DEAD. FUCKED.

                                  Cheryl had grown up in a creepy, potentially haunted mansion. She felt more at home than she did in most places. With colorful light shining through the glass windows, it was almost… peaceful.

   Tate’s voice behind her made Cheryl’s lips curve up in a smirk before she turned to him. She took a moment longer to admire the greens, the blues, the filtering sunlight. Then she reached in her purse and took out her phone. Turning to him, she lifted her eyebrows. ❝ You didn’t follow me on Twitter, ❞ she accused, expecting that any teen in the twenty-first century had a smart phone and would likely forget a twitter handle after an hour. That’s how life is in twenty-seventeen. Fast and instant gratification. She turned her gaze down to the phone briefly.

   ❝ And that’s fine, you’d probably just ghost me anyway. But I want to see you again. ❞ She tapped her thumbs on the device and then held it out to him. ❝ So put your number in if you want. Unless you have a girlfriend. ❞ She was a child of the 2000′s; she’d never known communication to be any other way. ❝ Or unless you’re scared. ❞

      he  can  admit  to  himself  that       her   attention   feeds   into   his       desperate, frozen–teenage mind.

but the over–enthusiastic interrogation over this foreign media world hushes him into beckoning silence   .     however  ,   the threat of his own cowardice makes tate scoff  ,   as if what she's suggested is nothing but humorous in itself   .     ' as much as i appreciate your interest i— '     his voice grows soft and he clears his throat and frowns   .     ' i'm —   i don't have my own phone   . '     he's confused by his own words  ,    and doesn't even bother to hide it   .     his words slip out with a questioning tone  ,    as he doesn't even know if his choice of vocabulary is right   .

                                  Cheryl wanted to say more; she wanted to tell him to wait or to give her his number or at least to ensure he'd agree to follow her on twitter, but she found herself silently watching him go instead.

   She spent her session with Dr. Harmon in a state of disconnected reproach. Frowning and nodding when totally necessary and otherwise divulging very little. It was clear to him that she didn’t want to be there and yet he kept asking questions of her. Cheryl only shrugged her shoulders. Near the last fifteen minutes or so of the appointment, not wanting to answer questions about her father, Cheryl tilted her head. ❝ Who’s that freakshow blonde kid? ❞ Her eyebrows lifted in curiosity, and she didn’t seem satisfied at Ben’s answer of just another patient. She sighed.

   By the time their meeting finished, Cheryl gave him a tight smile and let herself out, walking most of the way to the door before glancing behind her to make sure the doctor wasn’t following. Then her feet in bright red heels carried her ( towards chaos, as they tended to do ) in the direction Tate had disappeared, her dark brown eyes wandering over the stained glass windows and dark hallways. It was really a spooky place for a psychiatrist.

      the prolonged career in conversation       takes longer than he'd have desired.

his step haunts the halls while the house shakes with ben's overbearing headshrinking   .     the stench of IRONY is so strong to tate's nostrils that he has to step outside   .     the boy invites himself to a cigarette and finds conversation with one of the older  ,    more clueless ghosts   .     a middle–aged woman  ,    she starts on the subject of her son   —    who himself has been six feet under for decades   —    and cannot seem to stop   .     finally the boy hushes her with the sound of heels clicking down the hallway   .

no look in that direction and he's already sure of who it is   .     marlboro dangling between his pointer and middle finger  ,    his attention directs toward ben's newest patient and he studies her behavior from the window   .     part of him wished to have eavesdropped on the conversation  ,    as it had previously been a normal thing to do with other patients  ,    but here it feels odd   .     for the first time he's aware of the invasion of privacy  ,    for whatever reason   .

                                  ❝ Tate, ❞ she repeated casually as she looked up at him. ❝ I’m merely wondering how exactly you set a person on fire. ❞ She still seemed fascinated, and she was looking at him as if trying to solve a puzzle.

    Were her brother alive and here to witness the exchange, he’d probably have reminded Cheryl not to talk to strangers, especially ones who openly admit to setting people on fire. And yet Cheryl herself was an arsonist, and no such gentle warning would come. She used a hand to pull her hair over one shoulder, head tilting as she leaned back, seemingly getting comfortable. Were it not for the conversation, she’d have complained about the wait by now.

    ❝ This is my first appointment. And very feasibly my last. It has too much of a retro cliche vibe. ❞ She smiled at him in a conspiring way and then she stood, straightening her skirt and fixing her purse on her shoulder. She would be heading into the office soon and felt impatient. ❝ Anyway, you should DM me on twitter. My handle’s at cheryl bombshell — follow for follow? ❞

      it   could   have   been       better speaking to him           in    fluent    spanish.

thrown off guard  ,    his pause is prolonged just long enough for him to hear the silence interrupted by ben's anxious footsteps   .     tate nods at the girl and clicks his teeth   .     ' sounds like ben's ready  —     my cue to leave   . '     he doesn't want to stop this conversation  ,    partially because her infatuation with his crimes is a first for himself   .     not often do you get an interested girl over conversation about your criminal past   .     not if you're tate langdon and you've done what you've done and shared only the bare minimum   .     which is still pretty bad compared to most   .

        ❝I thought I was.❞ Even when she had found out the truth about what he had done to those kids, she thought there was a possibility that she could still be with him and be happy and in love and not have to really face what he did. That was all fantasy, wasn’t it?

      his breathing hitches at his throat       and with its exhale a new boldness       shocks tate's limbs into moving closer.

                      ❛       you were   DEAD.   i was,   too.       ❜

                                  Cheryl didn’t have much of anything to hide when it came to her story; she was still new to the idea of fighting back. Of lashing out. It made her feel strong, and she liked the idea of that more than anything.

    His question garnered a scoffed laugh from her. It could be argued that she’d killed her father ( her mother had tried to push the guilt on her ), simply because she gave him no escape route. Prison would have been too good for him. But he’d deserved it. Cheryl didn’t answer as to whether or not she’d killed anyone or not; it was a gray area.

    ❝ You set him on fire? ❞ She seemed fascinated. Impressed, even. That was her gut reaction: not fear or upset; she wondered what that said about her. An interested hum left her before she turned to face him a little more, a conspiring smile turning up her red lips. ❝ I’m Cheryl Blossom, ❞ she finally said, deciding that he was worthy of an introduction. ❝ And who are you, firestarter? Unless you prefer Norman. ❞

      cheryl   blossom.       what   a   name.

her infatuation with his brief recall of his past makes him chuckle   .     he doesn't think anyone has responded to that information in such a pleaed manner   .     "   you can call me whatever your heart desires  ,    but my name's tate   . "     his lips curl into the tiniest of smiles as he drags his gaze away and taps his shoe impatiently   .

                                  More Norman Bates than Hannibal Lecter — that was certainly reassuring. And yet Cheryl’s very favorite movie was Psycho, so the reference made her laugh and roll her eyes, breaking some of the tension.

    Daddy issues; Cheryl hadn’t really considered it. She had family issues in general, but then there was the fact of being in love with her dead brother. Could that be weeded out in therapy? She hoped not — no one even knew. Her shoulders set as she straightened her posture. If he was going to try and antagonize her, she’d return the favor.

    ❝ Rude of me, wasn’t it? I suppose I can answer… if you tell me why you’re here. ❞ She lifted her brows at him and then she used a hand to pull her red hair back over one shoulder. She didn’t wait for him to answer before she launched into explanation. ❝ My father murdered my twin brother last July. Mother blamed it on me, of course. So when daddy hung himself in the barn, I doused the estate in gasoline and burnt it down. She says I’ve not stopped grieving over my brother, but I disagree. Burning the house was a cleansing. And now she sent me here. ❞

    Cheryl's voice drew off into thoughtful and distant as she spoke, her head tilting to the side as she watched Tate with a newfound curiosity. Most people would be freaked out over such a confession. ❝ Anyway… I can tell just by looking at you that you’ve got mommy issues, Norman. We all have our crosses. So why are you here? ❞

      he's   humble   enough   to   admit   that       he hadn't expected it out of the fiery girl.

maybe humble isn't the right word to describe tate  –     but he was surprised at the information   .     blinking away the bewilderment  ,    he strides closer to sit down on the arm of the couch   .     his arms stay crossed over his chest and his eyebrows remain raised   .

" you got me   – "     he waves his hands into a shrug   .     she's intriguing  ,    whether it was the similarity in carelessness or the fact that the both of them are convicted arsonists   .     " you haven't KILLED ANYONE though  ,     right ? "     a raised eyebrow questions more convictment that would make them more similar   .     but he's assured of her answer this time and moves on   ;    " you're right  ,    red   .     hate my mother  ,    with a burning passion   .     set her imbecile boyfriend on fire   . "

                                  The pads of her thumbs brushed over acrylic nails, rubbing them with a silent edge of anxiety. She didn’t want to be here, and yet it was better than being at home. Her brown eyes wandered over the walls.

    They fell, shortly, on the boy who stood in the doorway, and Cheryl subconsciously straightened her posture. She hadn’t realized she was being watched, and his gaze made her uneasy enough to drop her hands to her sides as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. Her mouth opened to speak, but then came his question. She quickly closed her full, red lips around what she’d been about to say, and looked away.

    ❝ I’m not anorexic, ❞ she said in a defensive tone. Her eyes turned up to meet his again and her arms crossed.

    Cheryl was unimpressed by his sudden appearance and yet intimidated by it all at once. She hated the way he looked at her in that piercing, beckoning way. Sizing people up was her gimmick — she wouldn’t let someone else subject her to it. And yet her eyes followed him at a languid, wary pace. ❝ And I didn’t realize this was a loony bin as well as a therapist’s office. What’s wrong, Hannibal Lecter? Forget your meds? ❞

      the moment she starts speaking, arms cross       over   his   chest   and   all   attention   directs       toward   the   box   between   his   fingers.

he recognizes her again when the mocking name is spit from her lips  ,    and tate's head tilts up   .     he taps the music box and lets go of the wind–up  ,    but no sound comes from the tiny thing   .     " piece of shit  , "     he mumbles  ,    turning it a little more between his fingers before closing his fist around it and leaning back against the piano   .

" clever  ,    redhead   .     but if you're gonna try to be a smartass at least pick something that's more fitting  ,    like norman bates or some shit   .     fits my psyche more  ,    i'd say   . "     her shock still reads as fuel for his maticulous behavior and he draws his shoulders back to squint at her   .