In honor of me finishing American Horror Story Asylum, and American Horror Story Coven almost upon us, I decided to indulge in a little AHS fan fiction. I put a younger me in the story, pre-season 1 (: ain't no big thang, just for my own kicks and giggles
“I already told you, if you want to kill yourself you have to cut your wrists vertically,” said Tate, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke into Steffie’s face. “That way the doctor’s can’t stitch you back up.”
“I’m not deaf dipshit. Suicide just isn’t my flavor of the month.”
Steffie was sitting on her bathroom floor trying to staunch the blood flow from the self-inflicted gashes on her wrists. Her mother was at work so there really was no rush. She had time to admire the beautiful patterns her blood left on the sparkling linoleum.
Tate licked his lips and snubbed the cigarette out in the spreading pool of Steffie’s blood. “Yeah you say that, but your arms tell me a different story.”
“Well how else do you suggest I keep myself sane, Mr. Langdon?” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “I talk with dead people every night, I see shadows with eyes all over this house and I’ve got a mother who would sooner lock me up in the loony bin then move us out of here.”
Tate took her wrists and began bandaging them with care. He couldn’t help the sardonic smile that played on his lips.
“Just what the fuck is so funny?” Steffie snapped with no real bite. As much as she wanted to deny it, it was comforting to be taken care of—even by a dead guy.
“You are, little girl. The way you fight me is funny. That half-hearted way that you play with death, like you don’t dream of opening your arms to it every time your eyes close; that’s hilarious. But I know something you don’t, Steffie.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“You’re already dead in here,” Tate whispered, placing his hand over her heart. “You’re already mine. One little vertical slice and you can live here forever with me.”
Steffie looked into Tate’s eyes and smiled. “Don’t get your hopes up, lover boy. Not every teenage girl is dying for some morbid, misunderstood fictional man to sweep her off her hormonally imbalanced feet. I’d like to see my 18th birthday if you don’t mind.”
She squeezed her eyes shut tight and counted to ten. Sure enough, when she opened her eyes Tate was gone. Gingerly she got to her feet and went to fetch a mop. Day 57in the murder house was proving to be just the beginning of an interesting battle.