Delicately, I slowly pulled back the black lace on my left sleeve. Once the pale skin on my wrist was bare, I allowed my fingers to softly trace the sharp straight scars across my forearm. They were so intricate, so perfect. Unlike me, whose mind was fraying at the edges.

I picked up the razorblade with shaking hands from the side of the basin. The metal awaited the incision into a bare section of my skin. With one swift movement, the blade sliced through seamlessly, producing instant crimson that oozed from the wound. All the emotional pain that had been eating me away was momentarily distracted by the physical pain in my wrist. It felt good to have that distraction, something to put my mind off Tate. My heart retracted and I clutched the basin with my right hand. Too much knowledge about him had crammed itself into my brain, squeezing into every crack and suffocating my thoughts. I couldn't grasp the basin properly with my slippery bloodied hands, just like I couldn't grasp reality. Everything about Tate seemed to be a lie, and because I felt something so different with him, it made finding out the truth that much harder. I promised myself that I wouldn't let the fear take over, but discovering that Tate died after his massacre at Westfield High pushed me over the edge. My boyfriend was a ghost, a murderous, psychotic ghost. It wasn't that I was scared of his capabilities; it was the shock of knowing that someone I'd started to feel strongly about wasn't even real. But…he was real. I'd touched him, held him, kissed him. It was my mind playing dirty, cruel tricks on me. No matter how many times I tried to convince myself that this was all a dream, each slice against my skin reminded me that this was my reality.

It would be so simple to bring the blade to my neck and cut across. I'd watch through the reflection of the mirror as my deep red blood gushed from my throat and down my chest, choking me into nothingness. If only it were that simple.

I placed the razorblade under the streaming tap, washing away my bloody mess. When I looked back up into the mirror, there he was, standing behind me. I swallowed hard as I stared back at Tate's blank expression.

"Are you scared now?" he asked.

I turned around abruptly, but he was gone. He wasn't slipping away that easily. I ran out of the bathroom, chasing the figure down the stairs. From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the stripes of his shirt, so I followed. I rounded a corner as he turned another.

"Tate?" I called out. I wasn't sure what I'd do if I did find him. What would I say to him?

I was stopped in front of the basement door. Time and time again I'd open it and trail down the rickety stairs. But this time, something horrible lurked behind it, an unworldly presence. Against my better judgement, I opened it anyway, and I was greeted by an eerie white glow that sucked me in entirely.

It was if I was walking back out of the basement. As I'd walked into the white glow, I emerged into the hallway again. Puzzled and slightly frightened, I walked back down the hallway. Something noticeably different hung in the air. The wooden walls looked darker, more polished. And the floorboards creaked less than usual. They were just simple observations, and I might have just been overanalysing it.

There was a rummaging noise in the kitchen, and I stood up straight.

"Tate?" I whispered, slowly stepping closer to the entryway. Instead of seeing Tate, Constance occupied a stool at an unfamiliar wooden table in the centre of the room, the air above her misty with cigarette smoke.

"Constance? What are you doing here?" I asked warily. She had a habit of inviting herself in whenever she pleased.

Constance jumped half a foot off the stool, clutching a dainty hand to her chest. She didn't look a day over thirty; her skin was more youthful and her body was held with such grace. Nothing like the woman I'd first met. Her eyes were full of something I hadn't seen before. A glint of mortality.

"How did you get in here?" she demanded.

I stared back at her lividly. "If you haven't noticed, this is my house."

Constance let out a quick, squealing laugh as she analysed me. "I don't know who you are, but let me assure you that I take residence under this roof."

"Constance, it's me, Violet," I said. She took a long drag of her cigarette and it released in grey coils from her Jungle Red lips.

"As I said, I have never seen you in my life. And I hope to never see you again, uninvited, in my house. Now get out before I call the cops."

I just stood there, mouth slightly ajar, as I was listening to what she was saying.

The woman has lost her marbles, I thought to myself. I wasn't going to give her a reason to lose it completely, so I began to turn away, before an idea struck me.

"I saw that the front door was open and I came in—looking for Tate," I fumbled. Constance's eyes flew up to meet mine in a cold stare.

"How do you know Tate?"

I tried to sound as casual as I could, though I didn't quite understand what I was saying. "I'm a friend of his—we are pretty close."

She pursed her lips and brought the cigarette to her mouth. "What did you say your name was again?"

"Violet," I said. Constance nodded once, put out her cigarette in the ash tray and led me from the kitchen and upstairs.

"Tate has never mentioned you, not that we talk much. He's usually hiding away in that room of his."

Uneasiness was eating away my insides. Constance was acting like this actually was her house, but something inside of me was beginning to be convinced that she was sane and I was the one losing it.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked.

"We only recently moved in. This is my husband's house. I once lived here back in '83 with my previous husband, but sadly, he's deceased." Constance said it with a hint of resentment, or was it spite? I couldn't be sure.

A followed her across the hallway when I heard a large rumble from the ceiling. I looked up and saw the attic door, the string dangling above my eyes. Her eyes trailed mine and she raised an eyebrow. "Don't mind that, it's just my son Beau. He's made himself quite comfortable up there. Very cosy." I noticed her swallow ever so slightly. Not thinking too much about it, I continued to be led down the hall. Constance came to a stop at the door to my room and lightly knocked her knuckles against the wood.

"Tate-Sweetie, you have a visitor. Her name is Violet," she said it pleasantly, but everything about her tone was empty. After no reply, Constance cracked open the door and peeked through. She turned back to look at me and said, "I swear, it'll be a year before he leaves this room. '95 will approach and he'll still be in there, sulking or whatever he does with his time."

It was the year 1994.

When the door was open enough for me to see into, I saw Tate lying on his bed. The walls were a faded blue, and every aspect of my room was unfamiliar to what it usually looked like. It was as if I never existed.

Tate's hair fell in loose golden curls over his eyes as he sat motionless on the mattress. As we entered, his head turned so slowly that I wasn't sure if it had even moved. Though Constance looked so much younger, Tate appeared just as he did the last time I saw him on Halloween night, just as beautiful as ever. But behind that beauty lurked something dark and sinister.

When his eyes came to rest on me, he sat up carefully, his gaze never leaving mine. My heart began to quicken and I felt the usual rush of exhilaration whenever we encountered.

"Violet," he said curiously, but his voice was distant, unfamiliar. He didn't know who I was.