Violet Ink by Ramisa R (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

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.

It’s 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, I’d say with a snort. How inconvenient; the whole world actually revolves around you. Then I’d 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 isn’t 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.

I’ve 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 isn’t 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 –or more precisely, cursed– 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?

“We have an exam the day after tomorrow, right?” Lilah says, disrupting my inner-battle.

“No, we have it tomorrow. Geography.”

She sighs. “I haven’t studied a bit.”

“How come? You love geography.”

“I know. But you know how we need money… I’ve been working double shifts all week… trying to balance three jobs–”

“Why doesn’t Cameron help out?”

She snorts. “Cameron and work in the same sentence? I dunno. Are we living in utopia?” Then, a little more sullenly, Lilah says, “Nah, he’s got too much work at uni He’s lazy, but he’s so desperate to be a vet that he might actually pull it off. I don’t wanna be the person who slows down his dreams, that’s all.”

“But what about your dreams?”

“What about my dreams?”

And it’s strange, seeing the utter confusion on Lilah’s face and feeling the utmost pity. This girl honestly can’t value herself over another person. It’s 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, she’s 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 –then 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.

It’s definitely time to stop. Get a fresh start. Begin again as not Tessa-the-Horror—Writer but someone else. I’ll be a saviour –I mean, how often can somebody boast, “Whatever I write comes true?”

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 don’t comment on the ludicrous value of that statement.

Lilah doesn’t 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 –and very quickly too, as I worried she may feel disturbed afterwards. There’s no way she’ll 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 –I would be feared, bribed, used to the limit. Then there’s the danger of being accused for crimes I didn’t 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, “I know where you’ve seen the article from. Remember that horror movie we watched? What was it –‘Cliff on A Wig’? Or something like that?”

Slowly, she nods. “Yeah. I remember that.” Her face relaxes and lights up. “Ah! Yeah. That’s right. The guy fell off, didn’t he?”

I nod. “Yeah, he did.”

*

Lilah is my first target. This is probably the first time I’ve ever used a synonym of “victim” without describing a prey for a horror story, and I am proud of it. Perhaps I’m finally on my way to normality. Whatever that is.

“Class, have you seen Lilah Parker anywhere?” exclaims Mrs Gertrude in her youthful, singsong voice which completely contradicts her old-fashioned last-name. Her first name, Florence, doesn’t quite belong to this generation either. “It’s our final exams in fourth period; I’d hate to think she’s missing out on all this.” Then her voice drops to a low whisper. We all know what this is, and lean forward. “I heard that…”

Mrs Gertrude, although strong and energised, is the worst gossip to ever set foot in this town. It doesn’t help that she has an uncanny ability of finding out absolutely everything –or that half the things she repeats aren’t 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, there’s an excuse not to go.

It’s 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. That’s 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.

“So you actually think Cameron Parker might not get into Med school?” 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 isn’t 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, “Wait, what’re we talking about?”

The minute I revolve to see her face, however, I wish I hadn’t. When she acknowledges my eyes on her, that entire face scrunches up. Like a piece of disposable paper, unneeded and unquestioning.

“None of your business.”

Mrs Gertrude replies before I open my mouth to let stormy, outraged insults fly out of my mouth. “Renee?”

“Yes, miss?”

“Shut up.”

Snorts erupt across the classroom. Mrs Gertrude pretends not to notice Renee’s 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, isn’t completely invisible. She hates losing what’s left of her pride.

“Year Elevens, as you well know, we’re doing a project. Just for the time-being, we’ll get you into groups. Just temporary; don’t worry, these aren’t the people you’ll be with in the long-run.”

After a couple of minutes’ worth of shuffling, yells across the room, insensitive grabbing and accusing pointing fingers, my classmates still haven’t all found themselves a partner. I sit there, watching in merriment, as hearts are broken. “No!” one girl yells, tears glinting in her eyes. “But… but you said you’d go with me! You promised!”

Guilty but adamant, the boy replies, “I’m sorry, Lisa. I want to go with someone else for a change. Move on. For me.” 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 she’ll 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 wonders–

“It seems you three are the only ones left,” Mrs Gertrude says, interrupting my thoughts. She scratches her hair. “Well, I think putting you guys in a group might be good. It’ll give you some time to know each other a little better.” Then she walks away.

And suddenly, my stomach clenches. Though I’ve 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, he’s 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 –anything but acknowledging the other’s existence.

“What’re you reading?” 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 I’m ignorant to, one which states, “Please be mean to Tessa Hawthorne”? He answers my spoken question with, “Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird. I love it when Scout’s anger gets the better of her –which is like every page.”

“I didn’t know you liked classics,” Renee says, a little suspiciously. “Heck, I didn’t even think you liked reading.”

It’s a downright insult, directed to Sebastian’s millionaire father. They invested in some sort of gold-mine, and because of this, they’re the richest people in this excessively small town. Therefore, it’s stereotypical to assume none of them did any work for the luxury they dwell in.

However, Sebastian Griffin