She eyes me like a pisces when I am weak
I've been locked inside your Heart Shaped box for weeks
I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap
I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black

Nirvana, "Heart Shaped Box"

Something wasn't right.

The music had stopped from Violet's room, and Tate hadn't heard a sound since it had ceased. There were many explanations for the silence, of course. Violet could be reading one of those Japanese comic books she has lying around. Tate had picked up one of them and flipped through it during one of his many visits his girlfriend's room while she was out of the house. It was about some whacked out Japanese town that was plagued by spiral patterns, real macabre and campy shit. Definitely up his alley. The only problem was apparently you had to read it backwards instead of like a regular comic book. Tate had already read the ending before he realized it.

Or maybe she was just smoking a cigarette in bed, which was certainly plausible. There was always the faint smell of Marlboros underneath the scent of tea and lavender perfume that clouded Violet's room. She had a peculiar way of smoking where she'd blow the smoke from her nose and mouth simultaneously, like an angry bull. Other times she puffed out little rings like the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland. Whatever way she smoked the cancer sticks, Violet had a sensuous way of smoking that made Tate's pants tighten whenever he thought of how her little pink lips wrapped around the filter.

Tate shook the arousing thought from his head, quickly moving to lie back down on the all too familiar couch in Dr. Harmon's office. He rested his beaten up Converse on the sofa arm, and stared at them as he continued to brain storm. Maybe she was doing her homework? But that was unlikely, as Tate often heard the sound of her pacing about her room as an effort to procrastinate whatever studying she had to do. Not to mention she liked to have music playing to make PreCalc a little easier to bear. A delicious thought suddenly entered the boy's mind.

Violet, lying in the sea of her unmade bed covers, hair sprawled out like a Renaissance halo, her hand down the front of her pants, breathing heavily between strokes of her fingers. The thought enough made Tate hot with lust. This day dream wasn't uncommon. He often imagined how Violet would touch herself whenever he watched over her sleeping form. Tate wanted to be the sheets Violate dirtied, feel the warmth of her skin and the hot, airy sighs as the coil in the pit of her stomach became unbearably tight. He wanted to feel how slick she was, press his fingers into her virgin opening and kiss her blushing cheeks.

Tate remembered how close he came on Halloween. Oh how badly he wanted to let Violet continue to unbuckle his pants, his hardness was so restricted in the confines of his jeans. But it wasn't how he wanted it. He wanted things to be perfect, like how he told Dr. Harmon. Most of all he wanted to make sure Violet loved him, actually loved him with not just her body but with her heart. Those three words had never been uttered between the two, and it was only half an hour ago that he had written the life changing sentence on Violet's chalk board in hopes that he could make her see his true feelings without the threat of outright rejection flung at his face.

Tate gave his crotch a quick palming before things got too out of hand. He was already on thin ice with the Doctor, and whacking off on his couch to the thought of his daughter touching her soaked cunt was surely the last thing he ought to do to stay in Dr. Harmon's favor. Jizz stains had a funny way of never going away.

Tate's aroused nerves dulled as he thought about Violet's cold behavior since Halloween. Something had changed. He could see it in the way she walked about the house with eyes full of uncertainty, like a little child lost at the supermarket. She had avoided the basement since then, their usual spot to sit about, talk, kiss, and compare scars. At first he thought it was merely her 'time of the month', but he hadn't seen any feminine products in the bathroom during his last session with her father. Seeing as Vivien was pregnant, Violet would be the only one capable of menstruating, but clearly that wasn't the case. Tate had tried numerous times to talk to her, but she seemed occupied, as if her mind was a swarm of disrupted bees flying about in confusion. Tate got the message, but after a day turned to a week he grew concerned, which was why he decided to set up the romantic setting in Violet's room, intending to surprise. He was taken by surprise when he heard Violet come home so early, as she usually didn't come home until later, so he had rushed to set things up. But the music had stopped ten minutes ago, indicating someone had turned it off. And again, not a sound was heard since. Tate had seen Vivien leave an hour ago, and from what he heard from her talking on the phone, was that she wouldn't be back until later that night. Surely it wasn't her. It could have been Addie, but Tate could always hear her giggling or singing rhymes to herself whenever she broke into the Harmon house.

It had to be Violet. Tate decided to wait for Violet to come and find him in her father's office, with smiles and sarcastic jabs, but he was still waiting. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Something was wrong. Tate could feel it in his gut. So he rolled himself off the couch and strolled down the hall, wary and cautious of the sudden aura of stillness within the usually active house.

Then, he broke out into a run, panicking. The hallway felt as if it stretched on forever and every step drew Tate farther and farther from his destination, mocking him with its illusion.

After what seemed like hours, Tate threw open the door to Violet's room.

There was his love lying curled up in bed, still as death, not a twitch or a groan in response; just still and silent.

"Vi-Violet." Tate drew nearer to the foot of her bed with nervous steps. His guts were screaming at him like the squeals of pigs headed for the slaughter house. There was nothing but the white noise of silence in his ears, what you hear when you're locked in a dark, silent room with your hands boxed around your ears.

When Tate took a final step forward, that's when he saw the pill bottle, empty and laughing at him. Empty, with not a pill left for her fair lover to join her in the darkness. A wave of adrenaline washed over him, filling his lungs and turning his brain into a soggy side dish. He felt sick. He wanted to throw up. But all he could do was scream Violet's name in anguish.

Tate rushed forward to Violet, and rolled her over from her side. She was limp, so limp.

"NO, NO, NO. VIOLET! VIOLET? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" He shook her, but Violet's head only lolled about her shoulders in response, a barely alive living rag doll.

He searched frantically for a sign of life as his body shook with cries. He lifted Violet's face to his, desperate to feel her breath on his cheek. But there was nothing, nothing but the feeling of his own tears flowing down his face.

"VIOLET DON'T BE DEAD! I CAN'T LOSE YOU LIKE THIS!" He pressed the tips of his fingers to her jugular. A pulse! But it was faint, like a tiny star about to die and fade away forever.

Tate dragged Violet off the bed by the underarms, as she was nothing but dead, limp weight that would be easier to drag than carry. Her legs hit the hardwood floor with a heavy thud and he switched to holding his girlfriend by her right arm.

"STAY WITH ME VIOLET!"

Tate knew he had to get her conscious and quick. Tate remembered that scene in Pulp Fiction, where John Travolta brings a nearly dead, heroin overdosed Uma Thurman to Eric Stoltz's house and gives her a shot of adrenaline to the heart. Life was now imitating fiction. Too bad Tate had no fucking idea where he could get a dose of epinephrine to stab through Violet's chest. He'd have to get her to throw up all the pills she swallowed, opting for a wake-up call courtesy of a cold shower and his fingers thrusting down her throat.

He wasn't going to let the only girl he ever loved die in his arms. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

He dragged Violet out the bedroom door, his body wracked with screaming sobs. He ran down the hall as fast as he could backwards while dragging the sad, dead weight.

"DON'T YOU DIE ON ME VIOLET! NO! DON'T YOU DIE!"

As he dragged her through the bathroom door and onto the tiles, Tate choked on his sobs. Memories of Violet played through his head in a funeral montage.

He thought of the first time he saw her, how she dragged the razor blade across the skin of her arm and watched the blood drip onto the porcelain sink. He thought of how she smiled at him when he cradled that arm in his hands as they sat in her room listening to the sounds of fuzzy guitars and weepy voices. He thought of how he chopped a bitch in half for her. He thought of the first time his lips finally met with hers, how soft they were against his dried, chapped pair. He thought of Halloween night, on the beach, lips caressing and eyes on fire, how badly he wanted to take her then and there and how hard it was to restrain himself. He thought of how she laughed, how she smiled, how she walked, and how lovely she always looked.

He thought of how that was all going away in an instant as he lifted her up and into the tub against his chest.

"DON'T YOU DIE ON ME!"

Things weren't supposed to happen like this. Tate was supposed to be holding her, caressing her, peppering her face with kisses, making love to her. They were supposed to be together in each others arms, cuddling and kissing and touching and so unbearably happy.

He couldn't love her like that if she were dead. As he sank into the tub with Violet still heavy and limp on his lap, he reached for the cold water knob, cranking it all the way to the right.

"VIOLET!"

The spray of ice cold water hit him as he moved to jam his fingers down her throat. He thrust two fingers into her mouth and moved them about to hit her uvula. He was going to lose her unless she threw up.

'Come on baby. Come on. Without you I'm nothing.'

Romeo couldn't live without his Juliet, Sid couldn't live without his Nancy, and Tate Langdon certainly couldn't live without his Violet Harmon.

There was a gagging sound and he felt Violet's throat contract around his fingers before she violently coughed up the vomit mixed of bile and pills. Tate cried in relief and removed his hand from her mouth, as his other hand cupped her shoulder to support her swaying frame.

He felt Violet go still with shock, bewildered as she realized she was under the rain of a cold shower after downing entire bottle of probably stolen prescription pills.

He turned her face to his, desperate to see her look at him again. Her beautiful eyes went wide like a spooked doe, questioning the reality of the situation. He caressed her cold, wet cheek, muttering a sob as if to tell her 'I'm here and I'm not going to leave you'. Violet's face crumbled in a heavy sob as everything overwhelmed her in a flood of emotion.

For a moment her soul had actually left her body. Sure, she had wanted to die at first, but once things faded to black she started to scream, for the grave mistake she made was irreversible in her hands.

And there was Tate. Oh Tate Langdon, the living dead boy who had gunned down fifteen of his classmates seventeen years ago, only to be gunned down himself in his own home. The monster of Westfield High was currently soaked to the bone, holding her with undeniable gentleness, and crying in anguish as he brushed a chunk of wet blonde hair off her face. Poe wouldn't have even been able to concoct such a fucked up fantasy. The line of reality and gut wrenching fiction had merged, and it made Violet's head spin. In the end she merely shook and collapsed against his chest with anxiety driven breaths.

And Tate held her close under the spray of frigid bath water, never wanting to let go in case she try to die on him again. He brought her head to his face, kissing her ear and wet hair for all the goodness in the world.

"It's okay." 'I'm here.'

Tate continued to hold Violet as she sobbed under the steady stream of the cold shower. There were little words between them, aside from a term of endearment from Tate's lips. They stayed huddled close together in the bathtub until Tate felt Violet shiver against him.