A/N: Hello, everyone! This is to let you know that the lovely ifshepromisedyouheaven is beta reading this for me! I hope y'all like it and I would love it if you guys would review to let me know what you think and if you would also check out ifshepromisedyouheaven's work also!
"Tate's got a quick hand," I sing along with Foster the People's Pumped Up Kicks. Tate died the year I was born. He has no idea who Foster the People are. All he knows is that he's stuck in this house and that I told him I had a surprise for him.
He smiles when I walk over to my bed, where he's lying, and straddle his stomach. He has no idea how well he fits this song.
"He's got a rolled cigarette, hanging out his mouth, he's a cowboy kid," I take the cigarette from his lips and take a drag. I don't understand why he can smoke and eat and why I can feel just how solid his chest is under my hand. He doesn't have a heartbeat. That's the only difference between me and him.
Tate takes the cigarette from me and stumps it out in one of the candles by my bed. I'm about to tell him, again, to stop doing that when he rolls so that I'm lying beneath him. His hands slide under my shirt. They're ice cold like always and he smirks at the goose bumps that rise on my skin. I make a gun with my hand and put it to his head.
"The slight of my hand is now a quick pull trigger." He's kissing me almost before my sentence is over. The way Tate kisses is hard to describe. It's rough and it's hard and it always leaves me with bruised lips. I love it.
What I'm not prepared for is feeling cool metal against my head. At first I think he's kidding. Surely Tate wouldn't…
"Tate," is the last thing I ever say alive. My blood is suddenly everywhere.
"Bang," he says.