Violet got up from her place on the stairs and looked out the window for the fifth time in 30 minutes. She stood looking out at a couple walking a Pomeranian lethargically before she turned back to her perch and continued picking at lint on her outdated sweater. This had become the routine as of late, sitting in nostalgia, wandering over to peer into the outside world. A world she would never belong to again.

Violet had resided as a spirit in the Murder House for 3 ½ years now, and her existence was beginning to grow tiresome. Even a ghost, she had no energy, no emotion, preferring to watch her parents coo over the eternal infant from a distance. It had been months since she'd had any real contact with anyone, living or not. Not that she cared to make conversation with people she wouldn't mind causing bodily harm. The only person on her mind these days was one who was least welcome there. He snuck into her thoughts while she day dreamed, edging his way into the thoughts of falling leaves and record stores. Blonde curls and smug grins violated her mind, and she pushed the thoughts as far back in her hypothetical brain cabinet as was possible. She wouldn't speak his name, wouldn't even think it, instead slapping the label of 'him' onto the matching face.

Violet let a sigh through her lips and stood, ascending the stairs slowly, staring at her feet as they landed on each step. How much longer could she go on like this? If it wasn't for the whole being a ghost thing, she would've done herself in long ago. "Been there, done that", she thought with an inner chuckle. Her hand came to rest against the door to what used to be her room. Although it was now fairly vacant, (save for the same iron bed frame and mattress, and a bookshelf with a few forgotten classics laying dust covered on it) she still felt as though it belonged to her. The same Marlboro and Pledge smell wafted through the air, and she inhaled before flopping heavily down on the sheet-less bed. Could she feel any more like a cheap cliché? Mourning over her lost lover like a fucking Twilight novel? She tried to tell herself she was better than this, but deep down she knew that she wasn't. She was still the same whiny little brat that shoved her face full of pills because she couldn't deal with it all. After preaching to her parents about taking responsibility and facing life, she downed 20 Klonopin and woke up fucking Casper the angsty ghost. Oh, the pure hypocrisy of it all.

It was all enough to make her snap, and before she could think twice about it, she pulled the rusty pocket knife she snatched from Travis, and drug the blade across her pale throat.