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

is the walking-talking epitome of rich slobs. Combined with awful grades, purposeful failures in sport and the way he boasts about watching a minimum of six hours of television every day, it’s difficult not to pin that archetype on him.

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. “Neither did I,” are his simple words.

It doesn’t take a genius to notice that overhead cloud on top of Renee’s head. Just like how it’s obvious, without Sebastian ever saying more than three words, that there’s a deeper meaning to that statement. There is something he’s keeping secret.

“Choose a person to be a hero and a person to be a villain,” Mrs Gertrude says, grinning. “This is going to be awesome.” Then she turns to us, the only trio in a room-full of pairs, and with a fading smile she says, “One of you’ll be the villain, another one a hero and we’ll have someone who’s neutral.”

The four of us know it’ll look pathetic, creating a play with a “neutral” person in it as they’ll have no significant personality or character. Yet, we don’t voice this aloud.

“I’ll be the hero,” says Renee.

“No, I will!” Sebastian interrupts. Then he points to the book. “Whoever’s holding the book gets to decide first.”

“But that’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair. Quoting Atticus Finch directly, 'They’re ugly, but those are the facts of– ”

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. “Oh look. Guess I get to decide first.”

Sebastian’s face turns a dangerous shade of red. I gulp. He and Renee aren’t 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 Renee’s a girl won’t stop Sebastian from beating her up senseless.

Deciding the carpet is too nice to be ruined with blood-stains –seriously, that’s the only reason I will ever object to a well-deserved demolition of Renee’s non-existent brains– so I step in. “Hey, hey. Both of you –calm your farms. How ‘bout I be the hero? Okay? Yeah? You too are taking this way too seriously. We won’t even be in these groups tomorrow.”

They both stare at me. Then Sebastian sighs, stating something about not minding whichever character’s left, let it be neutral or villain.

“We don’t have farms,” Renee snaps, turning her back to me.

I’m 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 it’d be like, writing a story where the Renee’s the main character. Maybe something subtle. Not something too heavy, but just enough to hurt her for the uncalled for way she’s treated me.

Then I let go. Of the pencil and of the perilous thoughts circulating my mind. No, I can’t write horror stories anymore. That part of my life is over; I am a new version of the same person now. Hurting people shouldn’t 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 Three

The 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 isn’t 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 I’ll 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 I’d say, however, is that the whole inciden was my doing.

Without a look backwards –I know the temptation will swallow me if I do– 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 don’t know.

Is it disturbing that my heart doesn’t beat in fear, but rather, something else? A strange sort of excitement. It puts me at unease, knowing my control doesn’t frighten me. Any other normal human would vanish among thin air, flee to another country or seek a therapist. Me? I’m feeling perfectly normal, like nothing has changed. I’m not scared. Not at all.

At breakfast, I gobble down a glass of orange juice with a side-platter of leftover chicken wings. Mum’s 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; it’s so worth a couple of dirty tissues and a high temperature.

My little sister, Annie, enters the kitchen with a huge grin. “Guess what, Tessa? I won a contest! Free yoghurt,” she says, reading the nutrition label with approval. Her square-framed glasses slip down her nose, and she pulls them back up. “And only seventy-three calories, too.”

I roll my eyes. Perhaps this isn’t the best sibling-to-sibling interaction, but actions like these can’t 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. It’s sickening.

“Ann, you’re way too young to worry about your weight.”

She eyes the empty chicken bones in front of me. Then purses her thin lips. “That’s four-hundred calories. Right there. What is wrong with you?”

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.

“Gross,” she complains, banging her fists on the table. Just when I’m about to smile graciously, another crime committed, Annie adds, “That’s, like, two-hundred calories. Right there.”

And the triumph fades. I sigh. Even when I win –this, with my sister, is to disgust her beyond words– the little rascal always finds a way to win. If it’d been anyone but her, this would be an admirable trait.

“Mum,” I say, when she walks in the room, “why don’t I have a brother?”

It’s supposed to be a joke to indirectly offend Annie. But Mum’s 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, “You almost did” and turns away.

The house goes quiet. Mum quickly returns to the dishes from last night –her job disallows part-time positions, so her entire nights are spent away from home– and I immediately feel guilty. Her hands tremble, scrubbing at the soap-suds from each plate. She doesn’t 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 it’s for the best. Discovering the horrific death of my brother –all the gory details– isn’t appetising. Well, actually, it would be excellent to visualise if he wasn’t family.

“I’ve gotta go,” I say, swinging my backpack behind both shoulders. “See you.”

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 I’m 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 he’s gone.

I realise I’ve 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.

“Hey, Tessa.”

I blink. What is this conspiracy? Yesterday, Sebastian scowled at the mere sight of me. “What do you want?”

“What? I just…” He shrugs. Then sighs. “Okay, fine. So I typed this up.” 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 “dashingly good looks” –which I strongly disagree with, as his dark curls are so thin he’s almost bald– to the pitiful reasoning behind his parents’ divorce and how he’s “never been the same.”

In all honesty, I have no idea how this relates to him being a hero. Each “fact” gets worse and worse, adding a little bit of entirely misunderstood syllogisms –did you know mosquitos are attracted to the colour blue? I have blue eyes. Therefore, I should be a hero– to the awful puns such as –I like your hair on your bad hair days. You might even call me a hair-o.

It’s 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.

“You know how you were a little self-conscious before?”

He shrugs. The grin on his mouth shows it’s all a joke. Yet, I feel as if he’s the one ridiculed as the