"Fuck you Tate!" she screamed, pushing him into the glass window. She flinched when she heard his shoulder crack on it, not wanting to cause him any physical harm. But then Violet remembered they were dead, so it didn’t matter. "After all you did you think you can fucking apologize like you ran over my pet butterfly or soemthing! Are you fucking stupid?"
Taking a deep breath, Violet rammed her fist into the stone wall before recoiling it. She clutched her broken hand to her chest, knowing that it would heal soon. This was routine for them lately. Violet would yell at him, Tate would try to apologize, and in the end they would either fight or have sex. It looked like tonight was a night for anger — not forgiveness. Any time he got close, she shoved him away and any time he tried to say something, she got even angrier. Being dead helped you hold grudges. Being dead made it easier to fall apart. Being dead was a lot like PMS except you don’t get to choose when the feelings hit. Sometimes she was bored, sometimes she was horny, and sometimes like this time… Violet was out for blood. The satisfaction that came with slicing a knife through his heart never lasted long as he would come back after.
"What is wrong with me?" she sighed, sliding to the floor. "I don’t wanna be dead. I hate being dead."