Unthinkable (Tate Langdon)

015

It wasn't easy to convince Constance to let her into Tate's room.

The woman had practically built a shrine to her fallen son, one that was no more touched or disturbed months later than it had been the day of his death.

Eve couldn't explain to Ms. Langdon or even to herself why she felt the need to step foot in that place just one more time, but it was a 'now or never' sort of thing; she was set to leave for New York in just two days and the house was set to change hands to new owners shortly after.

She stared at the doorknob for a long, hesitant moment. she had to remind herself that he was not going to be on the other side of that door, nor was he going to walk through it ever again.

Tate was, as she reminded herself so often, truly gone.

Gathering a deep breath, she turned the knob and stepped into the room. It had been perfectly preserved like a museum, a still-life portrait of an angry young life cut short.

She found it hard to breathe as she looked around at all of his things.

There were papers and pencils scattered on his desk and a few articles of clothing littering the floor as though he'd been there only yesterday. His computer and several other items had been seized by the SWAT team as evidence to ascertain a motive, but other than that, it was quite eerily the same.

She grazed her fingertips over certain objects - his stack of notebooks, the Nirvana album she'd given him, the stickers he'd stuck to the wall by his headboard - before pulling a hoodie up to her nose to breathe in his scent.

"Goddamn it, Tate," she shuddered, willing herself not to start crying, lest she find herself unable to stop.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she said as she sat down on his bed, looking around the room. "I guess I wanted to say goodbye someplace I thought you might be listening."

She wasn't even sure she believed in a soul or in an afterlife, but the thought of Tate eavesdropping on her at that moment was comforting.

"I don't know why you did it. The cops, they've asked me a million times in a million different ways, but I can't work it out. The papers all want an exclusive interview with the Girl Who Loved Tate Langdon," she scoffed, shaking her head.

"You know I did, don't you? I waited for you to call me, to tell me you got help. I just wanted you to be okay," she sobbed, shattering her 'no crying' rule.

"But I always loved you. God, I'm probably going to hell for it, but I still love you."

She allowed herself a few minutes to cry, careful not to shed any tears on the hoodie that still smelled of him. It felt good to cry and she did so until she felt raw again, her eyes refusing to cooperate by producing any more tears.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Constance opened it before awaiting an answer.

She seemed taken back by the sight of Eve in full blown hysterics, dark eye makeup running down her cheeks. Whether the look she gave was a look of pity or disgust, Eve was not immediately sure.

"You cared a great deal for my son," the older woman spoke, handing Eve a Kleenex in an unspoken bid for her to clean herself up.

"And he for you, as well," she continued, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. "You were the only girlfriend I can remember him ever mentioning."

"I'm sorry for everything that's happened, Ms. Langdon," Eve said softly. She wasn't sure there was much else to be said.

"Are you going to do the interviews, tell the world what it was like to be in love with a monster? I hear they're offering you a pretty penny for a Dateline exclusive," his mother asked, tone absolutely seething with sarcasm and contempt for the words.

Eve shook her head and tightened her arms around herself. She hadn't even considered the offers made to her.

"Tate isn't - he wasn't a monster," she insisted. She had no idea how she managed to still believe such a thing despite all of the evidence to the contrary, but perhaps her heart was in denial.

"And I'm not saying shit to anybody about him or about anything else. To hell with Ann Curry," she spat, "excuse my language."

Constance scrutinized the young girl closely, likely wondering whether or not to trust those words. In the end, her face softened just a fraction.

"I've got movers coming in an hour to pack up his things," she said, demeanor stiffening as she rose to full height. "You may take that dreadful, cheap jacket with you."

"Thank you," Eve whispered and hugged the hoodie closer. "May I have just a moment more, alone?"

She would have felt guilty asking any other mother, anyone who had actually loved their son such a question, but she needed the time to herself.

Constance merely nodded, exiting the room silently and closing the door behind her.

"I'll never understand, Tate. You could have just told me you needed someone and I would've been there," she said angrily, wiping at her eyes with the tissue she'd been given.

"But it's too late for that, now. I guess maybe it was always a little too late for that, wasn't it?"

With that, she took a final look around the room and gathered the strength it took for her to walk away, knowing she would never again feel so close to him. It was like being near him again.

Almost as though she could feel him in the room.

×××

Thank you to those who have read and stuck with an idea that wouldn't leave my head until I got all 16,000+ words of it out.

I love you all!

I hope this story had a satisfying end for you guys. Short of her moving into Murder House, it was the only end it could really ever have.

Thanks again for the support!

Love always,
L.