Violet Ink, Ramisa R [finding audrey txt] 📗

amount spent on this list was wasted. Completely and utterly wasted.

I shove the papers in his hands. “Please continue feeling worthless. You deserve it.”

“You’re horrible. And have a heart of ice,” he calls after me, but I don’t turn around.

I’ve been called worse. And even then, it didn’t hurt. For some reason, words honestly can’t hurt me. Not like knives or silver bullets. Or smashed glass injecting into my skin at such a tantalizing speed, I become unconscious. That’s what real pain is. What are words in comparison?

I don’t state this in English, though, when our topic of discussion is  our future goals.

“I want to be a horror writer,” I say, and nobody looks surprised.

“Don’t worry,” Renee sneers. “You already have the look for it.”

I glance at Sebastian, who's busily indulging in another book. Nobody comes to my defence. This I don’t mind, but what worries me is how everybody is against me. It feels like some unspoken rule. What doesn’t bother me isn’t the isolation, but my lack of knowledge behind my actions which caused it.

Then my lips curve into a smile. Maybe if I get a pen and paper, I’ll just rewrite my entire life. Make all those surrounding me inferior by demolishing their miniature brains and gobbling them, flesh and eyeballs. Upon realising my morbid fantasies are causing me to clench my fist, I release it, a little dazed.

Sebastian puts his book down. “Renee, don’t you think this is funny?” He hands her the three pages of reasons given to me before.

She grins. “You wrote these?”

“Sure did.”

“They’re kinda awesome.”

“I know.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you have a point?”

“Tessa didn’t like them,” Sebastian says, not bothering to look in my direction. A slight grimace overtakes his face, as if saying, “What are we gonna do with her?”

“She never likes anything normal,” Renee mutters.

“I’m still here,” I interject. They both turn to me, facial expressions unchanged. “What?”

“Nothing,” they say in unison, bright phoney smiles on their faces.

I can safely state that whatever conversation exchanged between those two is unknown to me. Maybe it’s best if I don’t know. No, I can’t convince myself of this. I need to know. Curiosity boils in my stomach, ready to slash out and destroy everything in its path. Just like the cute little ginger kitten it attacked.

But I maintain a smile. Or something resembling it, anyway. The lessons flies by without any major disruptions until, finally, the bell rings. Everybody rushes out of the classroom like traffic in the city. Sebastian and Renee, however, take their time exiting.

Neither of them notice I’m trailing behind them.

“She’s really weird,” Renee says as they step into the hallway. “Not that I’ve ever met a normal person, but she’s so…”

“Different.”

“I was going to say strange.” She snorts. “Who wants to be a horror writer, anyway?”

Sebastian doesn’t say anything. He keeps walking. And just when I think the conversation has ended, that he won’t contribute anything more, his words freeze me:

“Somebody with a past like hers.”

They keep walking. I am left behind, suffocated with confusion.

Chapter Four

What on Earth is Sebastian talking about? This thought circulates my mind through repetitive motions until I finally log onto my computer, ready to investigate my past. I grimace. Usually, these forms of “privacy intrusion” are applicable when I’m trying to find out about someone else. But what if the person I least know in the world isn’t a stranger or an acquaintance?

What if it’s me?

The library strolling from aisle to aisle gives me a quick thumbs up, happy to see people studying. Maybe if she knew about my investigation, she wouldn’t be so thrilled. I continue typing into the computer, and with a glance over my shoulder, I make sure there’s no-one behind me.

Hawthorne family I type in. When a whole list of generic results comes up, including those of celebrities, I clarify it to my town name. Then with a deep breath, I inspect to the results.

Half of them belong to others –people I have no knowledge of– but others belong to the Hawthorne name. All of the site results belong to my father posing in various forms of positive ways. Some of them, he’s holding the baby and grinning widely at the camera, and in others, he has the groomed face, perfect upright posture and demanding yet welcoming hand gestures.

I roll my eyes at the next banner. Vote for Tim Hawthorne for Mayor; he can change the town. As I grew up watching my father’s actions and abilities, I know for a fact he can’t even change my attitude, let alone an entire town. He’s always called me strange behind my back, tried to enforce punishments with no result and, after taking account all his failures, just left me alone. Unfortunately, it takes a lot more than “no television for a month” to stop me reading horror novels.

When did I last see him? I don’t know. He’s always out trying to promote his campaign. And when he’s not doing that, he’s hitting the pubs in the city, completely neglecting his family. If he remembers us at all, that is. His visits are always sporadic, and the majority of them are sheepish, demeaning visits where he requests money to continue his campaign.

Then he leaves. Not before giving me and Annie a wary pat on the head, as if suspecting we’re his family or not. He usually disappears before I respond, indignantly to the unasked question, that I too question his place in the family. That I hate my mother for always handing over money, hard-earned money at ten dollars an hour from counselling, and he leaves without a word. He doesn’t have to say anything more.

“It’s you,” Renee says, spotting me from afar.

As carefully as possible, I close the browser screen, cursing myself for not closing it earlier. “Yeah, it’s me. Any reason you’re here?”

She narrows her eyes. “Do you have a problem?”

Normally, I would’ve let her spit out venom. Renee, from prior knowledge, doesn’t have the easiest life. Apparently her father and grandmother died within a span of one week. She’s always been bitter and unnecessarily unfriendly before, but it’s nothing compared to the daggers she shoots me now.

But today, as bitter as she is, I say, “Yeah, I do. As it turns out, you know more about me than I do.”

There. I’ve said it. And, just as I suspected, she denies this. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” I say, my voice rising. The librarian, who was so cheery with me studying, now scowls. I lower the volume of my voice. “We both know Sebastian’s said something to you. Now, all I’m asking is what you know.”

“Sebastian? Are you kidding me? I’ve never talked to that guy besides English, and I don’t plan on it. Ever.”

I shrug, trying not to show the wrath boiling internally. “Have it your way, then,” I whisper, ominously. “Just don’t be surprised if something bad happens to you…”

“Are you threatening me?” she says, her eyes flashing with anger but lips curling into an amused smile. “For not telling you something I don’t know?”

“Not my exact words.” The librarian shushes me. I stand to leave. Before I do, I let my last words hang in the air. “But if that’s how you wanna see it, then yeah. I’m threatening you.”

*

During class, the teacher continues going through the roll. She demonstrates common mistakes people make in English and asks meaningful questions. Or something like that. I don’t know, because I’m too busy glaring at Sebastian in front of me.

His messy sandy hair looks dirtier, like it hasn’t been washed. I make a face. Of course his unkempt-self disregards the need to wash hair –he’s a boy, after all. And watching him bury his face in The Catcher In the Rye makes me realise he’s also a bookworm –no need for hygiene when characters are zooming around like a vacuum cleaner.

It’s only when or teacher asks us to get into groups do I stand up. And stride straight over to Sebastian, who doesn’t notice my powerful pacing.

He jumps a little when I say, “I know what you said yesterday.”

Closing the book, adding a bookmark in the chosen page, he slowly lifts his eyes to me. His eyes flitter downwards a little, as if I’m some sort of imbecile he can’t bother with. “What do you want?”

“I know what you said about me. To Renee.”

“I don’t talk to Renee.”

The smug, “you are the crazy one” look almost makes me punch him straight in the face. But I stop myself. After all, I have my pen for things like that. Why risk getting into trouble when the same result can happen, but anonymously? Nobody can trace a sudden truck running Sebastian over back to me. It’s simply illogical.

That is, unless someone is to peek at my notebook and find a pattern. Instinctively, my hand glides over to the pocket of my skirt, somehow relieved at the presence of the book. My secret is safe. For now, anyway.

“That’s what Renee said,” I reply. “But you did yesterday. I know it. I know you.”

Similar to Renee’s actions previously today, his eyes narrow. Into small, accusing slits. “You don’t know me.” Then, changing the subject from the clearly touchy one, he adds, “Why do you care if I did, anyway?”

There’s a look he gives me. Nothing about the words themselves, but the way they’re said, the way his facial expressions are publicised. I can tell if you’re lying. It shouldn’t matter. Even if I do lie to him, he can’t force me to acknowledge the truth. Maybe he knows being honest isn’t one of my key traits, because the expression intensifies.

Until I finally give in to the stare. “Because I can’t stand someone else knowing me better than I do.”

To my astonishment, he laughs. “Oh, we know ourselves the least. You know that right?” I’m too stunned to respond to that statement. Taking my answer as a “no,” he continues, “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. But the notion we’re fed, the idea that we’re the ones who knows ourselves best, is completely false. We’re strangers. We find out new things every day.”

“You should stop reading. It’s messing up your brain.”

The whole class is engaged in a discussion amongst themselves. Even our English teacher is on her feet, helping a couple of pupils with their essay. In short, nobody notices the conversation between two people who shouldn’t be talking. Maybe because we’re so different. Or maybe because we’re way too similar; more than I’d like to admit.

“Maybe you can stop harassing me for something I didn’t do?”

“Not before you admit you know something about me I don’t.”

“Oh? We’re playing this game now? I know everything that you don’t. Where do you want me to start?”

“Tell me about my past, then.”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Liar.”

He shrugs. Then he reopens his book, angering me with the casualness of his fingers as he continues reading, as if our entire conversation didn’t happen. Anger arises more strongly when he licks the page, ready to head to the next one. The classroom around me, still drowning in chatter, would never know of this conversation.

To them, Sebastian and I aren’t talking. Our conversation never happened. Just like my past. But I know –a little too well– the difference between reality and fiction.