Witness by Jamie Wilkinson (short novels in english .txt) 📖

used to produce commodities such as radios and televisions, but with all the advancements in technology they can now manufacture a multitude of products. My parents would like for me to work there someday but I’ve already expressed to them my disinterest.
There are a series of hellos and plenty of handshakes between the associates and myself.
“Come in and have a seat, we have dinner set.” My mother proclaims.
The crowd follows us into the dining room and I take a seat at the end of the dining table, studying the subtle patterns carved into the candle wax as they are slowly melted away.
My mother pours our guests glasses of red wine and the meal is set in motion.

After insignificant prattle and small talk during dinner my father and his co-workers begin to talk business. Usually I have completely no interest in such things but Mr. Redmond brings up something interesting.
“We’re throwing a party for you Howard.” He booms, “To celebrate our success! It’ll be a dinner function, this Saturday. Employees will be there, other executives, families of employees and executives,” he announces.
“It’s sort of a thank you for all of your hard work, everything you put into Lumen.” States Mr. Bryant.
“Yes,” continues Mr. Redmond, “We’ve booked the Helios Hotel ballroom, it should be a spectacular evening.”
“Isn’t that splendid,” my mother beams, “Aren’t you just thrilled Howard?”
I father leans back in his chair with a smile spread across his face, “Of course I am. What a remarkable surprise, really. I can’t thank you gentlemen enough.”
“The pleasure is all ours,” Mr. McLeod insists, “It’s the least we could do.”
“And of course you can bring as many others as you’d like, bring family, bring friends. I’m sure your daughter would benefit from meeting some new and distinguished faces.” Mr. Reed declares.
My stomach lurches. If there’s one thing I absolutely loathe it’s parties. I don’t hold parties, I don’t go to parties and I don’t associate myself with parties in any way whatsoever. And there I would be, I can just picture myself, the daughter of the celebrated individual, being approached by person after person, being endlessly told how incredible my father is. Sitting adjacent to him at one of the Helios Hotel’s grand golden dining tables, having pictures taken, surrounded by everything I hate.
Thoughts and emotions race through my head and I begin to feel dizzy.
“I’m sure Paige would love that,” my mother replies, “It’s not like she really has a choice, being the daughter of the guest of honour.” She makes sure to put emphasis on words that I would rather not hear.
The four executives shift their eyes in my direction, eager to evoke some excitement from yours truly. I feel nauseous, but I make an effort to smile and nod.

-

It is six in the morning and I can no longer sleep.
I’m reading a magazine article about color psychology; it talks about the ancient art of chromotherapy, using colors to heal people of their maladies. I’m reading a magazine article but I’m not really reading. The fact is that I’ve already read this article before and though my eyes are fixated on dark font describing color therapy in my thoughts I’m fixated on dark eyes.
Though anxiety about my father’s up and coming banquet rattles my brain and the same calm that torments me every morning persists, the glistening dark brown eyes from my dream tell me to relax.
I decide to get ready for school early today. Why not get these next two days over with? School and a social gathering; my heart races just thinking of these things. Just get them over with.

Dakota and Aubrey seem to be tolerable today, either that or I’m just less irritable today. I find it hard to listen in and partake in conversation with them, but on this Friday afternoon I try to put in the extra effort to socialize with my friends. They talk about tedious little things like school-grades and material objects, I don’t really care for the things they chat about but I play along, just for today. I put on a smile and agree with what they say.
I try my hardest to pay attention in my classes; in science class we continue our lesson on energy, work and power as well as having our exams returned to us. I receive the mark ninety-three percent, it’s been jotted down in messy blue ink and there’s a sticker next to it; but I take hardly any notice of it and instead I repeat to myself, one more hour, one more hour left of excruciating boredom, of feeling utterly out of place.
When the final bell rings I’m up and out of the lab before anyone else even has the chance to stand up. I reach my locker, feeling frantic. I just need some breathing space. Before students begin to flood the halls I hastily gather my belongings and make a dash for the building’s exit. I can feel that my face is flushed as I take the first step out into the crisp wintery outdoors, I know that I’m craving escape, all that I subjected myself to today must have been putting quite some strain on my emotions.
I have to remind myself not to tolerate what I cannot handle.
The thought strikes me that maybe someday I will be immune to this lifestyle completely indifferent, maybe appreciative of it, and though this thought sickens me right to my very core there’s a notion tickling the back of my mind telling me it might just be true.
Maybe attending my father’s dinner party is in a way my initiation into this life, maybe things will become easier. I wish I could saw open my skull and pick these thoughts out. I wish I could pick them out and put them somewhere far away.
Should I give in? The idea of assimilation is tempting. Maybe through exposure I could slowly conform to the lifestyle everyone so strongly wants me to be part of. Maybe someday I could be happy living the way I do.
I shiver. I know it’s possible, but my will still orders me to fight on.

I’m on the bus and I don’t want to go home. I’ll go anywhere but home.
I decide it would be in the best interest of everyone if I get off a stop early and go to the public library.
As soon as I’ve confirmed my decision I can feel my whole being relax. My stomach is no longer in a knot and my muscles are no longer tense. I understand that it would probably be best for me not to feed my need to escape, but I also understand that this need has the ability to control me completely.
The air in the library is warm, the same comforting warmth as that of my bed and the people surrounding me no longer manage to agitate me. The smell of aged paper floods my senses, I enjoy it tremendously.
I have no idea what I’d like to read, but I know that whatever it may be I will enjoy it. The idea of spending hours searching the plentiful library shelves fills me with happiness, the kind that makes me never want to return home.
I pick out three books, even though I know I won’t have the time to finish them.
I find my place on the seat of an old floral print couch, it is a love seat and I remove my black ballet flats and rest my legs upon the second cushion. I feel entirely at home.
As I read I am completely present; the little details of my being flood my mind; the soft yet crisp swish of the pages as I turn them, one after the other, the slight creaking of the book binding as I hold the pages open, the small breeze that accompanies each turn of a page, and the aging scent that come with it.
My mind is at peace, and minutes, hours, maybe days pass. There is no way of knowing.
The lighting shifts and I know the time is closing in on eight o’clock. I should have been home for supper, but I already know what I’m going to tell my mother. I was invited to Dakota’s house to do a research project. I know my mother won’t be opposed to that.
I managed to read portions of each novel, but none in their entirety, I would never be capable of that.
I stand up and stretch and then proceed to put my shoed back on. The library is empty excluding two very sad looking librarians and a man with an aged ravaged face asleep on another sofa.
I make my way towards the checkout desk and set the three books down on it in a pile. I begin to walk towards the door but am interrupted.
“You wouldn’t like to take these books out Miss? You seemed pretty interested in them.” Asks the sad librarian, a very pretty middle aged woman with dark circles and wavy chestnut hair.
“No thank you, I’ve read them all before.” I reply to her with a smile whose sadness rivals that of her own.
The air outside is frosty and the idea of returning home weighs heavily on my chest. It is very dark out and I see the headlights of the approaching bus in the distance
On the bus I predict the events which will follow at my home. They are nothing short of accurate.
My mother awaits me in the living room with a look of sombreness plastered on her face. I explain to her my lie and she asks me why I didn’t call. I tell her that I was occupied by school work. She tells me that’s no excuse.
“Now why don’t you go prepare an outfit for tomorrow? It’s going to be a very big day for us you know.”
“What shall I wear- a dress?” I inquire.
“A dress sounds fitting,” my mother replies, “How about something blue, to bring out your beautiful eyes?”

I choose a purple knee length dress for myself and lay it out on my bed; it is very much pleated with a ribbon placed beneath the bust. I stare at it with resentment. In my mind I have already labelled it my initiation dress and I cannot stand the thought of putting it on.
Maybe tomorrow will never come, I tell myself, but I can already feel Saturday creeping up behind me. When I’m under my blankets I can still feel it, the cold hands of tomorrow holding onto my wrists, waiting to yank me out from under the covers and shove me into a pair of black suede heels.
It’s very hard for me to fall asleep, and I toss and turn throughout the night. The ticking of my alarm clock seems to be faster than usual and I mentally beg it to slow down, I tell it to give me more time.
Such a merciless object it is.

-

I’m staring into my eyes, searching the deepest parts within them. The room is damp and filled with steam from a violently hot shower and the mirror repeatedly fogs up, and I repeatedly wipe the fog away. My hair is in loose curlers and