Chapter Text
« I'd paint a picture of my life upon your wall
And use the colors that have made life seem small »
This Mortal Coil
The only positive outcome of everything that had gone down in the past year was that new house they were moving into. Not only was it massive and dark, but it had an ominous vibe, like bad things could happen there. Like Vincent Price might suddenly emerge from behind a drape to recite tales of blood and murder that had occurred in their very dining room.
The place was quite literally a goth chick fantasy, so much so that Violet was considering dying all her clothes black and covering half her face with eye liner just so she could fit better into her new decor. It wasn't her style and she had always considered that particular tribe as a bunch of niche me-toos, but she had been toying with the idea of embracing a new personality before starting at her new school. No one knew her here yet, and she could quite literally pick whichever new identity she fancied. It seemed like an interesting experiment. The fact that it would also annoy her parents to no end was an added benefit, obviously.
Thanks to her father's stupidity and boundless selfishness, she had been asked to relinquish her childhood home, her few lifelong friends and everything familiar to her in any shape or form to move all the way west. Violet wasn't anywhere near ready to forgive him yet, or her mother for condoning his behavior by granting him pardon so readily. Although they were adamant it had been both their idea, that new start bullshit had her mother's touch stamped all over it. Pretending otherwise was insulting to her intelligence.
At least Violet had her very own bathroom now, which would clearly make her life easier. She had already transferred her special toiletry bag to the back of the medicine cabinet, which felt like a safer spot than anywhere inside her bedroom. She wouldn't put it past her mother to go through her stuff while she was at school. She had suspected it before but couldn't gather enough evidence to confront her.
It was such a comfort to confirm that the sharp sting of the blade felt exactly the same as it sliced through the skin, wherever she was.
***
Tate had exhausted several psychiatrists over the past year, but he was determined to entertain this one a little longer. Dr. Harmon didn't look any more competent or engaged in their little chats than any of his predecessors, but Tate was enjoying going back to his old house. It could be nostalgia, although he had few happy memories attached to these walls, or just plain laziness. Since he now lived right next door, the trip to the headshrinker and back took him under five minutes now. That would come as a great time-saver for as long as he would be considered mental enough to mandate three appointments a week.
"Where would you like to start today, Tate?"
"I don't know," Tate shrugged, looking around, taking note of everything the Harmons had changed to the room. "How do you like the house? I used to live here, you know."
"Your mother told me so, yes."
"It's my fault we had to move out, did she tell you that, too? Of course she did. Once I flipped my lid, she couldn't afford keeping us here anymore. Turns out lawyers and rehab and therapists don't come cheap, you see."
"You needed help and your mother sought treatment for you. It's what parents do."
"Right." Tate couldn't help but smirk.
"Do you feel like your mother is resenting you for what happened?"
"Do I feel like it? She tells me as much every other day. Not always directly but I can read between lines. I may be crazy but I'm not a moron. I'm sorry Addie had to leave, though. She loved this place, always had. She felt connected to it somehow."
"Addie. She's your sister?"
"That's right," Tate nodded, wondering what therapists could gather from that kind of answers that always took so long to write down. 'Addie = sister'. Seemed simple enough to him.
"Are you two close?"
"We used to be, when we were young. Now, she avoids me as much as she possible can. "
"Why is that?"
"Well, rumour has it I wasn't very easy to live with when I was high on meth. It made me temperamental or something. I used to shout a lot, punch stuff. It scared the shit out of her."
It wasn't easy to concentrate on answering questions the right way with his old self staring at him from the far right corner, his head dripping with blood. Tate looked away and blinked. When he looked again, the vision was gone.
As long as there was no doubt in his mind that it was just his brain playing tricks on him, he would be okay. That kind of stuff could get you hooked on a whole different class of meds, and he happened to like his brain alive and responsive.
"Sorry," Tate turned back to the shrink, his best good boy smile turned on. "What were you saying?"
***
Violet hadn't expected her first day at school to go smoothly. She wasn't an idiot or an optimistic. She had taken one look at the crowd of sun bleached jocks and barely clothed valley girls and known she would not fit in, or ever want to. People had stared and whispered to each other as she walked by, unaccustomed as they were to seeing a girl with her knees covered, probably. But the worst had been that panther print-clad Hysteria Barbie throwing a fit over her smoking. Violet could handle being teased and laughed at, but she hadn't been mentally prepared for an actual attempted assault.
By the end of her first week, she'd become better at hiding in plain sight. She had always liked being alone, but nowadays she needed to make herself invisible. At least, she had found a few choice spots where to eat or read between classes without encountering the clique of meangirls that had unilaterally declared themselves her sworn enemies. The amount of thinking required for her to merely navigate school without being assailed was plainly ridiculous.
On most afternoons, the moment she stepped home after school, she went straight to the bathroom, without greeting her mom or taking off her shoes or anything. More than ever before, that bag of blades felt like a lifeguard, a way to remain sane. Her left forearm was already covered with thin stripes of red, but she kept adding more. Nothing else soothed her. Nothing else allowed her to feel like she was still in control of her own life.
Or so it was, until the day a stranger walked in on her and unpromptedly volunteered to educate her on the proper way to slashing one's wrist.
"You're doing it wrong," the intruder said, his voice subtly mocking. "If you're trying to kill yourself, cut vertically. They can't stitch that up."
"How did you get in here?"
Violet was indignant. As she'd gotten older, she'd grown to abhor invasions of her privacy. Walking in on what felt like an extremely private activity, and make like of it, was a serious violation. Besides, he looked to be about her age. With her luck, he might be going to Westfield as well. It would be bad enough to be caught cutting by a complete unknown she'd never see again in her life, but by someone she could potentially cross path with on any given day? She would never recover.
"If you're trying to kill yourself, you might also try locking the door," he continued. With a laughing look and a contained smirk, he shut the door and left her to chew on that little bit of wisdom.
She should tell her dad. If she told him right away, he'd probably ban that jerk from ever showing to their house again. Of course, she would also have to lie about what he had witnessed her doing, which could totally backfire on her.
What was her father thinking, anyway, letting patients who could easily be raving lunatics wander around their house without any supervision? Just another strike to the "Reasons why dad's an idiot" chart she kept updating in her head. With great annoyance, Violet resolved to keep her mouth shut about the incident and to find out who the trespasser might be, for her own peace of mind.
***
The doctor's daughter was listening in, Tate was certain of it. He could practically make out her silhouette through the wooden door. He had hoped she would manifest herself after their previous encounter. Her astonishment and outrage had been quite entertaining, and he was willing to throw her a little bone.
"Where would you like to start today, Tate?"
"Well, I think..." Tate paused for emphasis. "I would like to talk about the day I brought a gun to school."
"Really?" Dr Harmon asked skeptically. "No more considerations on home decor or thoughts on the lack of weather?"
"Yeah, I figure we might as well dive in, right?"
"I must say, I'm a little surprised. It seemed to me like you weren't taking these sessions very seriously."
"Just because this therapy is court ordered, doesn't mean it can't be efficient and beneficial."
"Those don't sound like your words."
"Why, do you think it's not going to be efficient?" Tate asked, his lopsided smirk fading. "Do you think I can't get better?"
"Everybody can get better, Tate," Dr Harmon replied confidently. "Everybody."
***
As expected, Dr Harmon's daughter was waiting for him outside, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest and her face set in distaste.
"Learned anything interesting?" Tate asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Are you done with my dad?"
"Yup. All healthy and sane, for the time being."
"Then come with me," she commanded, grabbing him by the sleeve.
It felt so odd, walking into his old bedroom as a guest. It didn't look much different now than it had a year ago. A little messier, maybe, with piles of books everywhere and clothes discarded on the headboard. But the floor creaked the same familiar way as he stepped inside and he relished the sound.
If Tate had ever given a damn, if he had allowed himself to feel like he belonged in this space enough to transform it, he would have painted the walls black and hung posters of Kurt Cobain, Ian Curtis and Elliott Smith on the wall. Unsubtle, perhaps, but it would have driven the point across unmistakably.
Instead, he was always careful to keep the room as perfectly clean and impersonal as a high-end hotel room. He had liked to think of it as a place to rest for a while before moving on to a more interesting place. The bed was made every morning when he left for school, his clothes were carefully folded and put away. Nothing was ever out of place.
For the longest time, Tate had made a point to contain his chaos strictly on the inside.
"Just to be clear," Violet said, stepping closer and invading his space for effect, "If you ever tell my father or anyone what you saw the other day, I will beat you up so bad you'll need a whole different kind of therapist."
"Whoa, careful there, Sarah Connor," Tate exclaimed, brushing past her to go sit on the bed as if he owned the space. "I might actually enjoy it."
"I should have known you were that kind of creep," she said, but there wasn't much heat behind her words. She looked a little disappointed, but not surprised, by the poor effect of her tough girl act. Tate had to congratulate himself for having the sense not to laugh.
He gauged her for a moment before giving a theatrical sigh. Slowly, he raised his arm, letting his sweater's sleeve fall down to his elbow, revealing his own scars, long healed but still very visible.
"This one I did after my dad left, I was ten, I think," he said, pointing to a faded white line covering at his wrist. "These are from the night after my brother's funeral. And this one, well, you don't want to know."
She hesitated only a few seconds before rising to his bait. Her scars looked nothing like his, all red and fresh and fierce. It was very appealing to him, that blend of defiance, anger and rawness. He could tell she was smarter than the rest and was well aware of it. Maybe if he'd met someone like her years before, someone worthy of an effort, things would have turned out differently.
"So, Dr Harmon's daughter, how about we switch to first name basis?"
"That depends. Are you a raging psychotic or something?"
"Tell you what," Tate said, offering her his hand to shake. "You tell me your name, and I'll let you be the judge of my mental stability."
*****