You'll Be The Death Of Me

Violet

As soon as I wake on Monday morning, the dry tears on my face from the night before are smeared with new ones. It's been two days, and I still find myself in a constant vortex of pain and suffering and there's no Tate to stitch up my tortured heart.

There's just something about him. Or there was, anyway. Was it his hair? His eyes; endless like infinity? His smile? His own troubled mind, helping my own?

Or maybe it was all an act, maybe he never really loved me and maybe he was just a lunatic. He is a lunatic. But I want him to be my lunatic.

I drag myself out of bed, sitting on the edge in just my knickers and a long black top.

My hand grabs a lighter and a packet of cigarettes, and I burn the end of the fag and take long, relieving drags. What kills your heart is great for your art, right?

As I continue to expand my lungs with the smoke, I chuck on some black jeans but leave on the top. I don't have the effort, nor the energy, to pick out a clean and decent outfit. I can dress like I want, it's me that has to wear it not everyone else.

I crush the cigarette stub in a half-filled ash tray that is now permanently living in my room. Mum is still out of town, and Dad lives in New York so they won't be here any time soon. Better make the most of it.

On my second cigarette of the day, I leave the house in my purple converse with the short laces scraping on the ground slightly. My hair is brushed but is far from being its' normal straight. My top is half tucked into my jeans and my black, leather rucksack slings off of one shoulder. I instantly feel an abnormal, rebellious feeling deep within me. School? I don't need school. I don't need anyone.

So instead of turning right on the road to school, I start trudging left and instantly know where I'm going.

***

The big house where the party was held. The house where my heart broke for the second time, except it broke much easier seeing as the fragments of its' glass could only be taped together. Tate was the tape. He wasn't strong enough to hold my fragile heart.

I ring the doorbell and knock twice. I throw the fag in the ground, crush it beneath my foot and wait for a reply.

After a solid minute, I hear footsteps approaching the door.

"Hello? What?" It's a boy, dark hair, in his boxers. Casual.

"Oh. Erm. Sorry I didn't mean to disturb you." I stutter, my confidence quickly fading to nothing.

He flashes me a grin. "Violet, eh?"

"Huh? How do you know my name?"

"Er, Tom. You know Tom, right? The frat you were hanging with on Friday. He wouldn't stop going on about how mysterious and cool you were."

I feel a slight embarrassment flush in my cheeks.

"Oh, right. Tom. That's actually why I came here-"

"You guys kissed. I saw." The boy grins, licking his bottom lip. "You a good kisser?"

"Why are you being a man slut? Can you cut the crap and tell me where Tom is?" I almost scream.

He cocks his head back and makes a double chin. Whether it was intentionally or not, I don't know.

I try to suppress laughter at his shocked face.

"Sure... Give me your phone, I can type in his address."

"No way are you touching my phone. Get pen and paper."

The boy sucks in his teeth and shakes his head. "I don't have any."

I raise an eyebrow and hand him my phone.

"Cheers." I say when he hands it back.

"Anytime." He calls and shuts the door.

Now all I need to do is find Tom.