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

How can I say, politely, that I don’t need some squinty-eyed judges circling my every grammatical error and spelling mistake? What’s worse, they usually address these issues as well at the awards ceremony. Not to anybody else, but to the first place winner, as if defeat is easier to handle that way.

Congratulations to Tessa Hawthorne on winning first place! However, there were many grammatical errors, a couple of poor word choices and bad spelling among all that. Maybe it’s because I haven’t touched a book in three years? There are always English texts, but they are part of the prison known as school. As for the actual plot itself, it was well thought-out. However…

And there is always, always, always a “however.” It’s the sole reason I’ve veered away from this particular writing competition after winning first prize two years ago, and simultaneously being insulted in front of strangers. The judges are critical and are “writers” themselves, their taste in fashion is horrendous and the bright red lipstick on a particular women terrifies me beyond words. It’s the kind of awful shade blind people avoid like a plague.

But I can’t say those words to her. Maybe it’d be good for me, involving myself in something I’m good at, and hopefully making my failures –in basically everything else– fade into the past.

I take the leaflet from her. “I’ll think about it.”

For the first time, her eyes relax. She tears her eyes away from me, sipping noisily at her warm tea. As a rather pretentious and mannerly lady, this is an action my mother does not do under any circumstances. Something is definitely wrong. But, being the coward I am, I fear the answer.

“I’ll call up Lilah,” I mumble.

“That’s a wonderful idea!” she says, immediately brightening. I know why; Lilah is the daughter my mother never had. Perky, optimistic and painfully innocent –everything she never found in gloomy, self-conscious Annie or disturbed, bitter me.

I head to my bedroom door. Just as I’m about to open the door, muffled sobs from the room next door attract my attention. With a loud exhale, I knock on the door. Nothing. Then I fling it open, closing it behind me, and find myself in front of Annie.

Her arms cradle her head. Knees bent, back jerking, she is undoubtedly lost in a world of her own misery. For the first time, instead of feeling disgust for my little sister, I feel some sort of strange pang in my chest. Despite what anybody tells her, the honest truth about her petite and skinny body, she refuses to believe them. All truths are drowned by her own misconceptions. Maybe that’s exactly what anorexia is; the world can throw logic in her face, and declares of their own perspective, but none of them matter until Annie herself views it. At the end, majority doesn’t rule when it comes to eating disorders.

And I have been the world’s most horrible sister, dismissing her disorder with nothing more than disgust. I, myself, have always been ruffled by the underestimated value of teenagers and the lack of support. But aren’t I just as bad as them?

“You know Mum didn’t mean it like that.”

“It doesn’t matter what Mum thinks,” she says, wiping at her blotchy, tear-stained face. “I know I’m fat.”

“You’re not.” I sigh. “She sat with you for days when you brought it up. She thinks you’re over it now.”

“Then maybe I’m not,” she says. “Is that a crime? I don’t even think I’m fat. Damn it, I don’t do this from attention like everyone else thinks. And calorie-watching makes me feel a little better. It makes me think that, if I eat like this every day, I’ll eventually be thin. I’ll be beautiful then. But right now, I am hideous.”

A good sister may comfort the little sister. Maybe hug her close, provide stories and fables of those enduring the same hardships, and somehow convince the young person beauty is never constricted to weight. Unfortunately, I am not a good sister.

Without another word, I leave the room, letting my young sister mourn. Maybe she needs professional help or something. But honestly, I don’t care anymore –let her choose her own path. My hands clench into a fist. Maybe along the road she’ll realise her mistake –however, it’s wishful thinking to believe this instance will arrive soon.

“Hello?”

“It’s Tessa.”

“Oh, hey!” There’s a sound of sneeze. “Sorry. I have this really bad cold. But it’s fading now.”

“Come over? I really need to finish my film and it’s obvious Cam’s no help.”

She laughs. “Yeah, okay. Expect me in ten.”

Lilah arrives exactly a minute early. Punctual as always. My mother brightens immediately by her presence, and they engulf in a bear-hug. They exchange a speedy conversation, bouncing off topics and completely ignoring me. I stand in the corner, hands shoved in pockets, awaiting the separation of the two chattering maniacs.

I get out the ingredients for the fake blood. It’s always possible to purchase it from the local warehouse, but it’s far cheaper to make it from scratch. Throwing all the ingredients from the manual, I stir the mixture. Lilah and I take turns stirring the bowl, although my best friend is too busy chittering with my mother the entire time.

Those two are like rays of sunlight. It makes me sick.

“Blue food-colouring, eh?” Lilah says, turning back to our mixing bowl. I don’t understand the sudden sadness in her tone. Or the slight breaking of the sentences.

“Only a little bit,” I say slowly. “It’s just to make it a little darker. The mixture won’t turn blue or anything, so–”

“It’s not that.” She bites her lip, playing with her fingernails. My mother looks at Lilah, an expression of pure concern washing over her face, as she patiently waits for a further clarification. “Oaken’s getting cut down today.”

I’ve heard about Oaken a lot. It’s a tree in Lilah’s backyard –one that’s been there since her birth– and an aspect of nature she loves more than life itself. However, I don’t quite understand the connection between fake blood and that tree.

My mother, however, does the natural “councillor” thing and completely dismisses a possible ambiguous connection –if any. She places a hand on her heart, and with wide eyes and a soothing tone, she says, “Oh, honey. That’s terrible.”

“Oaken… he’s always been there for me, you know?” She sniffles, as if trying to blink away forming tears. “It’s difficult to forget your first love. And he doesn’t forget me, either. When I was thirteen, I went out with a guy called Brad –you know him.”

“The guy with the sharp teeth? I always thought he was secretly a vampire. And I wrote a short story about how he became one –it’s even got a plot-twist about his cousin’s need for revenge and–”A heated stare from Lilah causes me to look elsewhere. “Sorry,” I mumble.

“So, when Brad and I broke up, I climbed up Oaken. Just like I always do. And I cried, and cried, and cried. Then, when I went back down, I found a single branch which’d been broken off. It was a sign.” She takes a deep breath. With a voice like summer and a laugh like stars, she sings, “And I got that branch and beat him until his arms and legs were covered with bruises. He couldn’t go to hockey training for a while.” She giggles and my mother, always the supportive adult, titters along with her. A little uncomfortably, though.

I, on the other hand, remain petrified. Could it be my best friend is darker than I thought she was? There was always something different about her, something a little edgy. Innocent, energetic and naïve Lilah has a dark side. Well, of course she does –everybody has one– but I always assumed it was nothing greater than wishing ill on others.

“Oaken’s always been there for me,” Lilah says, the sad persona returning. “Now, when it’s my turn, I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” Mum stands up, hands on hips and a dangerous fire in her eyes. “Do you love Oaken?”

“I… I do,” she admits.

“Then sacrifice yourself. Show your love and dedication to Oaken and chain yourself to the tree. They can’t cut him down that way.”

Lilah’s eyes shine with tears. “Mrs Hawthorne,” she breathes. “My own mother told me I was mad and should ‘forget Oaken.’ But you… thank you. You are, undoubtedly, the most inspirational woman I’ve ever met.”

I find my own mother’s eyes well up. “You have no idea how much that means to me. Today, when I was counscilling a young man on the phone, he told me I was the worst person he ever talked to. And he wanted to commit suicide because of me. It’s a horrible thing to feel –that somebody might leave because of you. Your words made me so happy.”

They hug each other tightly. Meanwhile, I stand beside a bowl of fake blood and struggle to keep my lunch safely deposited in my stomach. Their affection, the gruesome love flowing through their twinkling eyes and those cheesy, heartfelt lines –it is the most painful horror story ever told. I clutch at my mouth and grab Lilah’s t-shirt.

“Let’s go shoot the zombie scene,” I say, my words muffled by my hand. If I stay any longer, I’ll throw up.

Lilah and I stroll back to our room. She abruptly stops in front of a large photo in the hallway, a family portrait of all of us, and stares. Her eyes scan the familiar faces.

The perfect family photo. Although it’s invisible to a stranger’s eye, Annie is laughing because Mum’s tickling her. Dad’s open mouthed laughter is from making bunny-ears behind my mother’s head. Contradictory to their utter joy, I sit on the side, Annie’s hand on my lap, and a stiff posture holding me upright.

“You look nothing like your family,” Lilah says aloud, scratching her chin.

I stare at the green eyes of Mum and Annie and the brown eyes of Dad. Then there’s me on the side, staring back with blue eyes. All my life I’ve been told this; indeed, I look nothing like my family. Strangers would comment, Dad would light-heartedly wrap an arm around me, and declare I am, unfortunately, all his. This was back when he wasn’t a vote-eating monster but, in fact, human.

The reality of itself never struck me. I truly look nothing like my family. My grandparents, from what I’ve seen in photos, have a completely different face structure to mine. Yet, I saw this nothing but a sign of a recessive gene. Maybe my parents have a gene they don’t know about and, incidentally, produced a blue-eyed baby. To be honest, I never cared about my past. Until now.

I linger on the shocking blue eyes of the girl in the photograph. Maybe there is a recessive gene with just the eyes –that might just be chance.

How do I explain the  recessive gene of absolutely everything else? My parents, grandparents and great parents don’t have blue eyes. Neither do they have my inky black hair, freckled cheeks and round face. Or that mole under my left eye.

Which leads me to a path I dread, a pavement I’d rather leave untouched: I am living a lie.