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

With a bowed head and clenched hand, I slump over to my desk. My eye catches on the watch on Sebastian’s hand, and follows it as he flicks to the next page. He has insulted me. Perhaps not with words, but with silence and the act of pretending nothing has happened.

My hands fall on the violet pen in the pocket of my skirt. It’s strange, because I don’t remember putting it in this morning. As far as I’m concerned, only my notebook was there. Regardless, I’m thankful for something to write with, and the sinister and mysterious violet increases the positivity of my action.

And I begin my story. Not a particularly imaginative one, as horror dolls are a phenomenon among dark movies, but the characters are vivid. They feel so real. They look so real. Maybe this is because the main character, straight brown hair and forevermore frowning, closely resembles someone in my life. Someone who doesn’t deserve comfort. Let’s just call her Enee.

Her parents force “Enee” to clean out the attic. After much grumbling and bargaining, she loses the battle, and begins shuffling through the many boxes. It’s fair to say she rushes to get the job done, just to return to her previous engagement –absolutely nothing. However, a small, porcelain head sticking out from the nearest box catches her eye.

A warm memory. Summer afternoons of laziness and crisp breezes. Surrounded by friends and family, a particular aunty knowing Enee’s seven-year-old self’s love for dolls. This beautiful doll, dreadlocks smooth as silk and eyes blue as the clear sky, strikes a wave of nostalgia. How simple those days seemed. Days where she had purpose.

All the warmth vanishes when the doll begins moving. Slowly, with hefty eyelids and in a high, singsong voice, it says, “There’s something you should know about that night.”

Paranormal tales of a legend, a woman who wanted to get rid of a doll and a prophecy. Words about the gift being nothing short of a burden and threats surrounding the small, delicate figure; Enee cannot believe what she is hearing. In fact, the whole notion of a talking doll is the first clue that, in fact, this is a diversion from reality.

“If you want to leave,” Enee finally says, her hands shaking. “Why don’t you?”

“I’m trapped.”

“Trapped? Why can’t you just jump out of the window?”

“Because I’m human.” The doll’s eyes light up. Those dreadlocks, those clear eyes and the entire figure turns into something familiar; into someone familiar. “I am Sebastian,” the doll finally says, glassy eyes shining from both tears and helplessness. “And I can never escape.”

Pleased with my most recent work, I attach a bookmark to the next blank page. There’s no knowing when inspiration will strike. Might as well be prepared for it.

When my teacher looks down, arms folded, I swallow.

“Tessa, can you list three character traits of Mr Darcy?” As if to add to the pressure, she also states, “I’ve been talking about it for the last one hour. You must have something.”

Now’s probably not the best time to explain that I hate Jane Austen’s novels. It’s nothing personal. But it would’ve been a much better ending if Jane and Elizabeth fought for Mr Darcy, and, drowned by their bittersweet and unconditional love, he died of a heart attack. Lilah disagrees with my viewpoint for some reason, and gave me a dirty look for completely “damaging” her favourite book of all time.

It seems I can never win.

“Sorry, miss,” I mumble. “Got nothing.”

“See me after class, Tessa.”

Class flashes past. I try my best to keep up. And make a mental note to read the whole summary of Pride and Prejudice for the upcoming exam, because if I sit down to even read the cover, I’ll be bored. Why didn’t they add supernatural elements into the book? It would’ve constructed a more interesting plot and given opportunities for the active imagination.

Everybody leaves in front of me. They talk, ignoring my presence completely. Until I am the last one left in the class.

“You haven’t been going so well lately,” she says, wiping the whiteboard. “You got an A last year.”

“For a single term, and that was because it was creative writing.”

“But I don’t get how someone who likes writing hates reading,” she continues, as if I’ve never interjected.

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

We continue to dwell in silence, as she stands on her tiptoes to reach scribbles near the top. Her height prevents herself from doing a lot of things, it seems. Then, when she sits own in her chair, she looks up and says, “Maybe you should join Sebastian. He has a whole wide-reading program out of school.”

With this new information, I almost snort. “No, thanks. Me and Sebastian do not get along.”

And, just like before, she pretends I never cut off her sentence. “He went there yesterday from school. Really early in the morning, as he had to go to Brisbane. I asked him about it, and he said he loved it. So who knows?”

My blood runs cold. The heart strapped in my chest thumps violently. “But he couldn’t have been. I was in a group with him yesterday.”

She gives me a strange look. “Tessa, Sebastian wasn’t only absent from school; he was in an entirely different town.You wouldn't be anywhere near him.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Annie calls from the kitchen.

“Coming!” I scramble through my notebooks, violently flipping each of them open and then, with gritted teeth, slamming them shut. None of them have the information I am chasing. They are all worthless scraps of paper. “If it really bothers you, put it in the microwave. I’ll reheat it later.”

A few seconds later, I hear her choked “Okay.” She is so emotional. My sister believes that eating food warm makes it more nutritious and contains fewer calories. I don’t contain enough patience to inform that, despite how warm an edible meal is, heat cannot lessen the amount of energy.

But after reading a suspicious article online –I say suspicious because the entire article was filled with grammatical errors and blinding spelling mistakes– the young girl remains adamant. It almost makes me pity her, watching those chubby cheeks fade into hollow collarbones.

Dieting to lose weight is okay; putting your food choices, and making decisions about other people’s selections, is going overboard.

My hands continue to scramble through the amount of filled notebooks. Sketches, occasional doodles, but mostly unedited words stream through the pages in black ink. My eyes don’t look for infinite words; they are searching for a specific notebook, a singular story and a method of waking up from my current nightmare.

Where is it? The haunting story. One which I cannot remember with my head, but my fingers can. The movement of my fingers scribing up, down, scrawling familiar letters in a moment’s worth of inspiration. I remember it so vividly. My stomach begins to grumble. More than anything, the sudden disappearance of this work makes me angry.

Then, suddenly, I see it. In a red polka-dotted notebook given from my mother, a freebie at her counselling office, is the story I’ve searched thirty filled books for.

I read the story. A familiar tale. Both because my fingers remember every line, every pen breakage and change of writing instrument as the previous one splurges out of ink. This one revolves around a girl, psychologically damaged, who finds everything she remembers is fictional. Not the people themselves, but rather, the conversations, their insights and possible scenery.

Perhaps this is a little distant from my current situation. Yet, the entire story applies to whatever madness I face. Sebastian and Renee not existing? The teacher staring at me strangely, green eyes alight, and her slowed speech as she questions my sanity? Imagining different sceneries, conversations, grouping unrelated people together –there are separate things connected by a singular tale.

A short-story I have written myself. Every word poured out of me. The violet pen in my pen suddenly feels heavier. I struggle to breathe, my fingers feeling electrocuted and the strangest form of maniacal laughter erupts from my dry throat. Why? I have no idea. But it feels good, if not a little sheepish, to see my misunderstood story down on paper. The problem I worried I couldn’t fix is something I have invented myself.

Fishing the pen carefully from my pocket, I smile. It feels crooked on my mouth. Well played, pen, I whisper. Well played. Through all the malicious, vicious acts of seeking revenge on all who’ve done me injustice, I never assumed myself as a victim.

However, now I am careful about how I string along sentences; despite being the writer, I am never ruled out as the possible victim of any story. For everything I write, I must also be cautious of myself being involved. I can be the main character also; my presence is never ruled out. Never completely.

“Please, Tessa,” yells Annie from the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. She adds in a couple of loud whines. “The dinner’s getting cold. And I’m not sure if reheating it has the same ‘fast calories burning’ effects.”

I sigh. Maybe Annie is a little overdramatic and ridiculously stupid. But she is my sister and, in her own twisted way, watching my weight is how she shows affection.

“Yeah, ‘kay,” I yell back. “Coming.”

After I close the notebook with a thud, bury it in the depths of my drawer, I notice something odd. On my thumbnail is the slightest speck of the deepest presence of violet. It resembles a colour merely a couple of shades from pitch black.

Where did that come from? I think, as I walk to the kitchen with hunched shoulders. My mind is in a daze. I don’t ever wear nail-polish. I blink. Then look back, confirming if it’s an illusion of light.

But the violet remains –austere, accusing and intense.

*

The entire room is drowned with chattering. Even the teachers, who aren’t equipped to handle the class, stand around laughing with the students. I grit my teeth. For some reason, they decided film and television was an “useless” subject, and undeserving of a proper teacher.

Through protests, the school board ultimately agreed to combining Year 11 and Year 12 to make a single class. Perhaps it’s not exactly my ideal class, but it’s still better than nothing. Though I wish they put a little more effort into choosing qualified teachers.

In my notebook, I jot down the next short story. Rain flitters down the window on my left, causing me to stare up, just for a second, and watch the gloomy droplets fall. As if running for their dear life. Away from the sky. What is happening in the sky?

I stand up and peer upwards. The grey clouds, angry and infuriated, are now expressing pure wrath. Those little rain droplets, falling from so far above, are not sure where they’ll land. Among trees? Flowers? Or to dissolve in sand, only to never be witnessed again? None of them are confirmed of their fate.

Still, they fall. They believe any place, good or bad, is better than the argument happening the sky. Where are they running towards? Is there any way to tell? No, there isn’t. However, the fear what remains behind, what they are leaving by falling, is something they