AN: Hello readers! Here are some explanations before you get started reading my little experiment here. All of this takes place in present day. Tate is living in the Murder House, and he hasn't committed the massacre yet, but is about to. The Harmon's move across the street, Tate and Violet will meet, and we shall see what happens from there. Everything else is the same, for now. I hope you enjoy my rewrite of events. Each chapter will be from either Tate or Violet's POV. Rating will definitely increase as more chapters get posted. The title was taken from a Smith's song and more Smith's/Morrissey inspiration will most likely follow. Please review, but be nice as I've never attempted an AHS fic before and haven't posted a story on FF for years.
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own AHS.

He was going to do it. This week. The pressure inside his head had grown to a level so great that he just could not take it anymore. All of his thoughts revolved around it. How he would do it. What it would look like. How it would feel.

Sitting in his bedroom in solitude, as was normal for him, he bent over his little desk and sharply inhaled another line of cocaine from the four rows he had set up for himself. His afternoon ritual.

Every day was the same, wake up (if he had fallen asleep at all), go downstairs only to be ignored by his horrible mother, throw Addie a small smile, go to school, get through it with minimal contact with other people, come home, lock himself in his room until he passed out. Except things had changed within the past month. His mother had a new boyfriend, and Tate had one less sibling. He knew that Larry Harvey had killed his brother. He knew that his mother had asked him to.

His whole life made him sick. Everyone made him sick. The world was a horrific place and he didn't want to be a part of it anymore. Why would anyone want to live in a world like this so full of pain and misery. His only solace growing up was Nora.

He had met her when he was just a child, a little time after his father had left them. The pretty maid had left then too, his mother sometimes said that they went away together, when she was in her drunken rages, but otherwise she refused to talk about it. Tate had liked the pretty maid, Moira, she was nice. He missed his father and didn't understand why he would leave him with the creature that was his mother. But the pretty maid had come back, and Tate slowly realized over the years that everyone who died in the house eventually came back.

Nora was like a mommy to his seven year old self, she had protected him from the monster in the basement, given him a way to escape the ghosts. Nora was so sad though, and all he wanted to do was to make her happy, like she made him happy. If he died, then maybe he could spend forever making her happy.

The cocaine spread through his face and body, the burn swiftly followed by the beautiful numbness that Tate had grown to depend upon. Idly, he poked the right side of his face, near his nose, with a sharpened pencil and felt nothing.

Tate licked his index finger and picked up the remnants of the line, rubbing it along his gums, spreading the numbness. Glancing up, he caught a reflection of himself in a mirror on the wall. His dark eyes were wide, pupils dilated, hung with deep dark circles and bags from endless nights of little to no sleep. The voices in his head wouldn't shut up long enough to let him sleep and if it wasn't voices in his head it was voices from the ghosts that lived here. If he did fall asleep the nightmares woke him, cold sweat making his long hair stick to his face and the sheets to his naked torso. His hair was too long, he should cut it, but he just didn't care. Tate didn't care about a single thing anymore.

Tate, the only outwardly normal one of his siblings, yet seemingly undeserving of the love of anybody, even his own mother. The only one of them who seemed to actually like him was Addie, his poor sister. She didn't have it as bad as Beau did though. Tate didn't think that anyone had it as bad as Beau.

What sickness had infiltrated his family that they would all be so…wrong? What in the hell had his mother done? Why did he have to be different? Maybe if he was like Addie then he would garner some attention from his drunk of a mother. But she only had eyes for Addie, her dogs, and her dog of a boyfriend.

Rage, always just lying under the surface of him, bubbled up then and he snorted another line before going over to his bed and grabbing the bundles underneath. Soon it would all be over and he could live in peace, maybe even with Nora, if he could make it back to the house in time to die.

He unfolded the cloth concealing his prized possessions. A shotgun, single barreled, heavy and solid. A 1911 handgun and another shotgun. He stroked the single barreled shotgun lovingly; this one would be his favored weapon when we went to war.

Tate's reverie was broken by the sound of car doors slamming outside. He strode over to the window that looked over the street and pushed aside the heavy curtains. There was a moving truck parked across the street and dark silver Volvo SUV behind it. Two people were getting out of the car, a man in a dark coat and a hipster hat, and a red headed woman with a small dog in her arms.

"Oh great, new neighbors." Tate muttered sarcastically.

He was about to turn away in boredom when the back door of the car opened and a girl in a dress and a yellow sweater slid out.

The house across from his hadn't been for sale for long. The previous family, after complaining about the strange noises coming from the massive Langdon house constantly for the past 5 years, had finally given up and moved away.

The man and the woman walked up the driveway as movers began unloading the truck. The girl just stood next the car, shoulders slumped, arms crossed in front of her. He couldn't make out her face from here but he could tell she had long, dirty blonde hair, was wearing a dark dress, and although she was small, she appeared to be about his age. She stood there for a moment, scanning the quiet street, Tate's house catching her attention almost immediately. She walked across the street slowly, gazing up at the gargantuan Victorian house. Tate detested the grandeur of this house, yet he thought its Addam's Family-esque style was rather fitting for his ridiculous family.

The girl stopped on the sidewalk, hands gripping the spiked wrought iron fence that bordered his house. Suddenly she noticed him standing at the window on the second floor. She tilted her head to the side, unembarrassed at having being caught looking. They stared at one another for a long moment, curious. Then her parents must have called to her because her head snapped around, hair flaring out from her shoulders with the force of her turn. With one last glance up at him she walked back across the street and entered her new house.