Violet Ink by Ramisa R (ebook reader online free .txt) đ
- Author: Ramisa R
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She didn't intend on climbing a mountain. It was supposed to be a safe journey up a rocky cliff, somewhere tourist regularly visit. There wasn't any obvious threat. As a rather introverted person, she wanted to express herself more. Rock-climbing seemed convenient.
I know this, because I wrote this story.
I killed this girl.
Chapter TwoItâs simple to label my horrifying realisation as a typical teenage problem. To be honest, had I not seen the article with my own eyes, I would have as well. Oh, poor Tessa, Iâd say with a snort. How inconvenient; the whole world actually revolves around you. Then Iâd move on like it never happened.
However, even pretending the event was non-existent is frightening. This is because through all the guilt, the sudden flash of anger, confusion and uncertainty, I know this isnât a rare coincidence. It is my story, my sentences, words ordered according to my feeble mind which united to create that short story.
There is also that small titbit of knowledge which states, ever so softly, that my writing can kill. That it will kill. It will destroy, hurt and create dilemmas in worlds outside my own. Yet, I will be the malefactor.
Iâve seen the power of my writing, and have no desire to watch it again. Going through the entire process, of fetching an article, reading through the printed words with crossed fingers and eventually widening eyes at the uncanny truth isnât something worth fussing over.
Rather, I should believe my eyes. The instinctive swirling in my stomach. And most importantly, the article which is right in front of me. Perhaps I can drown in denial whenever I wish, but the inevitable truth will always have the last word. In this instance, it is contained within thin, greyish paper. Next, it may spread through television. Then globally, until everybody fears something which could have been avoided.
The message is simple. From now onwards, I must use my powers for good. No horror, no gore. I have been blessed âor more precisely, cursedâ with the ability to completely change the course of the universe.
And, just like any other main character thrown in a fantasy world, I have a choice: will I be a hero or a villain?
âWe have an exam the day after tomorrow, right?â Lilah says, disrupting my inner-battle.
âNo, we have it tomorrow. Geography.â
She sighs. âI havenât studied a bit.â
âHow come? You love geography.â
âI know. But you know how we need money⊠Iâve been working double shifts all week⊠trying to balance three jobsââ
âWhy doesnât Cameron help out?â
She snorts. âCameron and work in the same sentence? I dunno. Are we living in utopia?â Then, a little more sullenly, Lilah says, âNah, heâs got too much work at uni Heâs lazy, but heâs so desperate to be a vet that he might actually pull it off. I donât wanna be the person who slows down his dreams, thatâs all.â
âBut what about your dreams?â
âWhat about my dreams?â
And itâs strange, seeing the utter confusion on Lilahâs face and feeling the utmost pity. This girl honestly canât value herself over another person. Itâs like watching a little girl, robotic in action and speech, never quite growing up to form her own beliefs, voice and ambitions. At the end of the day, sheâs still the same clueless creature.
Perhaps I am a little too horrifying with my stories. The blood and gore is excessive for a normal person âthen again, the recommended dose, I presume, is zero. All my plots revolving around horrific incidents, psychologically twisted plots and words so haunting that I am ashamed to show my parents all my short stories.
Itâs definitely time to stop. Get a fresh start. Begin again as not Tessa-the-HorrorâWriter but someone else. Iâll be a saviour âI mean, how often can somebody boast, âWhatever I write comes true?â
Now I have been blessed with this power, I will do nothing but good. No gory stories. No slitting throats. Just hopeful, sometimes boring, fables of happy endings and adorable animals will be all.
I glance at my best friend, who is now picking out particular bits of cheese from nachos. Apparently, they use different kinds of that dairy product and she abhors a certain variety. I donât comment on the ludicrous value of that statement.
Lilah doesnât know about my powers, I realise. She clearly stated the recognition of this short story, but had trouble pointing out where from. Only once did I ever let her read it âand very quickly too, as I worried she may feel disturbed afterwards. Thereâs no way sheâll remember details. It will be easy to mislead her in another direction; to deny I ever had power I could, potentially, abuse.
Not that I would misuse this power, of course. Never. But if knowledge was spread about my impact on the world, then a lot of things would change âI would be feared, bribed, used to the limit. Then thereâs the danger of being accused for crimes I didnât commit. As much as I hate to admit it, I do appreciate my current way of living.
So in order to destroy all suspicion, all future allegations, I say, âI know where youâve seen the article from. Remember that horror movie we watched? What was it ââCliff on A Wigâ? Or something like that?â
Slowly, she nods. âYeah. I remember that.â Her face relaxes and lights up. âAh! Yeah. Thatâs right. The guy fell off, didnât he?â
I nod. âYeah, he did.â
*
Lilah is my first target. This is probably the first time Iâve ever used a synonym of âvictimâ without describing a prey for a horror story, and I am proud of it. Perhaps Iâm finally on my way to normality. Whatever that is.
âClass, have you seen Lilah Parker anywhere?â exclaims Mrs Gertrude in her youthful, singsong voice which completely contradicts her old-fashioned last-name. Her first name, Florence, doesnât quite belong to this generation either. âItâs our final exams in fourth period; Iâd hate to think sheâs missing out on all this.â Then her voice drops to a low whisper. We all know what this is, and lean forward. âI heard thatâŠâ
Mrs Gertrude, although strong and energised, is the worst gossip to ever set foot in this town. It doesnât help that she has an uncanny ability of finding out absolutely everything âor that half the things she repeats arenât gossip, but in fact, pieces of actual information.
I listen wordlessly. A smile plays on my lips. Yes, I know where Lilah is; at home, blowing her nose in an abundance of handkerchiefs, and wondering how on Earth she caught this awful cold. Yet, it had perfect timing, I think, pretending for a slight second I am her. She dreaded the test today and, somehow, out of the blue, thereâs an excuse not to go.
Itâs almost too coincidental. As time passes by, Lilah will just dismiss whatever theories pop into her head. Soon, she will forget about the whole incident without ever knowing what in the universe changed to place odds in her favour. Thatâs where I come in: I will keep that piece of information, tucked in the safest part of my mind, and lock it there.
This is my little secret.
âSo you actually think Cameron Parker might not get into Med school?â Renee Wesley asks, her eyes shining in glee.
My perks prick. Lost in a reverie of my own, I was completely oblivious to the juicy gossip Mrs Gertrude spilled through those lipstick-covered lips. For once, this isnât about celebrities cheating on each other or the town police committing disgraceful crimes of her own. For the first time ever, I am interested in what is being said.
Turning around to face Renee, I ask, âWait, whatâre we talking about?â
The minute I revolve to see her face, however, I wish I hadnât. When she acknowledges my eyes on her, that entire face scrunches up. Like a piece of disposable paper, unneeded and unquestioning.
âNone of your business.â
Mrs Gertrude replies before I open my mouth to let stormy, outraged insults fly out of my mouth. âRenee?â
âYes, miss?â
âShut up.â
Snorts erupt across the classroom. Mrs Gertrude pretends not to notice Reneeâs humiliated blushes as she rolls her eyes, trying to be casual, and jabs headphones in her ears. But that overhead grey cloud, ready to burst with rain, isnât completely invisible. She hates losing whatâs left of her pride.
âYear Elevens, as you well know, weâre doing a project. Just for the time-being, weâll get you into groups. Just temporary; donât worry, these arenât the people youâll be with in the long-run.â
After a couple of minutesâ worth of shuffling, yells across the room, insensitive grabbing and accusing pointing fingers, my classmates still havenât all found themselves a partner. I sit there, watching in merriment, as hearts are broken. âNo!â one girl yells, tears glinting in her eyes. âBut⊠but you said youâd go with me! You promised!â
Guilty but adamant, the boy replies, âIâm sorry, Lisa. I want to go with someone else for a change. Move on. For me.â Then, without a glance backwards, he disappears among the many possible candidates for his partner, leaving Lisa behind.
Left abandoned, alone and cold, Lisa wonders how sheâll ever surpass such anguish. Oh, the feeling which threaten to squish her mellow heart. Is this what impending death feels like, a stab in the chest and a bullet to the head? She wondersâ
âIt seems you three are the only ones left,â Mrs Gertrude says, interrupting my thoughts. She scratches her hair. âWell, I think putting you guys in a group might be good. Itâll give you some time to know each other a little better.â Then she walks away.
And suddenly, my stomach clenches. Though Iâve spent the last minute mocking Lisa, I now understand the intensity of her pain, being left to fend for herself. As if thinking the same thing, Renee stares back at me, arms folded so tightly her hands appear ashen. As for Sebastian Griffin, the third member of our temporary team, heâs too busy engrossed in his book.
None of us speak. Everyone around us are chattering, sometimes in low tones and other times in different pitches, but we remain stranded in silence. Sebastian seems to be amused, as he chuckles a couple of times at the written word. Meanwhile, Renee and I look at the ground, other places in the classroom and think about other things âanything but acknowledging the otherâs existence.
âWhatâre you reading?â I say, breaking the ice. He looks up, glasses rimming the blue eyes and a scowl on his face. Is that some natural reaction people have to me? Could there be some sort of website Iâm ignorant to, one which states, âPlease be mean to Tessa Hawthorneâ? He answers my spoken question with, âHarper Leeâs To Kill A Mockingbird. I love it when Scoutâs anger gets the better of her âwhich is like every page.â
âI didnât know you liked classics,â Renee says, a little suspiciously. âHeck, I didnât even think you liked reading.â
Itâs a downright insult, directed to Sebastianâs millionaire father. They invested in some sort of gold-mine, and because of this, theyâre the richest people in this excessively small town. Therefore, itâs stereotypical to assume none of them did any work for the luxury they dwell in.
However, Sebastian Griffin
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