A/N: Hey there everyone! Couldn't resist writing this new idea down. Loved the idea of an epistolary FF. Here's the few facts that have changed in this slight AU story.

- Tate saved Violet from the overdose.

- Violet and her family leave the Murder House. Violet gives Tate a few parting gifts; of these gifts the most important is a journal.

-The Rubberman was always a figment of Viv's imagination.

-Violet and Vivien found out about Hayden being killed by Larry. (They know nothing of Ben's involvement.)

(I)

Dear Violet,

It's been a few days since you left and I finally decided to write you a letter. I'm keeping my promise to you. Just because you're now in Florida and I'm stuck in this hellhole doesn't mean we can't still be together in some way. I figured that I had a few things to confess to you and I'm going to do them now. I want you to know that I know what I did. Something about you leaving made me realize just what it was that I had done. I admit it; I killed fifteen kids and hurt other people that day in 1994. I also set Constance's then boyfriend on fire. Literally. I walked into his office and set the douchebag on fire. He had it coming, though. Serves him right for killing my brother. Just like it was right of me to axe one of the bitches that was trying to kill you.

That's not the worse thing, though. What I really wanted to confess was that part of me wishes that I hadn't saved you. Sometimes, when I'm sitting alone in the basement with the few things you gave me, I wish you had died. I know how that sounds but it's true. If you were dead then you would be here with me. You'd remain the same, you'd be in my arms, I'd kiss you, keep you warm, smile at you, we'd listen to music, play games and we'd make love. It would be an eternity of two people in love. But that's just when my selfish side gets the better of me.

The rest of me is happy that you've made it out of the house with your life intact. It's good to know that you've left and that you and your family are safe. I'm envious but overjoyed at the fact that you'll leave high school with a diploma in your hand and not with a death certificate justifying your absences.

I love you. I miss you. I hope missing you becomes an easier burden to carry. Write me back. Tell me what's happened in your life. Tell me that you're making the most out of your second chance at life; that your mother is happy with her babies. Let me know that your father has stopped giving you grief because you spent time with me. Maybe you'll tell me that you miss me too. I just want you to be happy. I love you.

Yours,

Tate.

(II)

Dear Tate,

Florida sucks. It's sunny, hot and wet and I don't know anyone. My mom is finally happy. She has her new babies, though she doesn't like to think that one of the twins is spawn to the house. Or at least that's what she says. No matter what anyone tells her she keeps thinking that the doctors said that the babies have two different fathers. It's ridiculous because they're twins. I fooled around with mom though and said that they look like Snow White. You know pale skin, dark hair and all that bullshit. The eyes are really the only difference. Nick has blue eyes like dad and Michael has this weird reddish brown color that freaks me the hell out. Mom thinks that the freaky eye color makes Michael special; I think that's a load of bullshit because the only thing those eyes do is make that kid even more demonic than he already is.

Nick is quiet but Michael is demonic and just cries and cries and cries like he doesn't care that his lungs might explode from all the screaming. I haven't been able to sleep since my last night in the Murder House. The babies don't help. And not to get cheesy but being away from you doesn't help my sleep schedule either. If you thought I'd go throughout a whole letter without saying that I miss you then you're wrong. I do miss you. Sometimes when I'm lying in my bed, looking at the ceiling and begging the world to get Michael to shut the fuck up, I almost picture you holding me. That lets me sleep for a little while.

Oh and my Dad is too busy to give me any 'grief'. I don't know what it is about newborns but they have the power to render adults completely fucking brain dead. I get that mom has to be occupied with feeding them and whatever, but Dad has totally lost it for the babies too. If I thought they were ignoring me before then I was wrong; otherwise, what they're doing now would be considered illegal.

I've even gone as far as to think that if it weren't for the fact that they might notice money gone, I'd use a credit card to get on a flight out of Florida. Sometimes I want to fly to Boston but other times I want to fly back to the L.A. Don't question me on it because you're smarter than that. You know why. Sometimes, I wish I had died too. I've been ping-ponged around this country in a short amount of time for the needs of others and I've been viciously ignored. If I were dead, at least I'd have your undivided attention and at least I would be there for you when you need me the most.

How are you, anyway? Is the burden getting any easier? Tell me everything.

Miss you,

Violet

P.S. Sorry it took me a long while to write back, but with all this moving to a new state and dealing with a set of newborns drama, I was driven nuts and got distracted.

(III)

Dear Violet,

It pains me that you're feeling like shit. Especially when I can't do anything about it. Well except maybe give you advice. You told me they make soundproof headphones. Get some and crank up the volume on your music gadget. If your ears are going to be ringing they might as well be ringing because you're listening to good music and not to the cries of a newborn.

As for your parents, they ignore you but I never will so keep writing me letters. Besides, you're used to ignoring them right back. And after all, remember that they love you...eventually they'll get some sleep and go back to their previous patterns of lesser neglect.

You have no idea what I felt when you said that you missed me. And as for the sleeping thing...you really don't want to know what I felt. Either way, I couldn't describe it. I'm having Constance send you something with my letter so that you feel better about the lack of sleep. Or at least have something to remember me by. Who knows? Maybe it'll help.

Nothing important has happened to me since I sent my letter. Marcy has shown the house to a few people but no one wants to buy it yet. Mostly I just spend my time in the basement. Going to your room (or my room...whatever you consider it) seems wrong. I don't want to go in there if I'm not going to see you.

If I'm not in the basement then I'm playing with Beau…or avoiding your dad's psychotic mistress. The bitch wants to fuck me and doesn't take the hint that I'm in love with you. I don't want to touch anyone that isn't you. She just has to deal with that fact. Other than that, I'm bored and being bored makes me miss you more. Missing you more just drives me insane. Lately, I've gotten moody enough to bother Moira. She said she was going to poison me if I kept groaning and whining.

I hate being stuck here only because I can't fly away to Florida and be with you. I know you need me and I know that I need you. Sometimes I use that journal you gave me to write poems about you. Or if not I describe, in great detail, what I miss about you or what I would do to you if we were sitting on the floor of your room listening to Morrisey.

Hayden teases me on it, actually. That's before she starts sexually harassing me. She says I'm like a girl and I really don't care if that's the truth. I have a right to express myself. Especially considering that you've made me feel shit I couldn't feel before. So fuck it, I'm like a girl.

Are you sleeping any better? How's the new asshole infested high school?

I love you,

Tate

(IV)

Dear Tate,

You're a bastard! You know that, right? I tell you that I can't sleep properly and it's partially because I'm away from you and you have Constance send me this. Not that I don't love it. I do love it but I'm caught somewhere between wanting to slap you and wanting to kiss you. I'll settle for giving you satisfaction. I'm sending a little something of my own along with this letter and yes, the sweater has helped me sleep a lot better than I was before I got it.

It was funny when my mother saw a package arrive for me. I lied to her and told her that I had left something in the house and that Constance got it for me. It's not like it's a complete lie. I did leave something behind and Constance did send me something. Either way, I didn't show her your sweater. I keep it in my room.

Aside from the sweater, there's something else helping me sleep. My aunt bought the soundproof headphones for me as an "I'm sorry for your shitty current existence" present. I don't care why she got them for me, though. I can overlook the fact that she pities me. Oh and you'll be delighted to know that Michael has toned down his crying. He's gone from crying for seven hours to crying for five. Whoa progress!

Did you really have to ask me about school? I hate it here just as much (more even, I think) as I hated Westfield. At least when I was at Westfield I could come home to your face. Here I come back to crying and adults gushing over babies. Fun fact though: Florida coke whores are by far more annoying that California coke whores. Maybe I just got used to hanging around Leah, but these sluts gross me out. I'm the new girl and its mid year so I'm like this alien from the planet Los Angeles and everyone expects me to be rich or to have fucked a celebrity. How stupid can they be?

As to Hayden...she was a cunt before she tried getting on top of you and she's an even bigger cunt now. You're not a girl. There's only one thing that your mother has said that I agree with. She said something along the lines of you having the soul of a poet. She's right. Your feelings are deeper than most people and you just found an outlet for them.

I wanna cut you a deal, Tate. I know by now you've been dying to find out just what it is that I've been doing with your sweater so that I can sleep better. I'm anxious to know what it is that you picture doing to me if we were in our room. You show me yours and I'll show you mine.

Deal? Tell me everything you've been writing. ;)

Love,

Violet

Tate's next letter is quite interesting. *hint hint* Lol