The Basement Door

One.

Violet slammed her laptop before she could go on downloading music and trying to distract herself any longer. Her track of thought had been polluted… stopped by the ongoing thought of Tate. Oh, how she missed him even though she thought she’d permanently dismiss his existence in her life. It didn’t matter to her, if he still had lived there with the Harmons after they all had become deceased. The fact Tate left her alone, just as she wished, made moving on easier, without a doubt. However, it had been a year since she had spoken to Tate. Remembering the last time she had spoken to him made it hard to contain herself so she began to sob, uncontrollably in the palms of her hands. To herself, she muttered, “Why? Why am I still upset over this?”   

Violet stood from her chair and made her way over to her bed, where she grasped the metal of the footboard in anger and frustration, fighting any other tear that would come streaming down her cheek. “No,” she said to herself, “you will not break. He doesn’t deserve your tears.”   

Perhaps trying to eliminate any warm feeling she had left for Tate was harder than holding onto any pangs of hatred she once possessed. From the footboard, she pulled herself onto the bed, where she would crawl up and caress a pillow underneath her damp cheek. Her hand came up to place it onto the pillow gently, pretending it was Tate and trying to convince herself to fall asleep reminiscing on a beautiful memory. She was no longer capable of a bitter heart when it came to the love of her life, the only love she’d ever known. And she knew this, but knowing the horrors of Tate Langdon had poisoned every bit of her soul. Violet, ultimately, for a time, convinced herself she couldn’t love such a malicious monster.   

Eventually, she fell asleep, but only dreamt of the one thing she had been trying to avoid: Tate. Her dreams were all beautiful memories she had with Tate, remembering how she fell madly in love with him, which seemed perfectly slow and incredibly fast all at the same time. She remembered how his lips felt on hers: subtle, yet what she pictured to be the most passionately executed kiss a girl could ever receive. She remembered every touch, sometimes out of warmth, when they’d have their own sweet compassionate moments, and sometimes out of piercing cold, when at times he felt Violet turning from him, and the only way for him to find any reassurance that she wasn’t was to feel her warmth. 

Violet awoke. The touch of Tate’s hand on her cheek felt all too real. Her eyes quickly opened and immediately, she looked around her for any sign of Tate. She wasn’t sure if she had just dreamt something so real, or if he was actually there, watching her sleep. Propping herself up, sitting against the headboard, she brought her knees to her chest, holding them tightly as she examined the room.   

No sign of Tate.   

A tear came down Violet’s face, as she began to feel herself giving up any harsh feelings she may have held onto. Under her breath, looking right over to her door, she whispered, “Tate…”   Again, nothing. Perhaps, he hadn’t heard her. “Tate…”, she said a little louder this time, “Tate… please. Please. I just want to see you.”