This one may seem familiar to some... Sorry about that. Had to repost it with a new summary.

When she tried to pinpoint the exact moment she'd stopped being a good girl and turned into a nefarious bitch, Violet Harmon came to the conclusion that, all things considered, she'd always been the latter.

She may not have looked the part (no tattoos, no drug addiction, no grade below a B- on her report card and no skirt above the knee in her closet) but inside, she had long been a well of repressed rage waiting to unleash. Even as a child, she'd enjoyed observing the damage her pointed quips could cause around her, always intendedlyintended, although she knew to always, always feign contrition. Now she was on the verge of adulthood, she'd taken things to an entirely new level.

"I hate her. I want to kill her."

"Can I help?"

Violet had smirked around her cigarette.

But Tate, always the helpful boyfriend, already had a plan in mind.

Moving to LA was supposed to be a minor event on her timeline, just another shitty parental all-solving solution she'd pretended to go along with to be left the hell alone. She'd expected it would sum up to resuming her quiet, anonymous life in a sunnier location. If only her new classmates had seen things her way.

Tate had seen something in her from the first day, a darkness, a mean streak, an amorality to rival his, perhaps. They'd hit it off instantly, the two of them against the world.

"I've got what you want. Drugs. Come to my house tomorrow, get your free sample. I'm a dealer and a good one. I've got the best shit in town."

How exactly were you supposed to dispose of the body of a classmate who'd just OD'ed on your denatured cocaine? As much as Violet's mother liked to consider herself a modern mother, aware of today's youth struggles, she'd failed to cover that legitimate concern in her teachings. She'd also omitted to inform her daughter there was no high quite like thehigh of absolute power over another.

If you looked at things objectively, it was Leah's own fault, really. If she hadn't been such a greedy bitch, snorting the entire sample of Tate's homemade drugs in one swift inhale, she might have lived to tell the tale. Instead, she'd twisted and convulsed, as blood started flowing down her nose and mouth.

"I'm not sorry," Tate had said when all was said and done. "Are you?"

"She had it coming. Didn't she?"

"One less high school bitch in the world making the life of the less fortunate more tolerable is, in my opinion, a public service."

Violet had nodded pensively, and they had ended up making out on the very spot where Leah had passed away mere hours before, seemingly aware of the grotesquely pointless quality of her untimely death.

On television, there was only two types of people that got off on seeing the light in someone's eyes flicker and die: overweight weirdos on the fence of mental retardation, and handsome angels of death who garnered grudging respect even from those who were supposed to hunt them down.

Violet couldn't relate to either kind. She was more of an extreme benefactor. After all, she'd rescued Leah from a lifetime of disappointment. High school was either something your survived or your finest hour, and in Leah's case, it was fairly obvious things would only have gone downhill.

The media had obsessively covered the latest exemplification of Los Angeles' teenage drug problem for about a week before they'd flocked away, united and righteous. Westfield High had held a very moving memorial ceremony during which all those who'd once be mercilessly bullied by the deceased had competed to best account for her magnanimity and unrivaled generosity.

"Her willingness to educate her fellow students on tobacco's ravages was commendable," Violet had tearfully claimed. "She was an model for us all."

And in the end, nothing happened.

She wasn't even questioned or suspected and neither was Tate. The feeling of dread that had at first dampened their every move had slowly faded, leaving them with the same emptiness and diffuse antagonism they'd felt before, now blending with a heady sense of impunity. They'd observed with interest as a number of pretty mean girls had relentlessly fought to earn Leah's vacant title as Queen Bitch, ready to pounce on the winner.

"Abby's getting out of hands," Tate had pointed out lazily. "Becca, too. What do you think?"

"I think they should be put down," Violet had agreed. "For the sake of the community."

And so they had. A short few weeks after Westfield's golden girl's dramatic overdose, an epidemic of suicide had further decimated the student body. The subsequent ceremonies were shorter and less poignant, as if people were losing interest. It was a bit of a let downletdown, really, but Violet wouldn't allow herself to be picky. She was too busy growing worried over Tate's behaviour.

Truthfully, it came down to self-defence. Tate was acting stupid, reckless, endangering the both of them. If he had an unconscious desire to be caught or some other retarded psychological hang-up, well, that was his problem. What Violet wanted was forward. College. Adulthood. Real life.

When he'd insisted they should commit a double-suicide, end up together forever like Romeo and Juliet, she'd known she had no choice. Violet had played along and wrote her own suicide note, held his hand while he swallowed a very lethal amount of antidepressant. She'd done her homework, googling Googling the kind and amount of meds she should down to get off scot-free.

She'd been sick as a dog afterwards but it had been worth it. She was free.

Tate's remembrance ceremony was ironically the very best of them all. His mother, whom he had hated with the fury of a thousand suns, gave a fantastic speech about broken destinies and the burden of being too gifted. Girls he'd never have given the time of day wept as they called forth their unique bond. They'd all come forward to wax lyrical about him, teachers, students, even the track running coach. He was granted his own little commemorative plaque, to be hung next to Leah's, Abby's and Becca's

It was very clear that nobody had known Tate at all, nobody but her. Violet was sad, for a little while, but nevertheless passed the mandatory psychological evaluation with flying colors.

"You're not feeling guilty at all, are you?"

"Well, neither are you," she'd reminded him.

"Sometimes I worry about being next on your list," he'd said with a smirk, tucking her closer against him.

"Well, don't," she'd teased. "You'll You'd never know what hit you, anyway."