A/N: So sorry for the long update. Matric has been hellish but its holiday now so I promise to update and wrap up this story soon. Thanks for sticking with me and enjoy.

If pressed she would undress.

Tate knew this. He knew her like the back of her hand. He knew her better than his own violet mind. She sat by him that day and held his hand like he was dying and she was patiently waiting by his death bed. Tate smiled at the thought.

She bit her lip when he stroked her wrists with the tips of his fingers softly, because of his current, continuous drugged out state he felt like her skin was liquid.

"I can see you falling in love with me as if in slow motion," he said.

She wouldn't meet his eye, "I shouldn't."

"You're right. You shouldn't but you are. It's happening even as we speak."

He sat up and kissed her. He pressed his palm against her cheek. She seemed to stumble into the kiss, fumbling for his hand. Tate loved every moment of it. He loved how her fingers entwining with his hair, with his hand and how she smiled, sneakily, beneath the kiss as if he didn't know that he made her happy.

She gasped when he pulled away. She tried to seem aloof but they were, at this point, so intertwined with each other that it hardly mattered. Tate knew exactly how she felt.

He was the bloodshot veins in her brown eyes. She was blue sinew in his wrist, underneath his skin. Maybe they weren't in love but they were so irrevocably intertwined that it hardly mattered.

"I'll get you out of here," she said.

And at that moment he knew he had her.

The medicine was robbing him of his brain. He was still not sure if she was real but to find out she was imaginary at this point would be heart breaking. He would rather keep up the fantasy than to find out it was a lie.

He couldn't tell how long it had been since they had last kissed. Day and night were meaningless to him. He was counted the days by her appearance.

How long had he been insane? How long had he been in love with her?

He went to therapy as usual. He sat in the chair with his sleeves wrapped around his arms.

"I need to get out of this place," he confessed.

"You know we can't do that," said his therapist.

Tate slammed the heel of his palm repeatedly against his forehead.

"It's because I'm insane?"

"You're dangerous to yourself and other people."

"I would never hurt her."

"The nurse who loves you?"

"Yes," Tate muttered, "I would never. I would-"

"Tell me her name."

"What?" Tate said, "Haven't I already told you?" He couldn't remember.

"Tell me her name, Tate,"

Suddenly, Tate felt nervous. He wasn't sure if he wanted to do it.

"Violet," He said, articulating every syllable like there was a gun in his mouth.

His therapist looked at him then stood up and moved silently like water. He picked up a photo frame from his desk, looked at it, then handed it to Tate.

"Is this her?'

Tate looked down at the picture and saw Violet. She wasn't in her nurse's uniform. She was dressed in normal, civilian clothes. She leaned against a tree and smiled like she knew something you didn't.

Tate frowned, "I don't understand. Why do you have a picture of one the nurses?"

His therapist sighed, "That is my daughter, Violet Harmon, and she doesn't work here. You've never seen her. I can only imagine that you saw her one day when she came to see me and constructed this elaborate fantasy."

Tate shook his head, "Why would I do that?"

"You tell me, Tate. Maybe you wanted someone to love you, maybe you just didn't want to be alone."

Tate could feel his blood boiling.

"No, that's not true. She's real. I saw her. I touched her."

"The mind is a powerful thing, Tate. You have never met Violet Harmon."

Tate slammed his hand against his skull, "You're just messing with my head!"

"I'm trying to help you."

"YOU'RE LYING!"

Tate wasn't sure when the orderlies came and dragged him away. He wasn't even sure when he had hit his therapist. Ben Harmon. Yes, that was his name. Now he remembered.

He was lying in his bed, chained to the bed as usual, when Violet floated in to the room. Tate squeezed his eyes shut and whispered repeatedly, "You're not real. You're not real. You're not real."

But he could feel her hand pressed against his forehead and it occurred to him that it didn't matter if she wasn't physically here because Violet Harmon existed.