quickly by the way she's so jumpy and ill-tempered. Especially when she tips the chess board up and onto him, the pieces flying everywhere on the basement floor.
So, he suggests the only logical thing.
"Why don't you kill me instead?"
Her eyes meet his seemingly impassive ones in confusion. "What the hell?"
"Maybe you just need an outlet for all your fucked-up imaginings. It's better me than her; at least I'm already dead."
"Fuck no. I'm not out to kill anyone. Quite the opposite, in fact, if you can recall."
"I know, Vi, but maybe this can help." He sighs, knowing she won't like being reminded of his past, but pushes on anyway, "I've felt what you're feeling now, and the only way to really shake it is to embrace it."
Instantly, she's furious. "So, what? Am I supposed to go shoot up a school? Slaughter Samantha while she's cuddling her pink pillow pet watching fucking Dora the Explorer?"
He pushes away the slight twinge of pain at her venomous words before continuing. "Weren't you listening at all? You can take it out on me."
She starts to speak, but the begging, pleading look in his eyes makes her reconsider. Seconds tick by as she processes his offer. She doesn't think she can go through with killing anyone, let alone Tate, but when she remembers the way she thought of taking a box cutter to the little girl to give her a Glasgow smile, she knows she'll do anything to keep that from happening.
Her breath pushes out in a regretful huff as she comes to stand right in front of Tate, her hand reaching out to curl her fingers into his hand in a quest for reassurance that he won't hate her for needing to do this, even if he was the one who offered it.
"Okay," she whispers, and feels his hand squeeze hers gently.
"Do it, Vi, just let go."
His whispered words do nothing to quell her torment, but she takes a deep breath anyway, feeling his hands guiding hers to rest atop his head, spreading her fingers apart in an obvious prod for her to grasp him by the hair.
The first time she slams his head against the hard cement floor of the basement, she sobs, gutted, stomach rolling and heaving in distaste—for herself, for this situation, for what she's asked of him.
She knows he's in immediate pain by the way his eyes roll back and teeth bite down on his bottom lip.
"Keep going," he grinds out.
Tears slip down, staining his shirt as she burrows her fingers deeper in his now blood-stained curls, bringing his head back down once…twice. Tate wants to cry out, tell her to fucking stop this and maybe let him just kiss and love the demons out of her.
But he knows more than anything that she needs this.
If it takes having her kill him once or a thousand times to keep her from hating herself, punishing herself for eternity for killing Samantha, then he'll do that because he loves her and that means keeping her from hurting.
Even if it means killing himself in the process.
Violet's sobs have not subsided, only increasing into violent wails before she feels the house slip into her brain. She jerks back, her hands releasing Tate's head so that she can bring them to her ears. It's futile, though, because the house isn't whispering into her ears, it's in her. Telling her to be more destructive, savage in this murder.
The house delights in the whimpers sliding out of her mouth as she resumes her position on top of Tate, flashing out to bring his head back up then down, smashing it so many times she can't keep track. Her tears are mingling with his blood, and she can feel him dying in her hands, his skull giving out, brains and blood and everything being freed from his body.
She despises the small coil of delight and release she feels, and she knows that no time will ever take the guilt she feels over that away.
With one final motion, she lets go, watching in horror as he bounces back, collapsing fully onto the floor.
His eyes remain open; the onyx orbs look deader than ever, void of any emotion. The way his breath is exhaled and then he is silent, still is an immediate give-away that he is dead.
Her hands shake so, so much, and the moisture in her eyes nearly blinds her. The house, mercifully, has left her, receded back now that fresh blood has once again coated its walls in death.
If she were as cold as she sometimes wishes she was, this would be the moment that her subconscious would tell her not to worry, that it's ludicrous to be so upset because he'll be back in a little while. But she's not, and seeing him so unresponsive and cold breaks her entire being in half.
She can't breathe and she can't deal, she just can't fucking deal.
Tears are falling down in slow rivulets, spilling over her cheeks as she scrambles for something, anything. Crashes echo off the walls as things are knocked over in her haste. Her hands finally clutch a sharp old scalpel, and then she's rushing back over to Tate.
Before she thinks, she brings the sharp object to her neck, swiftly cutting through her skin, opening up her jugular to let her life flow out.
The dying process is immediate, and she's weak, too weak to crawl to Tate, to wrap his arms around her so that she can finally remember what it's like to die with him holding her.
She settles for his hand instead, and grasps it between hers, intertwining their cold fingers, shakily laying their conjoined hands over where her heart is before her head swims and she falls. Her body turns limp as she gasps out; hoarsely whispering out the name of the person that has her heart, for always.
Tate is the first of the duo to come to on the cold floor of the basement. He realizes immediately the position Violet had placed them in, not because full rigor had set in and Violet's grasp now felt more like a vice grip, but because of the way he so suddenly feels the familiar rush of his love for her invade his senses.
It feels like watching birds, drinking hot cocoa while reading poetry, and fucking sunshine all wrapped in one to have Violet, of her own volition, reach out for the comfort of his touch.
It feels like home.
He isn't sure that, upon waking, Violet will be any better in terms of her savagery, but he knows that whatever happens, he'll always be by her side, a lighthouse to guide her out of the darkness trying to drag her away.
He doesn't care that his hand hurts like hell; he stays within her clasp, basking in the glow of hope that he can guide her away from this obstacle, and maybe, in the process, guide her back to him.
I count very early morning as night, so here is my little something that I've been sitting on for a little while. Huge amounts of love go to RRsabi for editing this, and adding gems of lines that made it so much better.
Sorry for the long 'absence'. School is all-consuming right now, and labs are just so much fun. Scattered Part 2 is in the works. It's just been hard trying to find the time to write.
I'm going to take my sleep-deprived self to do some more studying now.
Anyway, thanks for reading this!