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.
I blame my childhood for the unexplainable thoughts. Those thoughts are so painful I would never wish them upon someone else. However, if that were to ever happen they would be disposed of quickly before my ideas and revelations were spread.
There are still things in this world that have a purpose. I always find that music is always a 3-minute distraction from the real world. Kurt Cobain's lyrics never cease to perplex and draw me in. Reading is a good one too. It gives you a longer absence from the actual world, putting you in different minds and different positions. It widens my outlook on life.
I notice a girl seeks out my far corner while she waits for my answer.
"Okay Mr. Langdon, that's detention for you" replies Mrs. Green, firmly ending the silence with a large squeak from her chalk on the blackboard.
The girl looks back to the front of the class unamused. However, she seemed to amuse me because I had always thought I was inside their minds and knew the strange habits and dirty secrets of every student in this class. Through the bobbing heads of students, I lock on to her velvet shawl and two braids so tight I can see her scalp.
I remind myself that she's just another girl who goes to this school.
Too late.
I'm already asking myself things about her.
"Would her signature scent be eyeliner and cigarettes or rosemary and thyme? How does she spend her Saturday nights? Getting high with her rockstar boyfriend I presume. Seems to me that she's a homebody. Perhaps close to her siblings," I think to myself, letting my thoughts spiral out.
I know she isn't the typical Los Angeles cheerleader. I see her as much more than that. More meaning different from the girls who walk this school.
I wish.
I have noticed that the few girls that have tried to hook up with me claim they have a thing for psychopaths and that they don't feel sad, don't feel anything. Liars. The lot of them. They seem to want me to choke them, run knives down their perfect, flat stomachs. They want me to fulfill their fantasies to plaster up their daddy issues. I always end it before anything happens. It's disgusting.
A sudden movement makes my eyes latch onto her again.
I'm betting on her name being something old-fashioned especially chosen by her catholic parents she's rebelling against or maybe it's something artistic selected by her hippie parents who praise her edgy persona," I scribble on the walls of my brain.
I wish I still had my pen to write this all down. This feels like an anomaly in a science experiment. She is the result that's unexpected and different from the rest.
I think I'm testing myself on how well I understand girls in general because against my consistent efforts to get into their pretty, little heads, I don't. I don't get why some laugh like seals, why they are always touching their hair, and why they always feel the need to go to the restroom together. I have a few wild theories on what they get up to in that room.
Mrs. Green coughed so suddenly she disturbed my thoughts.
"I want to hear some discussion on the subject of world hunger."
Mrs. Green walked down the aisles of the classroom tables unsure of who to push the question on to.
"Jodie, what would you do to solve world hunger if it was up to you?"
All I see is her two notorious braids swing round and I know I've given her face a name. It fits her perfectly. So perfectly I want my pen to write it in bold letters down my arm in case it would ever leave my head for a second.
The bell rings, saving her answer for another time and in an orderly line, we leave the lesson one by one. Mrs. Green goes out for a much-needed smoke while I make my way to the boy's bathroom.
Inside one of the stalls, I take out my pocket knife and make a deep gash into my arm. I wince as the knifes cold skin touches my arm for the first time. However, I carry on like I'm carving wood, imprinting the first letter on to my body.
J
O
I must hurry before her name leaves my head.
D
I
I look down at my mutilated arm. I can't stop. I'm enjoying the pain too much.
E
The knife entered my skin white but left a filthy red. I've created a wasteland on my own skin. This would be classed as suicidal to most people but what I have created looks like a masterpiece to me. I've cut before but the beauty of it is so intriguing this time. It's almost a shame to have to hide it.
Now nobody will truly understand me, I think to myself as I walk out of the restroom with a murder scene tucked under my sweater.