I do not own American Horror Story: Murder House.

And I don't want to.

He was Tate.

He loved her.

Whatever else he was, a lost soul, a trapped consciousness, a twisted killer, a liar, a manipulative bastard, he was also just him.

Tate.

A boy who loved a girl.

Really loved her.

Above himself.

She was the first and only light he had ever known in his short miserable life and his long, unremitting death.

He loved her.

Her hidden smiles, her bright warm eyes.

Her living, breathing vulnerability.

He loved her.

And he didn't want her to die.

Because that would hurt her when she found out.

And they always did.

The souls of the damned always figured it out after a while.

Something would trigger a memory or a question or an action.

And they would know.

And everything would come crashing down upon their carefully constructed illusions, smashing them to ragged, bloody shards of decimated hope.

And the stark reality of eternal, unfulfilled subsistence would wrap itself around them like a black, suffocating death shroud.

And they would fall.

Rage and scream and cry and fight against it.

Or clench up, wither, and fade away under the crushing weight of their devastating situation.

Or cling to wretched, scrabbling hope and try to pretend they weren't what they were.

Which was somehow sadder, more pathetic than anything else.

He didn't want that, any of that, for Violet.

She was too good, too pure, too beautiful and alive.

He had already decided that one day she would leave the house and go away, to college or life or whatever.

And he stand and watch her go, his black heart tearing apart and breaking and bleeding out inside him.

And he would let it.

Endure on without her.

Because she deserved life and happiness and freedom.

And he was just the ghost of a twisted, murderous, dead boy.

Who didn't deserve anything ever.

No matter how much he wanted it.

So he sat alone in the dark, damp cellar. Rocking and thinking about it.

And knowing, in the end, what he would do.

He made the decision then so he wouldn't have to later.

Because Violet needed life. Violet was life.

And among all the things he'd done in his existence in either worlds, he found there was a distinct line between what even he could and could not do.

He could look people straight in the eyes and kill them.

To punish them.

For crossing him. For crossing others. For simply living and breathing lives easier than his.

He could push people's buttons. Say sick, twisted things, suggest dark fantasies, show them horrors beyond their capability to comprehend.

Because it was fun to say and do what should not be said and done, make them think things they shouldn't think.

Fun to watch them squirm and pretend they didn't.

Make them hurt because he hurt and why should he be the only one.

He could lie. He could steal.

He could lay with a woman who didn't even know who or what he was so he could take her baby and give it to the crying, inconsolable ghost who'd once comforted him in his miseries.

He could do a lot.

And most of it was bad.

Very bad.

But he could also care. He could also love.

His deformed, lonely, dead brother in the attic.

His mentally challenged sister who suffered alone with his selfish hag of a mother.

Violet, his light, his beauty, his hope.

He could love her.

He could kiss her.

He could paint a rose black to make her smile.

He could talk to her, try to stop her bully.

He could show her the beach, show her the waves, show her the beauty of the night.

But he couldn't hurt her.

Not intentionally, anyway.

He couldn't tell her what he was.

He couldn't make her make herself what he was just to keep her with him.

He couldn't defile her perfect, living body with his own dead, incorporeal one.

No matter how much he wanted to, to satisfy his own needs and desires.

Because she was Violet.

And she should be alive and free and happy.

So when he found her lifeless on the bed, saw the pill bottle overturned next to her, zeroed in on her diminishing breath, he tried to save her.

Dragged her down the hall, screaming and wailing and crying.

Unconsciously damning her parents for being nowhere around while their precious, beautiful daughter tried to end her own life.

Ignoring the niggling, nagging, viscous thought hissing its dark refrain over and over in shadowy corners of his screaming brain.

You. She's doing this because of you. What you are. What you've done. She knows. And you've killed her. You've killed Violet.

He fought, he fought so hard to save her.

He dragged them both into the tub, turned on the cold water, shockingly cold, soaking them both to the bone to help jolt her back from clutching grip of death.

Sticking his rough, fumbling fingers down her throat to make her cough up the pills and save her.

Kissing her soaking wet hair and imagining her cries of life and breath and sorrow.

Because imagining those things, hearing those things would mean she was alive and okay.

Which she wasn't.

She was dead. She had died in his arms.

He couldn't save her. He had failed.

And now she was like him.

Only she didn't know it yet.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He lied.

Withheld the truth from her, let her think she had lived, survived the suicide.

He manipulated.

Encouraged her to skip school, spend the days with him. So she wouldn't try to cross the barrier and discover what she was.

He stole.

Dragged her lifeless corpse down under the house, to a deep, dark crawlspace. Hid it where nobody could find it but him. So she wouldn't have to see her parents grieve her death. So she wouldn't stumble upon it and witness what had become of her.

He loved her, cared for her. Stayed by her, close to her.

Offered his friendship, his adoration, his comfort.

Made her feel alive and loved with his own body. Finally taking pleasure in hers because it wasn't defilement anymore.

It was just love.

He did everything he could do in his desperation to save her from the pain, the misery, the abject despondency that came with the dark discovery of what she was now.

He couldn't spare her the knowledge forever, he knew that.

But he resolved to do it as long as he could.

And when he had done all he could do and she, his strong, willful, stubborn Violet figured it out anyway, he finally gave in.

Gave up.

And showed her.

And it was just as awful as he knew it would be.

All he wanted to do was stop her pain.

But he couldn't.

All he wanted to do was run away and hide so he wouldn't have to suffer her anguish.

But he couldn't.

Because he loved her.

And he had to stay.

Take care of her.

Protect her.

Comfort her.

Love her.

For as long as she would let him.

Until she sent him away.

Because she would, eventually.

Because she was the light and he was the darkness.

She was Violet and he was Tate.

Stop reading this right now and Youtube 'American Horror Story - Tate & Violet' by Messalina. It's chilling and beautiful and everything it was intended to be. Then you can come back if you want and read whatever I've yammered on about below.

So you're back? How about that video, huh?

Okay, so I saw this season completely through once in the space of twenty-four hours. And it was like nothing I'd ever seen before. And I hated parts of it (naked, crying Dylan McDermott; whining, self-pitying Connie Britton, ugh). And loved parts of it, though I pretended I didn't (Emo Evan Peters triggers all my high school sexy angst, argh).

Lately, I have been jonesing to watch the season again and refusing to because I'm too mature and grownup (stop it, I hear some of you who know me laughing) to fall in pseudo-love with Tate.

I think I'm losing the battle here but I'm still fighting.

So anywho, thanks for reading.

Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.