Violet Ink - Ramisa R (books you have to read .txt) 📗

do know. That is enough to keep falling.

I grimace. Sometimes, these stories aren’t horrific. This inner-dialogue I’m faced with, all the effort given to a particular object, and obtaining a fictional background; at times, they are nothing more than depressing stories. How they manage to creep into a twisted mind is beyond me. Where do I get the inspiration for tales like these?

A shiver runs up my spine. I hug my jacket closer, despite knowing it won’t help the sudden chill. This kind of feeling has no association with the temperature.

“How’re you going with your project?” Cameron leans against my desk, hands in pockets and grinning. He and Lilah normally look alike, but the resemblance increases when he grins crookedly. “Hope it’s good.”

“Our project, you mean,” I say, my tone dripping with accusation.

“Okay, okay. So it’s our project. Big deal. I’ve already done my part–”

“Which is nothing.”

“–And I plan to do more of it.” He slams his fist on the desk, as if showcasing some sort of newfound energy. Then the spell breaks when that goofy grin appears. “…Right after I finish my assignment for health, math, English.”

“School will be over by then!”

But I know better than to be irritated. Lilah doesn’t have enough dreams; Cameron has too many. A film-maker, he aspires, and a vet. Alongside those two professions, he plans to volunteer at the local animal shelter, regularly visit third-world countries and donate money –which, according to him, he’ll have mountain-loads of– while simultaneously balancing a career as an actor, drama teacher and looking after their farm.

If he half-completes all his goals, though, he will never finish a single one properly. That can do serious damage to his life. But I keep my mouth shut. With all the work he’s making me doing, he deserves having a lowly future.

“Whatcha writing?” Twisting his body around, he peers at my paper notebook and frowned. “Paper? They still make these?”

I resist the urge to slap him. “Yes, they still do. Seriously, people like you give the youth of today a bad name.” Then I show him my piece –the one I wrote yesterday. “This is one I wrote recently.”

Normally, I wouldn’t show him my works. Or anybody else, for that matter. But if I don’t openly allow him to read them, he’ll suspect I’m hiding something. This, I cannot deny; however, my business should belong to myself only. And this includes any potential lives I may damage with written words.

He reluctantly takes the piece of paper. At first, I am afraid he might think the story is lethal. Then I realise it’s him trying to act “scared” of this newfound invention of paper. When I finally catch on, I cross my arms. “You’re an idiot,” I grumble.

After he finishes reading, he says, “Wow. It’s actually a nice story… I never knew you were friends with Renee. But giving her good luck is nice. Um… is it okay that I’m really surprised?”

“What, did you expect something with murder?”

He looks at me as if I’m dense. “Obviously. After all, it’s you we’re talking about.”

The class is almost finished. Just five more minutes to go. I watch each second flicker by, mesmerised by the second hand, and occasionally distracted by the cross-bones and skull background. Annie for it for me as a birthday present.

To be quite honest, I find it repulsive –horror writers do like girly symbols and love-hearts at times; after all, there is nothing greater than a disastrous love-life. But I keep it on anyway, just to prevent hurting her feelings. It’s already bad enough she criticises her body; questioning her fashion senses would be another blow to her self-confidence.

My ears perk up at the announcements.

“It’s that time of the day! Friday raffle, everyone. Today, we have a whole lot of winners for our weekly draw. Third prize goes to Patrick Kennedy in Year 8, second prize goes to Cornelia Harris from Year 10. And the lucky winner of the first prize is…” I can barely breathe. “Renee Parker from Year 11. Please collect your prizes at lunch-break. Thank you!” The announcement flicker off, unaware of my racing heart.

Cameron turns to me, an expression I recognise immediately. One of confusion, awe and a little suspicion attached. “How did–?”

“Coincidence,” I say casually. He probably doesn’t notice it, but his eyebrows betray him. They narrow. His eyes search my face. Then I sigh heavily. “Fine. They do the raffles the day before. I asked Peter O’Harra –twelfth grade– who the grand winner was and wrote a story about it.”

His eyes stop searching. The eyebrows, heavy with suspicion, have their burdens lifted. He sighs. “You wrote a story like that to freak me out with your ‘prediction of the future’?” Then he ponders it. “No, actually, that’s pretty neat. The best horror story of all time.”

“Glad you think so.”

Of course, now isn’t the time or place to tell Cameron I had no idea who the winner was. Or that Peter O’Harra was a random name that popped into my mind after watching Sebastian simultaneously skimming through The Hunger Games and Gone with the Wind. “Peter O’Harra” doesn’t exist, let alone run the raffle.

Then again, I don’t believe there will ever be a “right time” to admit all these things. But I’ll say something: it’s awfully convenient that, even in such a small school, Cameron doesn’t notice the nonexistence of Peter O’Harra. He must be classmates with almost everyone. Yet, he doesn’t acknowledge this.

He didn’t listen to the facts, I think to myself, a strange feeling in my chest. He wouldn’t care if I said Mattress S. Hart was the name I fumbled up. Despite whatever I say, he wants to believe me. Not once does he recognise me as a bad person –one capable of truly hurting another human being. Or even a liar.

Through all the rumours about me, my twisted viewpoint of the world I accidentally voice aloud sometimes, and my introversion, he expects the best of me. He doesn’t let prejudice cloud his mind.

Maybe that’s why I snapped fully when Charlotte Martin entered the picture. With her lip curled, she sits next to me, uninvited. “How’s the freak show going, you two?”

Ever since the Martins lost the annual pumpkin festival –a winning streak they held for seven years in a row– to the Parkers, Charlotte declared war. It’s an ongoing banter, struck at the most inconvenient times, as both parties engage in heavy verbal abuse.

Cameron himself isn’t innocent as he once called her singing voice “like a dying awful-pitched seal” which ended in tears. This may not sound bad, yet it is the most difficult criticism for an aspiring professional singer. So maybe Cameron has his share of faults.

But I am unafraid to say I’m biased. I fully believe Charlotte started this unnecessary rivalry.

“Leave me alone,” Cameron says, averting his gaze.

“Oh? What’s the matter?” She slides down her desk, enjoying every second of this mindless torture. “Too shocked about the refusal into med school? After all, you are really stupid. How can you possibly compete with everyone else?”

The violet pen. It sits there, tempts me. And for the first time, I am drawn to the allure. Anger, hatred for this uninvited girl, and pure wrath builds inside me. I pick up the pen, much to the oblivion of Charlotte Martin.

With great force, I stab the pen into her arm, ignoring the bloodcurdling scream as it ruptures her skin.  

Chapter Six

The whole class is silent. I suppose a random bloodcurdling scream triggers that reaction. Charlotte snaps her arm back towards her, jumping away from the chair, chest heaving and eyeing me with crazed eyes.

A stream of blood runs down towards her elbows. In the pinpointed location of the wound, a dark shade of violet mixes with her blood. It produces a violet with an edgy, uncomfortable red tint. Just staring at it makes me cringe. And to believe I’ve actually caused this kind of tragedy.

Cameron is horrified. Yet, there’s an edge to his expression; one of sick amusement for the girl who’s given him nothing but grief for a victory he fairly earned. Despite the twinge of happiness, he shuffles backwards a little.

“Char, you okay?” Renee grabs her best friend’s arm, then gives me a death-look. But in that stare, created intentionally to scare me, there’s a slightest bit of hesitation. As if unsure of the future if she’s imprinted on my bad books. “Let’s go have lunch. The bell’s rung.”

Although the bell’s rung, everybody remains in the classroom. All eyes are on me. The teacher particularly eyes me, mouthing the words, “Come see me afterwards.” Undoubtedly, stabbing a student in the arm with a pen results in an immediate detention.

Charlotte stares me, with a bleeding arm, and a quizzical expression as if questioning the recent events. Her eyes widen then contract. A sure sign of madness. I watch those brown eyes, the caramel hair which suddenly appear frizzy, and the limp arm held in an odd angle.

“Sorry.” I feel a devious smile on my face. Enjoying every bit of the moment, every physical portrayal of her fear, I lean forward. “It slipped.”

*

Annie sits on the table, swinging her legs in the air. Flick. Flick. Flick. Although it’s my duty to acknowledge whatever strange hobby she’s engaging in, I am too scared of the response. It’d be something to help lose weight –I already know that much. Even that alone is too much information.

I shove more turkey in my mouth, gulping it down with large amount of apple juice. Whatever insecurities Annie faces, it’s definitely not genetic.

That’s when Mum enters the picture. “Get off, Annie,” Mum growls, practically shoving my little sister off the table. Mid-chew, I stare up at her, utterly shocked by her violent behaviour. “You are too heavy. You’ll break it.”

Although my mother didn’t mean Annie’s weight specifically but the excessive weight of an individual, the self-conscious, miserable little girl took the issue personally. She arises from the ground and, with slumped shoulders and tightly shut eyes, blindly races to her bedroom.

Oblivious to the potential damage she’s done, my mother sits at the kitchen table and glare down at me. Alongside, she drinks and eats all the leftovers, but never once tearing those piercing green eyes away from mine. This isn’t just any half-hearted glare parents seem to throw around like a softball; this is the stare.

The same stare which made Annie, somebody who wouldn’t be caught dead with dirty sneakers, carry the trash out every day. My father was also manipulated with this look –in fact, he hates the house we live in currently. But Mum loves it more than words describe. It was using that expression to her utter advantage which bought us this house.

“Tessa, is there something you’d like to tell me?”

I have the paranormal ability to completely determine a stranger’s path. “No.”

“Anything happening with you?” She gulps down a mouthful of orange glass, yet her eyes remain firmly on my face. In silence, I am astonished by how she can multitask so efficiently; death-glaring me while simultaneously eating her afternoon tea.

I wanted to be good. But I love horror too much. “No.”

“What’s this, then?” She holds a wrinkled piece of paper, previously scrunched. I gulp. It’s one which was flung in my wastebasket a few days ago. “Tessa, why aren’t you entering the National Writing Competition?”

Technically, she is questioning my refusal to participate in the only thing I can