Barely anyone came.

Which wasn't exactly surprising to Violet—half of the town's population was one or two children short because of Tate. Why should they come to his funeral? To the best of their knowledge, he was a monster.

But Violet knew better. And although she wasn't saying that his actions were right, she could understand them. Somewhere deep inside her and deep inside him, they both knew that he had shot up a school full of innocent people, just for her.

It sickened her, but she also felt proud. And then felt sick for feeling proud. She was evil as well, she was positive. Why would she be so attracted to the darkness inside Tate, if there wasn't some inside her too?

Anyways, it was raining and miserable and only a handful of people were gathered at the cemetery and Violet wanted to throw up. She hadn't told her mother that she was coming, didn't want to see what Vivien's reaction would be, if she would have one at all. Violet's mother had been mute since Ben had left them to head back to Boston.

Tate's mother, Constance, was in front of the grave now and saying words that Violet couldn't hear over the roaring in her ears. She knew that the tears flowing down Constance's face, smudging her makeup, were all part of her act. She knew that the woman in front of her, heartbroken over the death of her beloved boy, was fake. However, the woman mourning the loss of her perfect son was not. That was what Constance was crying over. The fact that once again, she was the woman with all of the handicapped children. The fact that now, "psychotic murderer" was added to the list.

Violet didn't cry. She didn't speak at the funeral, to Tate or to anyone. She knew that the people around her knew that she had been his girlfriend, and she could sense them giving her apprehensive stares when they thought she wasn't paying attention.

Violet had worn all black traditionally, out of respect, but last-minute decided to pin a bright red flower to the strap of her dress. She could feel the other judging her because of that, too.

She wore the flower simply because it was red. It was the color of Tate's cheeks after he pulled out of her. It was the color his hair had been after they dyed it with Kool-Aid one day. It was the color of the blood that coated her hands after she put a bullet in his head. It was the color of the library as the final corpse thudded to the ground.

It was supposed to be the color of romance.

The grave is fresh, the soft dirt turning to mud under the pounding rain. The headstone include only Tate's name, date of birth, and date of death. He's buried in the second-best graveyard, on the other side of town. The families of the students he killed insisted he be laid to rest as far away from their children as possible.

Violet wasn't sad about Tate's death, as Constance was. She wasn't grateful, like the families of the victims.

No, Violet Harmon was angry.

He had two months, two months, until he turned eighteen. And then she became legal exactly one month later. He couldn't have waited three months for her, for both of them, so they could be together. No, the fucker had to snap right before their escape. How inconsiderate was that?

However, underneath all these morbid thoughts Violet knew the root of her anger. She was livid because maybe, just maybe, he couldn't hold on any longer because of her. Because she wasn't good enough, and she couldn't save him. Hell, she didn't even notice that he was slipping before she was watching him tear their entire graduating class to shreds.

What kind of person was she? What kind of girlfriend?

The service finished with a final teary word from Constance, and soon Violet was running down the streets. She grabbed her bike from where she'd set it against the gate and furiously pedaled home, her mind made up. She approached Murder House and didn't spare the looming building a second glance before sprinting inside, dripping wet, rain and tears mixed together trickling down her face and off her chin.

"Violet, darling? Is that you?" the maid called from the kitchen.

Violet shook her head, water flying from her hair and soaking everything within a five-foot radius. "Yeah, Moira. It's me. I'm going up to my room."

As Violet climbed the stairs, she could swear that for a second she saw two blood-drenched boys sneering at her between the railings.

With a confused huff Violet entered her room, slamming the door behind her. She snatched her Walkman from the bed and shoved the headphones on, blasting some song she didn't listen to. She rummaged through her bag to find the pills the doctor had described after Tate's death, after she confessed she'd been having nightmares. She poured them onto her comforter and counted them. Exactly 32.

She grabbed the water bottle she had filled before she left, and held the pills in her other hand. Turning around slowly, she faced her chalkboard. The words were still there in bold, large handwriting. I love you.

It gave her the push she needed, and Violet downed the entire 32 sleeping pills with three gulps of water. She began sobbing, heart-wrenching moans torn out of her throat. She cried for Tate, for Ben and Vivien, and for herself. She cried because she had to be as evil as Tate, in order to love him.

And when she woke up from death a few hours later in the dank basement of the Murder House, when she learned that she'd be trapped within its walls forever without Tate or any release, Violet cried for what could and should have been.

After Violet Harmon's suicide, her mother Vivien sold the house as quickly as possible and moved away. One month later, Ben Harmon, living with Hayden McClaine, was found stabbed to death in his Boston home. Vivien has spent the rest of her days in a mental institution.

It turns out that she's pregnant with twins. When she gives birth to them, only one alive, Constance Langdon decides to adopt. She moves into Murder House with Michael, and it doesn't take the young boy long to notice the pretty girl in the long dresses who was always staring at him.

When he's five, he gets the nerve up.

"Who are you?"

The girl doesn't look surprised at all by his question. "I'm Violet."

"Are you a ghost?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Michael looks closer at her. "Why are you always staring at me?"

"Because you look a lot like someone I used to know."

"What happened to him?"

Violet smiles weakly at the young boy.

"I wish I knew."

Okay, there you have it. I really wanted to write more of this, so here it is. It's the end of "Because I Love You" for now, but I might start a fic about Michael growing up with Violet in the Murder House if you guys want that. I had a lot of fun with this, and I hope you like it. I also really hope that you guys don't mind that it's kinda short.

Please review! I need to know if you liked this or would read a companion story if I wrote one, so I'm not just entertaining myself here. This is definitely my least favorite chapter out of the three, but maybe you guys will like it.

I love you all so much, and want to thank you for your kind words and support through everything. You the real MVP.

-A :))