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three a.m. loneliness

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In the early years, Violet was actually content with her half-existence in the Murder House. Her parents were more in love than ever, she had a new baby brother, and Tate was out of her hair, a mistake and literal ghost of the past. 

 

But a crying baby’s wails and three a.m. loneliness grows old quickly, as Violet’s learned. Vivien and Ben are a little too wrapped up in each other, and with baby Jeffrey around, depressed teenage girls aren’t really the center of anyone’s attention. Hayden’s always too busy fucking her latest conquest, although Violet doubts she could stand to be around the crazy bitch for longer than a few minutes. She banished Tate to nowhere-land a long time ago, and ever since the Miguel Incident, he knows he needs to give Violet her space. Chad and Patrick prefer to spend their time getting drunk and waiting for Halloween, while Moira either cleans or babysits Jeffrey when Ben and Vivien want alone time. Violet supposes she could go downstairs and play with the burned little girls if she really wanted to, but the scent of burnt flesh and gasoline makes her nauseous. 

 

Long story short, Violet Harmon is really fucking lonely. It’s been a long time since she put on that lacy burgundy dress — one with short enough sleeves that she had to will her scars to disappear — and hung the ornament on that tree. It’s been years since she’s talked to her mother and Vivien’s actually listened. And it’s probably been a decade since she’s seen Tate. 

 

The only friend Violet has right now is her razor. Although all the fun of cutting’s been taken away — the risk of death or serious injury — there’s still the pain, and Violet relishes that. The slight sting as white parts to reveal red, god, sometimes it’s enough to bring tears to her eyes. Cutting’s an escape, and though Violet’s read enough of her dad’s psychology books to know that escapes like that are no good, she loves it anyway. It’s not enough, but it has to be.

 

Some nights, though, the tearing of her own skin can’t drown out the squeaking of bed springs and the tears of a forever-baby. And those are the nights when Violet needs Tate the most. The nights when she needs him so badly she swears she can see a flash of blonde curl or a glimpse of a dimpled smile.

 

She hasn’t given in yet, but she knows she will. Soon.