Evan Peters Drabbles

Dumb & Numb (Tate Langdon [AHS] x Reader)

REQUESTED: There's a girl who died a litte bit before Tate of cancer or an illness; she was 16 or 17. She watched Tate grow up & revealed herself to him when he was about 15 or so & they became best friends. She was there the entire time he was preparing for the Westfield High Massacre & she tries to stop him?

*Trigger Warning: Drug use, strong language, mentions of violence, self-harm, & suicide*

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You could feel what was left of the battered & beaten organ encased in your chest begin to fall apart once more as you watched him snort another line of the white powder through his right nostril. After watching him take his first steps in this house, to seeing his mother bring different men into the house each night, you thought you had seen it all, but evidently, you hadn't. You had watched this confused, lost, & hurt boy grow up, watched him isolate himself from the world & drone out his sorrows with Cobain's gravelly voice yelling out the harsh but accurate lyrics into his room as the tears cascaded down his porcelain cheeks. You spent your entire, undead life watching him go slowly & utterly mad from the loneliness & the curse of this house. You watched as the life slowly left him, day by day, until he became the hollowed-out shell he was now, his veins rushing with rage & masochism. If it wasn't for the now faint scars that lined his smooth & pale skin, no one would have believed that he once cared about others instead of himself. Maybe not even you, if you hadn't watched this sweet boy who had his life whole ahead of him, grow up in this godforsaken home & destroy himself.

He knew you were watching, even though you hadn't revealed yourself to him. In the short three years that he knew you, he knew that you always watched him. He used to make it into a game, sometimes changing in his room because the sight of him shirtless and/or pantsless always made you blush & reveal yourself so he'd stop; but now, it wasn't a game, & he wasn't in the mood to play.

"Go away," he rasped, his voice a bit scratchy from the rough line of coke he just did.

Your dead heart just about fell into your stomach when you heard those words, "Tate, no..." you breathed, finally revealing yourself to him, "You're my best friend, I can't leave you; not like this."

"That's the problem," he sneered, "I never wanted to just be friends," you swore you could feel the fragments that remained of your heart break & scatter within your stomach as you tried to hold back the tears. No, he couldn't hurt you, he couldn't possibly be doing this to you.

"Tate..." your breath hitched as the tears began to break through.

"I thought you were used to the pain," he grumbled.

"You're hurting me more than anyone---more than the cancer---did," your voice was barely above a whisper now, afraid he would hear the quivering & unsteadiness in it if you spoke even just an octave higher.

Even in his high, rage-induced state, Tate still felt the pain & power behind your words. That was part of the reason he started using: to numb the pain. He was always meaner & more careless when he was high, something he was too soft & nervous to be when he was sober. He never used around you, for the very reason that it made him angry & violent, but he had to make an exception today, if he wanted to shoot up an entire school without an ounce of remorse weighing him down.

He hid the pain with another snort, turning his back to you.

"Go away," he repeated.

"No, Tate, please!" you cried, not being able to hold back the tears any longer, "Don't do this! Don't hurt all those kids," you sniffled, "I know what they did to you, how mean they were, but taking their lives won't solve anything. It'll just be you paying for it all in the end."