Violet Harmon likes the darkness. (takeeverything) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2013-05-21 21:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, tate langdon, violet harmon |
Who: Violet and Tate.
What: Exploring the murder house.
When: Tuesday night.
Where: The murder house.
Rating: R.
Trigger Warnings: PC death (don't worry, they're still around), murder, suicide, weird sex. Not good weird. Like "OH WHY" weird.
Status: Complete!
It was easy to get into the murder house. Only here and now, it wasn't the murder house. It was a mansion named after someone Tate had never heard of, and even the basement was clean. The place was not only for sale, but it was more like a spacious show room, and probably got fluffed by a couple of gay guys again.
Of course, that made Tate's mind dance with visions of fire pokers and what one could do with them. And naturally, he had to push those thoughts away. He hadn't had any meds in two days. That left things less clear and more turned into muddled, fuzzy shades of grey inside his skull...rather than a stark black or white, or knowing right from wrong.
The first sign of that was his breaking in. His mom had always claimed the house made him do things, and maybe she was right, for once. He felt compelled to find it, and drawn inside like a moth to a flame. And it had always been so easy to get in and out, from what he remembered in his dreams. This time, in this place, it wasn't any different.
Even though he'd been sitting quietly, listening for any sounds - like distant weeping - the last hour had passed by, uneventfully. Tate didn't dare go past the first floor, deciding to wait for Violet before he really began investigating. He simply sat and waited, his back to a wall and his butt on the floor, knees drawn to his chest and both arms hugging them in, close.
Violet raced to the house, parking her dad’s Prius that she’d basically taken over. Running to the door that she knew led down to the basement, that she just knew would be there. She didn’t take a flashlight, she didn’t take anything but herself. “Tate?”
"...over here," was the softly spoken response from a corner of the basement where an old bathtub used to be. A ghost of a smile made it's way over his lips to hear her voice, but it faded quickly, and he seemed solemn and quiet again, content to sit in the shadows for just a little bit longer. That was even if those shadows didn't have any dust or cobwebs down there, anymore. "There's no one upstairs. And if I tripped an alarm, they're being lazy asses. No one's checked."
She walked carefully, wishing that the jars of strange things, the ghosts of the dead twins were still there. It was an absurd thing to wish, but she still did. “It’s not the same, is it?” She didn’t move toward him right away; let him feel as lonely as she had.
"Nuh uh. Or...I don't think so." He shrugged a little, his eyes momentarily searching Violet's face for some clue that she felt something more than he did. When he didn't see any change in her expression at all, he shrugged again, and looked away. "Nora's not even here."
He missed her. Even if she was always crying or looking for her baby, Tate thought she was more of a mom than his own shitty mom ever was. He always had liked Nora the best, out of everyone else who was trapped there. At least that had been the way it was, until Violet started living there, and everything changed. More specifically, she made it change so everything was better.
"Still want to burn it down?" he asked, suddenly, temptingly. "Or should we rob a bank and buy this fucking place? Maybe we could turn it into something better than it was, when we're asleep and dreaming about it."
“I know you liked her.” Violet hadn’t had much to do with Nora; the older woman wouldn’t have wanted her. Violet was too old to be of use to her, and not pregnant. Tuning to Tate, she smiled and shook her head. “I don’t want to burn it down, no.” She didn’t want to rob a bank, either, but she still wanted to live there.
"Bummer. The best stories have the main characters going out in a blaze of glory." For a fleeting moment, the thought of them burning it down or them both dying together in that house - all over again - seemed like a tragic, but romantic, prospect. However, much like a lone shot in the dark, those dark thoughts were gone in an instant.
Tate smiled, once that moment was over. It wasn't cold or distant, or fake. It was a little wistful, but he was focused on her, since she was one of the only things in his world that made sense. Or that was good, and made things better.
He pushed himself up onto his feet and made his way over to her, stealing a kiss before he began to speak in a low voice, against her lips, "There's no one here and there's some furniture, but it's showroom shit. Probably to get it sold faster if it looks lived in. I dunno. Whatever. Since we got it all to ourselves...want to go sneak around and look at stuff upstairs?"
Violet wrapped her arms around him, having been worried sick since his random disappearance. “Let’s go look around.” She took his hand, feeling the same familiar tingles she always felt when he was nearby. “What all do you remember?”
"Enough, I guess," Tate admitted, as he led her by the hand, up the basement steps and opened the door to the first floor. He hadn't forgotten that dream where Violet told him to go away. There was no way he could forget that, because it had hurt in the dream, and it had hurt even after he woke up. It was like she had told him to do that, while awake.
The time away had helped clear his head, but it hadn't...and wouldn't...erase that memory, entirely. Probably not ever.
"I dreamed that I was gonna kill some dude up in your room, after a new family moved in," he admitted, "but I couldn't go through it with it. Then you sent me away again, because you couldn't forgive me for fucking up everything. And that Hayden bitch was on my balls about forgetting you. I couldn't get a hard on for her even if I oh-dee'd on viagra and rigor mortis set in."
“I hated her,” Violet muttered. She hadn’t seen her around the house much, but knowing she’d been there, the woman that had sent them all across the country, driven her mother insane - that was almost too much to bear.
Taking Tate by the hand, she ran with him through the house, wanting to find the bedroom they’d both inhabited. “We should make a new memory. You and I slept together in here for the first time, but you were dead. We should while we’re both alive, right?”
"Yeah, me too. She was a real psycho cunt bag."
Coming from Tate, that was saying something about how much Hayden had gone off the deep end over Violet's parents, and her dad especially. Or maybe Violet's mom, since she was the target of Hayden's aggression. Or just everyone and everything in general. Whatever. Tate hadn't been impressed by Hayden very much, even if she was a fellow jilted and spurned lover. He couldn't even feel that sympathetic towards her, despite his mommy issues.
The moment he opened the door to their bedroom, he stopped and stared into it. The bed was in the same place. It wasn't quite as dark as Violet had it, but it resembled it a little bit. Enough that even he faltered before entering.
"Yeah, total deja vu," he whispered, glancing over at her, still holding her hand. "A little. But you're right, we can make all the memories you want in here, Violet. While we're both alive."
Violet could almost feel her heart leap into her throat when they looked into the bedroom they’d both inhabited. Tate had died here, and she’d died in the bathroom not far away. Everything had come full circle.
“I don’t - I don’t know if we should be here.” She almost felt like she was walking over her own grave. “Tate, should we even be doing this?”
He hadn't wanted her to die. He even tried to save her, but it was too little, too late. And even now, he was remembering it all, and couldn't decide if he was filled with revulsion toward this place, or that they had more of a right to be here than anyone else did, or ever would.
"It's our room. Why shouldn't we fuck in here," mumbled Tate, as he gave her hand a light tug, stepping through the doorway. He showed no signs of stopping. If he had brakes to stop himself, he had entirely forgotten about them. "What's wrong? Are you scared?"
“Of course I’m scared,” Violet murmured. “Why aren’t you?” She stumbled into the room with him, moving to sit on the bed.
He didn't give her a chance to sit. Tate used the weight of his body to push her so she laid down, his lips meeting the side of her neck, where he teasingly nipped at the flesh. He quickly pulled away, his dark eyes focused solely on her face as he was smiling down at her.
"Why should I be," he asked. "It's our place. No one else's. And I could be here, with you, forever."
“We will be,” Violet smiled, not picking up on the darkness of those words.
"We can be," Tate said, sounding utterly innocent, looking like a black eyed angel with ruffled blond hair. He kissed her, deeply and longingly, intent on a long, slow screw in their bedroom, in their house.
She figured they should buy it. They could at least get a mortgage, right? She’d research it, she’d figure out how to do it. She was the brains in this operation. Smiling, she leaned back and shrugged out of her top, wanting the same thing Tate did.
Someone has something a little different in mind. That was why, after clothes were cast aside and he had fucked her until she was ready for a second orgasm, Tate wrapped both hands around Violet's throat. Just like she liked. Only this time, he had every intention of not letting go.
"...I love you," he said, breathing heavily. "...always."
What better way to stay in the house and make it theirs, if they both died in it.
Normally she loved when he put his hands around her neck. It was less about the suffocation and more about the trust that made it sexy. Trusting him not to hurt her, to make sure he let go.
But he wasn’t letting go.
She gasped, but her throat just wouldn’t move enough. She kicked, she clawed at his shoulders. It wasn’t funny anymore, it wasn’t what she wanted, she wanted him to get off of her so they could go home and she could keep reading for her classes that were starting up in the fall. And the worst part, the really scary part, was that she knew this was what Tate had meant. That he really did love her. Because there was nobody else he’d rather spend eternity with but her, and that was terrifying.
It was enough to scare himself, the way she was struggling. He didn't want to hurt her, and thought maybe since she liked the breath play whenever they fucked, it wouldn't make it so bad. To make it even worse, he had a blinding orgasm, feeling both elated and guilty afterward. It didn't help that it made his hands squeeze even more around her throat.
"...shhh," he was whispering to her, his expression apologetic and a little sad, "...shh, Violet...it's ok...now we can be together here, forever...because I love you. I love you."
Her eyes were locked on his, and through the tears and the exploding blood vessels, there was anger and fear and even a little hate. She clawed at his hands, drawing blood, glad that she was drawing blood, wanting him to feel as hurt and scared as she was.
He was ruining the happy memory, he was repeating the past, just like he’d promised not to. She closed her eyes tighter against the flood of new tears. Her heart was breaking, just like her windpipe.
He wasn't scared. It only fueled his conviction. He'd planned this out too carefully, after he woke up from that dream and knew what he needed to do. Not only was he dead set on finding the house again and luring her there, not only did he go back to his mom's house and steal her handgun before he set out that morning, but he wanted - he needed - to make sure that Violet wasn't ever going to send him away. This way, they could always be together. It was going to be better, because he was going to make it better...just like he would have, if she hadn't fought against him trying to convince her to kill herself, before she found out the terrible truth.
The gun wasn't for her. He was going to spare her that. She was too beautiful. He cared far less about himself, compared to how much he cared for Violet. Even though she was clawing and kicking against him.
That was why, before her last breath and as his hands squeezed her throat relentlessly, he reverently kissed her lips.
She wished she could turn her head, but she died with her hands thumping weakly at his back. She died angry, with bile rising in her throat, with brown eyes blurred with blood, with his skin under her fingernails.
Her body went limp, and she was vaguely aware that she was dying. That she was dead. That her story was over.
That story is not quite over. Tate stared into her lifeless, bloodshot eyes, before he backed away. He sat back, staring down at her as his vision swam with tears, torn between the sudden desire to try ressusitating her, or carrying out the rest of his plan. If he did, if she did cough and sputter back to life...she'd hate him. Better not to risk it. Better to go through with his plan.
He put her clothes back on, pausing to pet her hair and kiss her hands. Then he dressed himself in his customary ripped jeans and threadbare striped sweater, and dragged her lifeless body to the crawlspace he showed her, before. Either way, even if she was pissed at him, it was going to be worth it. He laid her down there where he knew they wouldn't be found for a long, long time, and he laid down beside her, hugging onto her for a moment, kissing the back of her head.
Then he reached over for where he'd left the gun earlier, put the barrel into his mouth, drew in a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.