Violet Ink by Ramisa R (ebook reader online free .txt) đ
- Author: Ramisa R
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This insult he waves off, surprising both Renee and me as we both consider him a spoilt brat with everything handed to him on a silver platter. âNeither did I,â are his simple words.
It doesnât take a genius to notice that overhead cloud on top of Reneeâs head. Just like how itâs obvious, without Sebastian ever saying more than three words, that thereâs a deeper meaning to that statement. There is something heâs keeping secret.
âChoose a person to be a hero and a person to be a villain,â Mrs Gertrude says, grinning. âThis is going to be awesome.â Then she turns to us, the only trio in a room-full of pairs, and with a fading smile she says, âOne of youâll be the villain, another one a hero and weâll have someone whoâs neutral.â
The four of us know itâll look pathetic, creating a play with a âneutralâ person in it as theyâll have no significant personality or character. Yet, we donât voice this aloud.
âIâll be the hero,â says Renee.
âNo, I will!â Sebastian interrupts. Then he points to the book. âWhoeverâs holding the book gets to decide first.â
âBut thatâs not fair!â
âLife isnât fair. Quoting Atticus Finch directly, 'Theyâre ugly, but those are the facts ofâ â
In that split-second, where Sebastian is too busy quoting poetic literature and pretending to be a lot smarter than his capabilities, Renee grabs the book. âOh look. Guess I get to decide first.â
Sebastianâs face turns a dangerous shade of red. I gulp. He and Renee arenât too far apart; they have pride which is too easily destroyed. Neither of them are ever ready to give up their dignity. Not for another person. And the fact that Reneeâs a girl wonât stop Sebastian from beating her up senseless.
Deciding the carpet is too nice to be ruined with blood-stains âseriously, thatâs the only reason I will ever object to a well-deserved demolition of Reneeâs non-existent brainsâ so I step in. âHey, hey. Both of you âcalm your farms. How âbout I be the hero? Okay? Yeah? You too are taking this way too seriously. We wonât even be in these groups tomorrow.â
They both stare at me. Then Sebastian sighs, stating something about not minding whichever characterâs left, let it be neutral or villain.
âWe donât have farms,â Renee snaps, turning her back to me.
Iâm too amused to be angry. She just has to have the last word. My hand tightens around my grey-lid pencil, thoughts racing from one side to my brain to the other. I wonder what itâd be like, writing a story where the Reneeâs the main character. Maybe something subtle. Not something too heavy, but just enough to hurt her for the uncalled for way sheâs treated me.
Then I let go. Of the pencil and of the perilous thoughts circulating my mind. No, I canât write horror stories anymore. That part of my life is over; I am a new version of the same person now. Hurting people shouldnât be a desire anymore. I no longer feel compelled.
The lesson continues. We try piecing together a couple of scenes involving a perfect hero and villain. Class flies quickly.
But my mind keeps wandering to the concept of using a lifelong enemy as the main character in my next short-story, while also knowing my decisions can permanently alter her life.
What if�
Chapter ThreeThe blank piece of paper sits on the table. Not tormenting, torturing. But the inanimate object grins at me, slyly, knowing exactly how much suffering I endure. How can I possibly write a story which isnât horror?
My entire life, from the moment Cameron accidentally showcased a horror movie revolved around he unappreciated genre. Even my English teacher put a golden sticker on my work back in third grade. Perhaps that was due to indirect bribery for my father, who has enough power to raise her hourly wage, but the sticker cannot lie.
Suddenly going cold-shoulder takes every inch of willpower. The pen lying next to the piece of blank paper, filled to the top with black ink. If I scribble down my thoughts, ideas, concepts, then perhaps Iâll stop feeling so restless. That feeling of insanity will fade. Just once. Once more.
A picture flashes in my mind. One of the young girl on the rock mountain, expecting nothing more than a flimsy, out-of-the-ordinary way of having fun. It ended in death. A coincidence, some people may claim, regarding my horrific prediction of the accident. What Iâd say, however, is that the whole inciden was my doing.
Without a look backwards âI know the temptation will swallow me if I doâ I slam the door behind me. Then continue down the hallway, appearing normal with my straight posture and lanky figure, but not hinting at the wild prancing of my heart. I control the lives of people I donât know.
Is it disturbing that my heart doesnât beat in fear, but rather, something else? A strange sort of excitement. It puts me at unease, knowing my control doesnât frighten me. Any other normal human would vanish among thin air, flee to another country or seek a therapist. Me? Iâm feeling perfectly normal, like nothing has changed. Iâm not scared. Not at all.
At breakfast, I gobble down a glass of orange juice with a side-platter of leftover chicken wings. Mumâs too busy discussing business on the phone to scold me. I lick my fingers after the meal, my stomach feeling noticeably heavier, and begin to sort out my assignments and exam timetable.
Lilah, I imagine, may not come to school for a while. The flu I gave her was particularly strong and knocked all the energy out of her. I feel a little guilty. At the same time, I am proud of my accomplishment. My best friend now has the best opportunity to study before doing her exams; itâs so worth a couple of dirty tissues and a high temperature.
My little sister, Annie, enters the kitchen with a huge grin. âGuess what, Tessa? I won a contest! Free yoghurt,â she says, reading the nutrition label with approval. Her square-framed glasses slip down her nose, and she pulls them back up. âAnd only seventy-three calories, too.â
I roll my eyes. Perhaps this isnât the best sibling-to-sibling interaction, but actions like these canât be helped. Especially when Annie won a purple teddy bear three days ago, found ten dollars on the ground the day beforehand was the millionth entrant in a lottery prize draw last month, resulting in receive twenty-five dollars.
Luck follows her around like a small, helpless puppy. Itâs sickening.
âAnn, youâre way too young to worry about your weight.â
She eyes the empty chicken bones in front of me. Then purses her thin lips. âThatâs four-hundred calories. Right there. What is wrong with you?â
Deliberately, I head towards the fridge, swinging the door open and feasting on a piece of broken chocolate. I chew with an open mouth, allowing the sticky mixture to coat my teeth in a repulsive way. Annie gets the reaction I expect, as she staggers her skinny legs to the kitchen table and buries her head down.
âGross,â she complains, banging her fists on the table. Just when Iâm about to smile graciously, another crime committed, Annie adds, âThatâs, like, two-hundred calories. Right there.â
And the triumph fades. I sigh. Even when I win âthis, with my sister, is to disgust her beyond wordsâ the little rascal always finds a way to win. If itâd been anyone but her, this would be an admirable trait.
âMum,â I say, when she walks in the room, âwhy donât I have a brother?â
Itâs supposed to be a joke to indirectly offend Annie. But Mumâs lips turn ashen, her eyes widening like watermelons and a façade of utter horror pasted on her face. She then revolves to face me, her lips trying to tug into a smile. Yet, the unease shows in her eyes.
Especially when she says, âYou almost didâ and turns away.
The house goes quiet. Mum quickly returns to the dishes from last night âher job disallows part-time positions, so her entire nights are spent away from homeâ and I immediately feel guilty. Her hands tremble, scrubbing at the soap-suds from each plate. She doesnât turn a fraction towards me, afraid to make eye-contact.
Of course. I feel horrible for asking such a question. But it feels like such a long time ago; another life away where the son of our family died. I never knew much about the situation. Maybe itâs for the best. Discovering the horrific death of my brother âall the gory detailsâ isnât appetising. Well, actually, it would be excellent to visualise if he wasnât family.
âIâve gotta go,â I say, swinging my backpack behind both shoulders. âSee you.â
Annie avoids my gaze as well, consuming her seventy-three calories worth of yoghurt. The house is silent as I leave. Not even a falling leaf can break it.
I sigh, a little angry at myself for mentioning such a sensitive topic. They probably think Iâm just being pain old heartless Tessa. But I honestly forgot. About everything that happened to him, about what he looked like, how he died, what he did to die and the list goes on. An entire mystery circles the case of my missing brother, one which I have no knowledge of.
All I know is I had a brother. And now heâs gone.
I realise Iâve arrived to school when Sebastian waves at my direction. Deciding there must be someone behind me, I continue walking, only to be stopped by him sidestepping in my direction.
âHey, Tessa.â
I blink. What is this conspiracy? Yesterday, Sebastian scowled at the mere sight of me. âWhat do you want?â
âWhat? I justâŠâ He shrugs. Then sighs. âOkay, fine. So I typed this up.â With a slip of his fingers, he hands me a piece of paper. He then appears a little self-conscious, blabbering about the limited time he had to write this.
101 Reasons Why I (Sebastian Griffin) Should Be The Hero. I make a face at the title. That face keeps expanding, depicting more disbelief as I skim through the three-paged, small-font script. Reasons ranging from his âdashingly good looksâ âwhich I strongly disagree with, as his dark curls are so thin heâs almost baldâ to the pitiful reasoning behind his parentsâ divorce and how heâs ânever been the same.â
In all honesty, I have no idea how this relates to him being a hero. Each âfactâ gets worse and worse, adding a little bit of entirely misunderstood syllogisms âdid you know mosquitos are attracted to the colour blue? I have blue eyes. Therefore, I should be a heroâ to the awful puns such as âI like your hair on your bad hair days. You might even call me a hair-o.
Itâs so quirky, strangely imaginative and done in a small amount of time, I have to smile. And admire it a little bit. But then the smile vanishes, as I remember how Sebastian has done this all in a night. His entire night was dedicated to something so utterly stupid.
âYou know how you were a little self-conscious before?â
He shrugs. The grin on his mouth shows itâs all a joke. Yet, I feel as if heâs the one ridiculed as the
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