//

Peter entered the bathroom, pushing the door open slowly.

The clinking of water droplets from the bath faucet drew his attention and soon his gaze followed along the tub.

A pale lifeless hand was resting on the edge of the tub.

Peter still approached, looking over the tub to see who this person was but the water was gray and bloody, he couldn't tell who it was.

He reached out and touched the hand. It was cold and was dripping with water from the fingertips to his arm.

The cold hand latched around Peter's wrist tightly as the soaked body in the tub, shot out screaming loudly.

Peter yelled in fear as he saw who this person was now clearly before trying to yank his hand back from the vice grip.

Once he did, he fell back.

And it seemed like an eternity for him to stop falling until he landed on the soft surface of a bed, his eyes closing tightly to which-

Peter jolted awake in his bed, sunlight pouring into his room.

He exhaled a shaky breath before looking at his alarm clock beside him.

It was 11 in the morning.

Peter rubbed his eyes tiredly before throwing the bed comforter off him and standing up.

Other than his usual nightmares, he couldn't stop thinking about Tate.

What did he do to those kids? And what did they mean it happened at his current school?

He needed to know.

He walked over to his desk, pulling the chair out, plopping into it before opening his laptop, waiting for it to turn on.

Once it finally did, Peter opened Google to which he typed in 'Westfield High Massacre' in the search bar before pressing enter.

Several results came up but Peter clicked on the first website that explained what happened.

In 1994, 15 students at Westfield High were murdered in a school shooting-10 were killed in the hall and 5 were killed in the library.

Peter scrolled to the list of victims that were listed with their names along with school pictures beside that. The first 5 were what made Peter's jaw drop.

Kyle Greenwell...the jock.

Chloe Stapleton...the cheerleader.

Amir Stanley...the boy with glasses and couldn't speak.

Stephanie Boggs...the gothic chick who had half of her brains showing on the side of her head.

Kevin Gedman...the biker looking boy.

"No," was all Peter kept chanting over and over.

They were from his dream. He had remembered walking into school, killing 15 kids in the hall, and then another 5 in the library.

But he didn't have control, almost as if he had to watch from someone else's point of view...

Peter's eyes moved to another link.

Suspect In School Shooting Dead | NEWS

Peter moved his mouse to click on the link which he immediately regretted because as soon as that page loaded, the feeling of a new heavyweight dropped on his chest as the news story popped up...

Along with Tate's school photo below the title.

Peter stood from his chair.

He felt paralyzed with fear.

No, it just couldn't be. Tate was...Tate. He was weird, of course, but he was no school shooter. Or was he?

This was 17 years ago, Tate would be 34-years-old now not still looking like a teenager and...dead as the news article said.

"Vi," he called in anxiousness.

Violet walked into his room, upon hearing his fearful tone. "Peter, what's wrong?" she asked.

He didn't answer as he inhaled shaky breaths, slouching forward with his hands on his knees and could only mutter, "Fuck..." But he pointed in the direction of his laptop on the desk.

Violet walked over, scrolling through his laptop, reading everything even going back on everything Peter was on before mumbling, "Oh my God...this...It's..." She was at a loss of words just as much as Peter was.

Peter couldn't think straight as he ran downstairs with Violet following and calling for him.

"Mom? Mom?" Peter called in a desperate tone, gripping at his hair as he entered the empty living room. "Mommy."

Violet latched onto his arm, pulling him into the kitchen as she saw a small familiar bag on the kitchen counter.

"She's not here," Constance told Peter.

"Where is she?" Peter asked.

"Did you hurt her?" Violet also questioned.

"Of course not," Constance answered with a small laugh. "She's probably at the grocery store, buying some frozen fare to reheat for your supper tonight."

"I need to see my mom," Peter spoke, turning and about to walk away until Constance stated:

"You found out about Tate, didn't you?" This made Peter turn back and look at Constance. "I knew you would."

Violet saw the look of panic on Peter's face and snapped. "Get out of my house!"

Peter rubbed his forehead in frustration. "This is not happening..." he mumbled.

"I questioned my sanity when I first found out," Constance told him. "But this house...this house will make you a believer. You see, Peter, we were living here when Tate lost his way. And I believe that the house drove him to it."

"What?" Peter wheezed. "No. That can't be real."

"You're a smart boy," Constance stated. "How can you be so arrogant to think that there's only one reality that you're able to see?" Peter was at a loss for words. "I want you to meet someone." She stood up. "Bring your sister if you must."

Peter didn't. Only told her that he'd be okay and right back before leaving with Constance.

As they came through the kitchen door, Peter saw a beautiful woman sitting at the table, cigarette in hand, and watching him very closely.

"Peter Harmon meet Billie Dean Howard," Constance introduced to which Peter could only wave. "The child has no manners." She explained, "Billie is a gifted medium. She can help."

"You're confused. Overwhelmed," Billie stated calmly. "Why wouldn't you be?"

"I never asked for any of this," Peter stated.

"None of us did. But nothing can be done once one's been chosen."

"Billie has been helping me for years," Constance spoke as she placed down an empty teacup at the table. "I first found her on Craigslist. I've been through all the phonies, but she is 100% authentic."

"I've just come from a meeting at Lifetime; they're interested in making a pilot with me," Billie stated.

Peter only stared down into the cup of tea. "A Craigslist psychic with a Hollywood agent. Who'd have thought?" he remarked.

"A medium, dear," Billie corrected as Peter wondered if she could- "I can't read your future," she answered to which Peter looked up at her. "That's a different gift."

"Have some chamomile tea," Constance said, pouring tea into the cup. "It'll calm the nerves."

Peter ran a hand through his hair. "I'm going crazy," he mumbled.

"I used to be like you," Billie told him. "Until I was 25. When out of the blue, my cleaning lady shows up as I'm brushing my teeth. Except she's got no toilet brush and rubber gloves, she's naked and bloody. Her husband murdered her with an ice pick."

"It's hard to keep good help," Constance remarked.

'Do you think I wanted a bloody Mexican ghost in my bathroom?" Billie asked Peter. "All I wanted was to improve my tennis game and unseat Charlotte Whitney as president of my book club. But I was chosen. And when you're chosen, you either get with the program or you go crazy. Understanding the truth is your only choice."

"If that's true, what's your version of the truth?" Peter asked.

Billie relit her cigarette before saying, "There are some who have an understandably violent and vengeful reaction to being horribly murdered. They refuse to move on until they exact their pound of flesh. Then there are a very few souls, like Tate," Peter's eyes met Billie's. "Who don't even know they're dead, who walk among the living in child-like confusion."

"That's why I wanted him to see your father," Constance stated. "I was hoping your father might help him achieve some clarity about himself so that he could see the truth on his own."

"We must help him cross over, Peter," Billie told Peter.

Peter shook his head, covering his face with his hands. "This can't be real," he replied. "My laptop was messed with-"

"Who is Mary?" Billie spoke, making Peter freeze up but look up at Billie in terror as she touched his hand. "Peter, she wants to talk to you." Peter's jaw fell slightly agape as Billie quoted, "They don't understand you. Either of you. Never will understand you. You only have each other'. Does that mean anything to you?"

Peter did know what that meant. Mary was Peter's grandmother who, on her deathbed, told Peter and Violet that their parents wouldn't understand them. That they could only look out for each other because no one else will.

Peter and Violet never told her words to anyone and to hear a woman he's never met until now say that, scared him to death.

He stood up, quickly leaving.

***

For the past three days, Peter felt so numb at dealing with the fact that his boyfriend was dead too much that he didn't care that Ben was back at home.

He did tell Violet everything but she tried to deny it just as much as he did.

But Peter felt like he was slowly losing it and didn't want to add on weight to Violet so as soon as Ben had finished up a session with a patient, he needed to talk.

"Dad?" Peter called, entering the office.

"Hey, Peter," Ben greeted softly, waiting for Peter to yell at him for not being here but it never came.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Peter told him softly. "It's all my fault. I screwed up."

"What?" Ben spoke, standing up and hugging his son. "No, no. Your mom and I both love you very much. It's never gonna change."

"Dad, there's something really wrong," Peter stated. "It's the darkness. It has me. It feels like I'm gonna drown in it."

"I have you. Pete, I have you. I have you," Ben tried to reassure but Peter didn't believe him as much as he wanted to.

***

The next day, Peter and Violet stood outside the library in which the half of the massacre occurred.

Peter just tried to calm himself before entering, taking deep breaths with his eyes closed, facing the sun to bathe in its warmth.

If Peter had known this would be the last time in 24 hours he'd be outside with freedom to go anywhere, he would've left right away, never going back to that house again.

"Peter," Violet called. "Are you ready?" she asked.

With one final exhale, Peter nodded, going into their school through the halls.

As Peter walked by, he saw himself in his dream, shooting kids in the hall.

Peter tried to shake away the thought and continue with Violet.

They entered the library.

Peter's eyes wandered to the bookshelves close by as a thought flashed his mind...

Through some books, he saw a girl hiding in front of a shelf.

Wanting to toy with her fear, Peter walked to the shelf she was hiding in front of, shoving a small stack of books right next to her.

She screamed in fear as she fell to her knees which was what he wanted.

He rounded the shelf, now face-to-face with the girl who stared up pleading to let her live.

But he only held the pistol to her skull and pulled the trigger.

Peter's gaze moved to Violet who was staring at something on the wall.

IN MEMORY OF
OUR FALLEN
BROTHERS AND SISTERS

Below 15 names were listed, including the ones Peter knew by now from Halloween night and from online.

"God," Violet muttered.

"I had a dream," Peter spoke to Violet. "I saw the kids die in here before I knew what actually happened. I think I was watching it from Tate's point of view." He pulled Violet near the bookshelf he was eyeing earlier. "She died right here. Stephanie Boggs. Can't ever read that on some website. And two of them were..."

"They were over by the sofa," someone spoke. Peter turned around to see a man in a wheelchair approach them. Peter nearly gulped as he thought he saw this man's dead body on the floor in his dream. "Used to be a row of tables. I get four or five of you sickos a year. Usually freshmen. What, are you two transfers?"

"You're that teacher," Peter mumbled.

"You're like a hero," Violet added.

"Now you know what heroes look like," the teacher remarked, trying to roll away.

"Wait, I'm sorry," Violet called. "We're not like those other kids. We know Tate."

Peter spoke up, "Um, actually, we know his mom. We moved next door to her." He cleared his throat. "Did you know him? Before he did this?"

"I knew his face," the man answered. "Didn't seem like a bad kid, actually. He was in here a lot. Kind of thoughtful liked to read. Byron, books on birds, random stuff."

"Was he bullied?" Peter questioned. He needed to know Tate's reason. "Did he even know the kids he shot? I just want to know why he did it."

"Me, too," the teacher remarked, trying to leave.

"Why are you bullshitting my brother?!" Violet nearly exclaimed.

"Vi, stop," Peter told her quietly.

The teacher turned back to them. "If the bullet had been an inch to the right, it would've missed my spine and I would have walked out of here. Might have even been able to stop him. An inch higher, it would have killed me. Sometimes shit just happens."

"Well, good people don't just have a bad day and start shooting people," Peter replied.

"Maybe he wasn't a good person," the teacher replied.

At this, tears welled over Peter's eyes before walking out with Violet following.

***

Hours later, Peter and Violet came home, turning on the security system to which Violet spoke, "This is fucked up, right?"

"Right," Peter agreed, about to walk upstairs until he turned back to Violet. "I just really cared about Tate. I might've even-"

"Loved him?" Violet asked.

"I don't know anymore," Peter answered. "I don't know what to think."

"Are you going to see him again?" she asked.

"Maybe," Peter answered honestly. "I need to know why."

"Peter, I don't think that's a good idea," Violet replied.

"He doesn't know that I know," Peter stated. "He won't hurt me."

Violet's eyes suddenly moved to the kitchen but she told Peter, "Just be careful, okay?"

Peter nodded as he went upstairs as he saw a shadow past by. Specifically one 5'9" shadow that he knew very well.

"Tate?" Peter called, reaching the top of the stairs before following it. It turned the corner, into Peter's room.

Peter followed, barely walking into the threshold, he looked all around his room.

No one was in there but him.

But in fresh black erasable ink, three words were written on the whiteboard.

I LOVE YOU

Peter could feel his panic and anxiety wash over him, running an anxious hand through his hair, gripping it by the roots.

"Fuck!" he yelled.

He tried to take deep breaths before leaving his room.

He walked into the bathroom, turning the water on at the sink to cold.

He cupped his hands under the water before splashing his warm face, trying to calm down.

He did this three times.

Until finally Peter shook the water off his hands, shutting the sink off, drying them on the hand towel and wiping his face with it.

"Hey, Peter," someone spoke.

Peter quickly turned his head towards the door, eyes widening in shock.

Hayden...yes, the Hayden who Ben slept with and cheated on Vivien with. The Hayden Peter once considered a friend until-

"You're here?" Peter questioned.

"Looks like it," she replied, walking into the bathroom.

"Why are you back here?" Peter asked.

"For Ben," Hayden replied, stepping dangerously close to him. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss my best friend," she stated, raising her hand to softly rub Peter's cheek.

He slapped her hand away. "You're not my friend," he replied. "You have no fucking right to be here. Not after what you did to my dad and mom-"

Hayden chuckled. "What I did to your dad?" she questioned. "Peter, baby, your dad was miserable. He even said so to me."

"You're lying," Peter growled.

"I wish I was," she stated.

"Leave," he snapped.

Hayden shook her head. "I don't think so. I think I'm going to get pretty comfy here considering you have another brother or sister on the way."

Peter caught on almost immediately. 'Another brother or sister on the way'. That meant-

"You're pregnant?" Peter questioned softly.

Hayden smiled in response. "I always knew you were a smart kid."

Peter shook his head in denial. "No, you can't be," he mumbled.

"I can and I am," Hayden stated. "Your dad came back months later. Did you seriously think that he could stay away forever? You're adorable."

Peter scoffed. "You're not going to stay much longer. Not when my mom finds out that you're back here-"

Hayden pushed him with a great force, making his back hit the sink painfully. "You're not going to tell St. Vivien anything," she replied.

Peter met her eye level. "Watch me."

He tried to walk past Hayden but she grabbed his shirt and shoved him against the wall before grabbing his hair and smacking his head against the wall painfully.

His vision turned blurry and his head began to ring as Hayden got close to Peter's face. "I don't want to kill you, Peter but you left me no choice," she said.

Peter tried to fight back though.

He pushed Hayden back, slamming her hard into the mirror shattering it to glass pieces that fell into the mirror and on the floor.

Hayden sunk to the floor in shock as Peter began to hurry towards the door. "Tate!" he yelled, remembering his boyfriend was here not too long ago. "Tate, help-"

Hayden suddenly grabbed Peter's leg, pulling him back.

The boy fell to the floor, his head colliding against the marble title that was littered with glass.

Peter began to drift in and out of unconsciousness as the glass from the floor had cut his right cheek in multiple places.

He could only see black spots in his vision as he tried to feel for anything to help him fight back but all he could feel was bits of glass that left small cuts on his hand and cold tile.

He vaguely heard the faucet to the bathtub turn and the sound of water began to pour in.

Peter was dragged across the floor by his leg, closer to the tub.

As he still tried to reach for anything to save himself, his hand closed around a large piece of glass from the mirror. It had cut into his hand but he didn't care. The pain was bearable.

Hayden began to force him to stand, once he got to his feet, Peter slashed Hayden's arm with the piece of glass.

The girl jumped in surprise which let Peter try and run away but Hayden recovered quickly.

She grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him towards the tub before pushing him in.

Water splashed everywhere as Peter fell in, his back hitting the bottom of the tub once he did.

He tried to sit up and climb out but Hayden got in after him, standing in there, her fingers latching tightly into his hair before pushing him underwater.

Peter still tried to fight, he kept thrashing and hit Hayden in any possible way he could.

"Just fucking die," Hayden said through gritted teeth.

Peter managed to take a small gasp of air as he had forced himself up.

But it wasn't big enough because Hayden shoved him under again with more force than before.

As he fought, Peter couldn't help but try to scream for Tate or Violet since he couldn't hold his breath any longer by the second.

He could feel his lungs burning, begging for any form of oxygen as more black spots filled his vision and his head felt heavy as he tried to keep it up.

Seconds later, Peter's thrashing and fight against Hayden got weaker then shortly stopped, his hands falling back into the water with a small thump.

Hayden grinned as she stood up, climbing out of the tub as she left Peter in there.

He wasn't dead yet. Just shocked and unconscious.

But staying in for three minutes will deprive his brain of oxygen and Peter will be dead.

When a person is drowning, water enters the lungs, depriving the body of oxygen and cutting off the transfer of oxygen to the blood and the brain.

Hayden reached the door about to close it when she looked to the tub where Peter was motionless. "See you on the other side, Peter," she spoke one last time before closing the door.

Peter wanted to move but he couldn't. His body felt too heavy and too weak.

He had two minutes left...

Maybe if Violet finds him in time, he'll be okay. She does know CPR after all.

One minute and thirty seconds left...

This shouldn't be his time to go. Peter had many things he wanted to do and see before he passed. He had to be here for his parents and most of all, for Violet.

One minute left...

Peter felt himself floating away, drifting towards darkness. It was pulling him closer to it and he was fighting the urge to give up and go towards the darkness as time passed.

Thirty seconds left...

Peter stopped fighting the urge to hope someone was going to save him and he'd stay alive. The darkness was getting a tighter grapple on him.

Five seconds left...

A pair of hands grabbed onto Peter's arms, trying to pull him out of the tub, more water going everywhere.

"Don't you die on me, Pete!" Tate yelled in fear as he managed to get a better grip under Peter's arms, pulling him out, not caring his clothes got soaked from it. "No. Don't you die!"

Tate fell back onto the floor with Peter. Moving away so Peter was lying on his back but he was still motionless.

Tate did the one thing he saw someone do in a movie after they drowned.

Tate placed his hands on top of one another in the middle of Peter's chest and began to do compressions.

Tate kept sobbing through his actions as he begged, "Don't you die on me."

Peter's body kept jolting with every compression but he did nothing to signal he was still alive.

"Come on, Pete," Tate pleaded before pressing his mouth over Peter's, breathing air into him before resuming compressions.

But Tate didn't know how to do it properly.

The way his hands were placed were wrong, he didn't keep his compressions consistent with one another as well as he kept worrying about how hard he was doing it. He was scared if he did compressions too hard, Peter's ribs would break and if he did it too gently, it wouldn't make a difference.

When he saw that Peter still wasn't moving or breathing, Tate panicked and began to hit Peter's chest instead, hands clasped in one another before slamming down as hard as he could. "Come on, Pete! Don't die!" he yelled in anguish.

He kept repeating the hits but it only made Peter's lifeless body jolt again at the force.

Tate gave in, sobbing as his head fell on Peter's chest. "Peter!" he screamed.

He didn't want Peter to die and be stuck in this house forever like him. He wanted Peter to live his life to the fullest and do things Tate will never be able to do. But it was too late, the darkness pulled him under and won...

Peter Harmon was dead.

"So that's what it feels like to die?" someone spoke, making Tate's head shoot up at the person.

There was Peter, his clothes were bone dry and his cuts had healed but the light in his eyes was no longer there.

Peter was now merely a ghost...a lost soul who now walked the halls of the Murder House as well just like many others.

Tate stood up, hugging him tightly but Peter made no move to return the hug. "Pete, I'm sorry," he whispered.

He didn't respond. Peter's eyes were glued to his dead body.

Tate noticed this and grabbed Peter's chin turning him away from the sight. "I tried to save you," he said with a small cry. "But you were too far gone."

"I know," was all Peter said.

Tate took one of Peter's hands. His temperature now matching his. "I can get rid of your body but only if you want me to-"

"Yes," Peter answered, now meeting Tate's eyes. "Please. Violet and no one else can't know."

"Okay, no one will know," Tate replied, pressing a kiss to Peter's forehead. "I promise."

Peter only nodded, walking back into his room. He didn't even bother to close the door, only lied back on his bed, sinking into his comfortable pillow.

He was dead but he still felt alive yet he was different.

He didn't have very much emotions but he still had some and he wasn't as tired as he was or hungry even.

And yet he wondered...could he feel pain?

His eyes trailed to the left at the empty water glass on his bedside table in thoughtfulness.

He grabbed the glass, smashing it against the table, making glass spill everywhere before he grabbed the largest piece he could find.

He raised his left arm up before pressing the glass to his skin, dragging it across his arm.

Blood slowly poured out of the open wound but Peter felt nothing. There was no pain.

He really was dead and trapped in this house forever.

His glossy eyes stayed glued to his arm as his wound slowly began to heal.

It sunk in for Peter that he would never go for a drive ever again, would ever go to Six Flags with his family, or explore the world like he always wanted to.

He'd never have that choice.

He'd just be stuck in this house forever, wondering these halls.

The wound finally healed completely in a matter of minutes.

Peter sat back up and anxiously paced at the foot of his bed, his hand tapping against his thigh as he usually did.

Trying to kill time and awaiting Tate's return, he picked up on of the books he checked out from the library.

He opened it, eyes scanning through each page. It was about birds and how they lived their lives-how long they lived.

Peter pulled out the check-out card, reading over the names. Tate's name was the last one on that card.

Tate returned in that moment, noticing the book Peter was looking over. "I like birds, too," Tate stated.

Peter's eyes met his. "Why do you like them?" he asked.

"Because they can fly away when things get too crazy, I guess," Tate answered.

"That's a good reason," Peter mumbled, pushing the check-out card back in and dropping the book on his desk. "Why'd this happen to me?" Peter asked.

"What do you mean?" Tate questioned.

"Why did I die now? It wasn't my time," Peter spoke softly, feeling like his anger was going to explode. "But she killed me and now I'm fucking stuck in this hell on Earth."

"Pete, calm down. Relax-" Tate tried to tell him.

"Don't tell me to relax, Tate!" Peter yelled, finally exploding. "Okay! How can I relax when I fucking drowned at 17 in that bathtub," he pointed to the direction of the bathroom as his voice cracked. "I even had a dream that I'd die that way and I ignored it when I shouldn't have. I now have to deal with the fact that I'm not even living, my heart's not beating anymore and I'm just a fucking ghost! So, please, do not tell me to relax," he finished as he sat back down on his bed against the headboard, pulling his knees up to his chest so he could wrap his arms around his legs and hide his face away.

Tate recognized what he was doing. It was a coping mechanism. Tate used it a lot when he thought the world would fall apart.

"Peter..." Tate began as his eyes glossed over with tears as he stared at Peter's form. "Something has changed in you. Toward me. You're distant, cold. And not just because you're dead, you've been distant before." Peter didn't move, he only listened to his words. "I don't know what I've done, but I'll leave you alone from now on if that's what you want. Is that what you want?" Peter didn't move from his position but he shook his head in response. "You know why I'd leave you alone?" Tate asked. "Because I care about your feelings more than mine."

Peter still listened but he didn't say anything or move until Tate spoke three words to him. "I love you."

Peter finally looked up, his eyes meeting Tate's. Peter's expression read 'Do you mean that?'

Tate caught on as he continued, "There, I said it-not just on some whiteboard. I would never let anybody or anything hurt you. I've never felt that way about anyone."

Peter wiped his tears away as he thought over his words.

Tate loved him.

He tried to bring back Peter even though they'd be better together in death, Tate was Peter's shoulder through Violet getting bullied as well as his nightmares.

No one who wasn't family has never done that for him.

That's why Peter did love Tate too just as much but he couldn't get the words out.

So Peter moved his arms, letting his legs stretch out in front of him before mumbling to Tate, "Come here."

Tate complied, climbing over the foot of the bed, crawling to lie on his side next Peter who lied the same way, wrapping his arm around Tate who grabbed that hand, holding it tightly in his.

"I'm tired," Tate spoke.

Tired of what exactly? Being dead? Losing people? He didn't explain but it had to be one of those few.

Peter didn't care anymore about what Tate had done. It didn't matter.

All Peter did was kiss Tate's head and said, "Me too."

He fell into a dreamless sleep for the first time in a long time.

***

By the time Peter woke up, it was still dark outside and Tate was gone from the bed.

"Fuck," Peter muttered as he sat up, remembering he was dead. He stood up from his bed, exiting the room to check on his sister. "Vi," he called as he walked across the hall, pushing her door open. "Tate was here and he-"

He stopped talking as Violet wasn't moving at all as she was curled up on her bed and there was a small orange pill bottle right next to her that was empty.

Peter rushed over, shaking her shoulders. "Vi," he called. "Violet!"

She didn't move to which Peter began to panic. "Vi, come on! Not you too!" He tried to pull her out of bed but her body was heavy and she fell to the floor to which Peter dragged her to the bathroom by her arm. "Vi, can't die too! You need to live!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "Tate! I need help!" he called as he still pulled Violet into the bathroom before picking her up from under his arms, dragging her into the tub that was now empty. "Come on, Vi," he pleaded, turning on the faucet which turned on the water, soaking them both and their clothes which made Violet flinch. "Vi!" he screamed in anguish.

Peter forced Violet's mouth open, shoving his fingers down her throat.

She gagged and coughed, throwing up a few of the pills she swallowed. She picked up her head, turning to look at Peter who held her close and tried to reassure her that she was okay.

Violet whimpered before sagging against her twin before weeping, crying as she held onto his hand.

They sat there for what felt like forever until Violet slowly stopped crying and became motionless against Peter once more.

She was gone too...

Peter saw the amount of pills she coughed up, he knew it wasn't enough but he still held Violet close to him as he sobbed against her hair.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

Peter is the only one who should be dead, not her.

"I'm sorry," Tate spoke to which Peter met his eyes, still crying.

Tate could tell this was the last thing he wanted. Peter was crying more for Violet then he actually did for when he died.

"She..." Peter whimpered. "She can't know. I need to protect my sister. Please, Tate..."

***

Peter sat in his room, his clothes were now dry and the tears had stopped as he was sitting on the edge of his bed.

Tate returned shortly. "It's taken care of," he told Peter.

Meaning, he hid Violet's body somewhere.

"Is Violet..." he trailed off. "Is she...?"

Tate grabbed Peter's hands, pulling him to stand before walking across the hall, pushing Violet's bedroom door open, ever so slightly.

Peter nearly sighed in relief as Violet was sitting in her bed, clothes dry as she was typing on her laptop.

But she was still dead and couldn't leave the house, just like Peter and Tate.

Regardless, Peter hugged Tate tightly to which Tate returned the hug and kissed the top of his head.

Peter slowly entered the room.

"Vi," he spoke, earning the girl's attention. "Hey."

"Hey," she greeted back in the same tone.

Peter flooded with relief but still said, "This is dumb to ask but...are you going to tell Mom...or Dad that you...?"

"No," she answered. "I've been sleeping a lot. They think I'm depressed."

"Are you?" Peter asked.

"I'm sad," she stated in a small tone.

"Me too," Peter agreed.

Violet was expecting him to leave but he just reached over and hugged her. "Peter," she spoke softly, rubbing his back.

"That moment...was the worst moment I've ever gone through," Peter told her.

Even worse than his own death.

"I'm sorry," she replied.

"You know, I love you, right? Vi?" Peter asked.

"I know," she answered. "I love you too, Peter."

***