Violet Ink by Ramisa R (ebook reader online free .txt) đ
- Author: Ramisa R
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I grimace. Sometimes, these stories arenât horrific. This inner-dialogue Iâm 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 wonât help the sudden chill. This kind of feeling has no association with the temperature.
âHowâre you going with your project?â Cameron leans against my desk, hands in pockets and grinning. He and Lilah normally look alike, but the resemblance increases when he grins crookedly. âHope itâs good.â
âOur project, you mean,â I say, my tone dripping with accusation.
âOkay, okay. So itâs our project. Big deal. Iâve already done my partââ
âWhich is nothing.â
ââAnd I plan to do more of it.â He slams his fist on the desk, as if showcasing some sort of newfound energy. Then the spell breaks when that goofy grin appears. ââŠRight after I finish my assignment for health, math, English.â
âSchool will be over by then!â
But I know better than to be irritated. Lilah doesnât 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 âwhich, according to him, heâll have mountain-loads ofâ 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 heâs making me doing, he deserves having a lowly future.
âWhatcha writing?â Twisting his body around, he peers at my paper notebook and frowned. âPaper? They still make these?â
I resist the urge to slap him. âYes, they still do. Seriously, people like you give the youth of today a bad name.â Then I show him my piece âthe one I wrote yesterday. âThis is one I wrote recently.â
Normally, I wouldnât show him my works. Or anybody else, for that matter. But if I donât openly allow him to read them, heâll suspect Iâm 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 itâs him trying to act âscaredâ of this newfound invention of paper. When I finally catch on, I cross my arms. âYouâre an idiot,â I grumble.
After he finishes reading, he says, âWow. Itâs actually a nice story⊠I never knew you were friends with Renee. But giving her good luck is nice. Um⊠is it okay that Iâm really surprised?â
âWhat, did you expect something with murder?â
He looks at me as if Iâm dense. âObviously. After all, itâs you weâre talking about.â
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 âhorror 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. Itâs 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.
âItâs 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 isâŠâ I can barely breathe. âRenee Parker from Year 11. Please collect your prizes at lunch-break. Thank you!â 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. âHow didâ?â
âCoincidence,â I say casually. He probably doesnât notice it, but his eyebrows betray him. They narrow. His eyes search my face. Then I sigh heavily. âFine. They do the raffles the day before. I asked Peter OâHarra âtwelfth gradeâ who the grand winner was and wrote a story about it.â
His eyes stop searching. The eyebrows, heavy with suspicion, have their burdens lifted. He sighs. âYou wrote a story like that to freak me out with your âprediction of the futureâ?â Then he ponders it. âNo, actually, thatâs pretty neat. The best horror story of all time.â
âGlad you think so.â
Of course, now isnât the time or place to tell Cameron I had no idea who the winner was. Or that Peter OâHarra was a random name that popped into my mind after watching Sebastian simultaneously skimming through The Hunger Games and Gone with the Wind. âPeter OâHarraâ doesnât exist, let alone run the raffle.
Then again, I donât believe there will ever be a âright timeâ to admit all these things. But Iâll say something: itâs awfully convenient that, even in such a small school, Cameron doesnât notice the nonexistence of Peter OâHarra. He must be classmates with almost everyone. Yet, he doesnât acknowledge this.
He didnât listen to the facts, I think to myself, a strange feeling in my chest. He wouldnât 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 âone 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 doesnât let prejudice cloud his mind.
Maybe thatâs why I snapped fully when Charlotte Martin entered the picture. With her lip curled, she sits next to me, uninvited. âHowâs the freak show going, you two?â
Ever since the Martins lost the annual pumpkin festival âa winning streak they held for seven years in a rowâ to the Parkers, Charlotte declared war. Itâs an ongoing banter, struck at the most inconvenient times, as both parties engage in heavy verbal abuse.
Cameron himself isnât innocent as he once called her singing voice âlike a dying awful-pitched sealâ 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 Iâm biased. I fully believe Charlotte started this unnecessary rivalry.
âLeave me alone,â Cameron says, averting his gaze.
âOh? Whatâs the matter?â She slides down her desk, enjoying every second of this mindless torture. âToo shocked about the refusal into med school? After all, you are really stupid. How can you possibly compete with everyone else?â
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 SixThe 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 Iâve actually caused this kind of tragedy.
Cameron is horrified. Yet, thereâs an edge to his expression; one of sick amusement for the girl whoâs given him nothing but grief for a victory he fairly earned. Despite the twinge of happiness, he shuffles backwards a little.
âChar, you okay?â Renee grabs her best friendâs arm, then gives me a death-look. But in that stare, created intentionally to scare me, thereâs a slightest bit of hesitation. As if unsure of the future if sheâs imprinted on my bad books. âLetâs go have lunch. The bellâs rung.â
Although the bellâs rung, everybody remains in the classroom. All eyes are on me. The teacher particularly eyes me, mouthing the words, âCome see me afterwards.â 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.
âSorry.â I feel a devious smile on my face. Enjoying every bit of the moment, every physical portrayal of her fear, I lean forward. âIt slipped.â
*
Annie sits on the table, swinging her legs in the air. Flick. Flick. Flick. Although itâs my duty to acknowledge whatever strange hobby sheâs engaging in, I am too scared of the response. Itâd be something to help lose weight âI 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, itâs definitely not genetic.
Thatâs when Mum enters the picture. âGet off, Annie,â Mum growls, practically shoving my little sister off the table. Mid-chew, I stare up at her, utterly shocked by her violent behaviour. âYou are too heavy. Youâll break it.â
Although my mother didnât mean Annieâs 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 sheâs 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 isnât 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 wouldnât be caught dead with dirty sneakers, carry the trash out every day. My father was also manipulated with this look âin 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.
âTessa, is there something youâd like to tell me?â
I have the paranormal ability to completely determine a strangerâs path. âNo.â
âAnything happening with you?â 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. âNo.â
âWhatâs this, then?â She holds a wrinkled piece of paper, previously scrunched. I gulp. Itâs one which was flung in my wastebasket a few days ago. âTessa, why arenât you entering the National Writing Competition?â
Technically, she is questioning my refusal to participate in the only thing I can
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