Author's Note: This is my first American Horror Story (AHS) fic, which will be compiled of a series of oneshots, revolving around the Season One characters. I will try my best to link the oneshots together with similar themes in the oneshot prior and after.

Disclaimer: The characters portrayed in this series of fics are copyrighted to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk.


Constance was in mourning. She had witnessed her precious daughter, Adelaide pass on as she had been hit and run down, wearing that Godforsaken mask, which had transformed Addy into something she had pined for; a pretty girl. The mother had lost her babies; Tate, Beauregarde and now Adelaide. The fourth child, she had no contact with, and therefore knew nothing of.

As she sat at her kitchen table, smoke between her fingers, watching the plume twirling up towards the overhead light, Constance smiled gently, remembering her daughter who had been too soon taken from her. It was a smile being that of bittersweet nature, for remembrance and because her daughter had been taken from her. Constance hadn't remembered much after rushing to Addy's side in the middle of the road on that Halloween night she had been taken. But, as she inhaled on that cigarette, flashes were coming back to her, in sharp bursts. The guilt was beginning to sink in.

She had even admitted it to Violet; she'd sent Adelaide out into the world that night, unsupervised. Adelaide needed supervision at the best of times, and on Halloween, this was something that should have been there for her safety. Constance was growing tired and weary of her battle with life. After losing all four of her children to death -be it have been suicide, assassination, murder or accident- she had lost them. But not fully, their spirits were still around, at least three of them were; Beau, residing in the attic, with his red ball, Tate often wandered the corridors of the house, and now Adelaide would too. She had passed, and Constance had gotten her to the lawn in time.

Of course, this was not the first time Constance had been in mourning. He first born had come as somewhat such a shock to her system, she had not been expecting what she and her husband had saw when he had been delivered. Constance's first born son had been born an albino. Upon his childhood years, he was joined by brother, Beauregard 'Beau' who was born with deformaties which affected his breathing and sleeping, and also his mental state. Constance constantly told her boys of how she had moved from Virginia to become an actress, something her eldest son paid attention to.

By the time Tate was born in 1977, Constance had four children, three of whom still lived under her roof; Beau, Adelaide and baby Tate. She had been praying for a 'normal' child when she had been pregnant with him, and upon his birth, she had braced herself for the worse, but he had been the most perfect baby she had ever laid eyes upon, which had been a relief after Adelaide had been born; she knew a child with Down's Syndrome would be difficult to manage.

The first few years had been hard, especially with Adelaide who was only six years older than Tate, and Beau who three years older than Addie. Each of Constance's children needed constant attention; medication, diapers changing, assistance with dressing. The list was endless, even with the help of her husband, Hugo. That was until she caught him trying to have sex with the maid, in their marital bed. So, like any other housewife, she shot the maid, and then her husband.

Then, her knight in shining armour arrived: Larry Harvey. Of course, he was a married man but he was willing to do things for Constance that even Hugo had not wanted or offered to do. Larry began spending more time with Constance and her children, than his own wife and their two daughters and soon began to fall for Constance, only to be rejected at all costs. Those costs happened to be losing his family and his home; to a fire his wife, Lorraine started in their daughters' bedroom.

Constance realised that she led a sad and lonely life. Losing Adelaide had made her come to realise, she had none of her children left, only in spirit at the house. The Murder House. All of them were still just children at the times of their passing; Beau had been just sixteen, Tate had been seventeen, almost ready to graduate from high school and Adelaide was still the child she always had been, asking for chocolate chips and Dora the Explorer.

"What did I do to deserve this life?" she asked in her slightly Southern drawl, looking to the plume of exhaled cigarette smoke, watching how it twirled and danced under the glare of the bulb above the kitchen table, "What did I do?" she asked again, "Was I not good enough a mother? Is that it?" asking questions to the God above had never been in Constance's style, but now she had lost her last remaining child, "Everything I did was for my children, everything! Can't you see that I'm in mourning?"