Constance was at her wits end. She could hear her son from her house next door, howling in pain as he torchered himself. This had been a everyday thing over the past 2 years when Tate's sadness and heartbreak had turned to anger towards himself. He hated his entire being. Every disision he had made, except for loving Grace, had haunted him since she had left him. Everyday, the memories of what he had done, the people he killed, the look on Grace's face when he came clean about rapeing her mother, infuriated him. Everyday he tried new ways to kill himself, but how can you kill what wasn't alive to start with?
His skin, though he had burnt, sliced and mutilated it, always returned to its formal pale beauty, as though it had never been toughed.
Constance had tried on several oocasions to repair her relationship with her son, but it never worked.
Tate was dead. This she had know for over 10 years now, but when he was with Grace, she saw how alive Grace made him feel. The twinkle in his brown eyes, his smile, not manic, but soft and gentel. She missed Grace almost as much as he did. She missed the brief period she had seen her son happy.
