1994 (TATE LANGDON FANFIC)

One

A/N: hii !

 i just want to say that in this fanfic through the eyes of tate langdon i won't be portraying tate as either a villan or a hero (you can decide that yourself!) im just writing about my interpretation on his life in high school. also, there is a love interest in this for all the tate stans! 

if you decide to stop reading this first chapter could you tell me so i can try to improve it please. keep in mind my writing gets a lot better as the chapters go on.

and lastly before you start reading..

I DO NOT OWN AMERICAN HORROR STORY OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS!

enjoy :)

Westfield high 1993

At the start of the school year, I always take it upon myself to grab a seat in the far, back corner of the classroom.

I partially do it to keep a healthy distance from the teacher and their followers however I have other reasons to be staring at the back of their heads and them not staring at mine.

"Tate Langdon, rub that smirk off your face and sit up properly". 

I unwillingly do so, returning the scowl at Mrs. Green. 

Some teachers can be real bitches. You know the ones that favor the loud girls and the athletic boys and prey on the quiet, different kids. The sad truth is that all teachers are just people who didn't peak in high school and want to come back for an actual high school experience. I loathe them for it.

As I swing on the back of my chair I simply observe the ways of my peers. My favourite hobby. And I have the best view from the far corner. 

It's funny how little the teacher sees. Above the desks Mrs Green sees a class of eager students staring back at her but she's blind to what happens under the desks. For example, Jake from the football team is jerking off while Samantha Harding is trying to light herself on fire with a lighter. 

As for me, I'm recording the human nature of my classmates on my arms in pen. It's not psychotic, it's an experiment. A good piece of advice I was once told was if I wanted to learn to feel something I should try to feel for others first. So I just want to know what the fuck goes on in their hollow, empty heads. Because to be honest I would go mad if I tried to be as mindless as all the students in this room. They might know how to solve a maths question but they don't know the first thing about the real world.

But when it comes down to it, I don't think I could ever understand someone other than me.

Two brown haired girls are holding hands under the table. Their hands entwined together to look like vines. They hold each other with such delicacies, like lovers.  Another thing I don't understand. The unbearable emotion where you would give up everything to be with one person. I happen to know plenty of other ways to feel the same and you don't need another pair of hands. 

I write it all across my smudged arms so I can translate it into my book later. I want to have a real definition of love in my book so I can fake it one day if I need to. 

"Shit" I mutter to myself in annoyance.

My pen ran out of ink mid- sentence. I throw it on the carpet in disgust. 

Mrs Green looks up from her wooden desk. I think she heard me muttering to myself. I try to pray her away in fear that she wastes her time trying to involve me in the lesson. She should just accept that I'm not the brightest.

"Mr Langdon, how many pages have you written? By now you should be at least on page two," Mrs Green says sternly.

The ironic thing is I am actually most likely to be the cleverest person in this class. Not academically of course but my mind is more capable and complex than any other in this classroom. I think about such things that an average person's mind couldn't comprehend. Because through my eyes I'm wise enough to see all the truth in this dishonest world. I refuse to live a lie.