Chapter One

“Can I have my ticket now?”

My eyes flicker up at a preteen boy with unkempt hair. A red balloon is tied to his wrist quite firmly –I suspect his mother?– which brings me to the next question: why does his mother want to tie a balloon so tightly to the poor boy’s wrist? 

This is definitely a mystery. My hand reaches for my glittery notebook and pen. I scribble down the word “balloon” and “mystery” next to it. I snap it shut. 

“Sorry, what’d you want again?”

“A ticket, please, Miss.”

Miss? My mind begins travelling in all different directions. Why “Miss”? Perhaps a teacher at school forces the young lad to title her? Could a divorced mother be added to the equation? I study his weary eyes. 

Yes, definitely. His parents have separated, his mother’s afraid of losing custody and therefore ties a red wiring around his wrist.

But why would any mother, especially one who cares so much about their son’s whereabouts, tie a balloon to his wrist? I already have my answer –losing custody and all– but the puzzle just doesn’t fit. Something’s missing.

I study the boy closer. He shifts back a little, unsettled. Yes. Unknowingly, I’ve performed a test on him: he’s scared of females. He’s always been. Why? Because there’s something wrong with his mother. This mother, who’s so scared of losing her son, and is willing to do anything to keep him by her side.

Anything.

My mouth lets out a gasp. The boy pales. He knows. We both know what’s really going on. His mother is a serial killer. That red balloon is a cheap yet effective way of keeping tabs on him. She will follow him, hunt him down and smother him.

The young boy clears his throat. “Can I please have my ticket?”

“Kid, you’ve gotta escape.” 

“What?”

I lower my voice. “I… I know. It’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“What secre–” He stops mid-sentence. “Never mind. Can I please have my ticket? Please?”

“Look, you’ve got to run.”

“I said please!”

“You’re not safe here. She’s watching you. She’ll always be watching you.”

He blocks me out completely. Instead, he turns to the girl next to me. “Can I have a ticket for the rollercoaster, please?”

The girl happens to be my best friend, Lilah. She flashes her vibrant colours-of-the-rainbow braces and hands him one. I swear he sighs in relief after snatching the ticket. 

Before entering the rollercoaster line, he turns around. And, like any other pre-adolescent boy, shoots a dirty look at me. I stick my tongue out, but he’s already turned his back. Boys. They never truly grow up. 

Lilah sighs and turns to me, suddenly looking ten years older. The perfect posture she balances from years of country-ballet -a very unusual modern dance initiated by her parents, involving pointe toes and trained cows to moo at the right places. They thought it'd catch on. It never did. Thank God.

Her ageing doesn’t match her colourful skirt and the fluoro-pink hoop earrings which almost reach her shoulders. “You’ve gotta stop freaking costumers out.” To demonstrate her point, she ties her neon shoe laces, striped with black to resemble a zebra. I almost shield my eyes from the blinding colour. 

“Well, pardon me for making their miserable lives more interesting.”

“Interesting? Tessa, anything without blood and gore is boring in your books.” She’s bristled by my “How’s that abnormal?” look. “In some countries, that’s considered the first sign of mental illness. That's why it's abnormal."

“Gee, I’m glad Australia’s not one of them.”

She’s defeated. Just then, her mobile rings. From her slightly curled lip, I can tell it's her brother Cameron. He begins every phone-call with a ridiculously disgusting mental image. I answered Lilah's cell while she refilled a popcorn bucket once, and Cameron injected a picture of maggots squirming through his scabs. "Cheap disinfectant," he called it.

Rest assured, I vomited my lunch with his detailed imagery. Simultaneously, I recognised how I long for a brother like that. Why can't I have a brother?

She ends the phone-call with her face still twisted. The next customer she serves responds rather distantly, assuming the disgusted expression is directed towards them. This redhead teenager continues flattening her hair as she walks toward the humongous line. Was it her hair? Was it the way her nose is bent 0.00000005 milimeters to the left? I almost snort in laughter.

The next round of customers are particularly difficult. I wouldn't know this in detail, as I sit on the compact velvet sofa, scribbling bits of inspiration in my notebook. Disgust, repulsion, horrifying deaths from rollercoasters. Between each customer, Lilah reserves a special second just to shoot me a dirty look. I pretend not to notice. 

Surprisingly, the line clears up quite quickly. On the overhead speakers, discounts were announced on another rollercoaster, and the frugal locals --because let's face it, tourists avoid this dump like toe-fungus-- head there like packs of sheep. 

Lilah's huge grin disappears the minute her last customer disappears. It forms into a scowl instead, as she taps her feet with folded arms. I sigh and hand over my notebook, a sign my full attention is on her. She sometimes reads through them. 

After inhaling a huge mouthful of air, Lilah inquires, “Do you really think your stories are true?” She brushes her fingers over the cover, with violet skulls and contradicting baby rabbits suck onto them.

I snort. “Never. They’re the figment of my own imagination. But when I’m finding little ‘clues,’ it’s fun to think they might, y’know, happen.”

“You want that poor boy’s mother to be a murderer?”

“...Those aren't my exact words.”

“You’re unbelievable.” 

Nevertheless, she fights a smile.

Unfortunately, that much-deserved break turned out to be short-lived. After finding they've been deceived (they increased the original price to twelve dollars and the customers had to pay the previous full-price) they returned with a huff. And a mob of tricked customers are never a pleasant sight. 

"I know we don't really talk much. We should really improve that. So I'll start: you're on your own, pal." I pat her on the head like she's a labrador. Unfortunately, I'm not the one to walk away. 

When the next customer arrives, Lilah shoves her bony elbow straight into my ribs, pushing me aside. The slender, freckled boy doesn’t get the chance to meet me –or receive a possible insight into his past and future. He'll never know of the darkness that probably, hopefully isn't true. I glare at my best friend. She disregards me, focusing on the customer and nothing else. 

It’s after the third person I realise my shift has ended three hours earlier. Lilah is handling both her and my customers, yet seems to be working faster. It's as if she's purposely trying to get rid of them so I never greet them. I pout. She's so mean.

A could-be-accurate insight into every human being’s personality, life and future can’t waste that much time, can it?

The question basically answers itself.

Slumped in my seat, I whirl around three times in the revolving chair. Then it just gets boring. So I fish the exposed notebook from her bag, and find myself facing a huge decision: the velvet sofa or the revolving chair? One false move can alter my life forever. 

I quickly scribble that down. A wrong move having greater consequences than ever dreamed of. It's definitely the beginnings of a new short story. 

My eyes avert to Lilah’s crowd, customers, fans –all of them grasp tickets from her, slam a quick smile and race towards the ride. How lucky they are, avoiding me. Perhaps I should get a knife, smother it with red food colouring, and give them something to worry about. I ponder this. How would the food colouring stick to the knife? Something so watery will just… drip off. It’ll lose the effect. 

No, what I really need is to mix cornflour in the solution. I snap my fingers. That’s it. It’ll be a gooey, slimy mixture at the end of a knife. It will be what I chase people after, especially when they fail to recognise my authority. 

A maniacal laugh overtakes me. Lilah ever-so-slightly distances herself away without turning, her smile in a mangle as she serves more customers. Our differences, I think, is the reason the friendship between us still exists. Or else it’d be long gone, like that rollercoaster gliding through enormous waves of water.

More people arrive, more people ignore me. It’s like I have an invisible cloak. Unfortunately, though, when I remove it, nobody will bow down to me. I’ll just be another face in another crowd. Or behind the counter. 

The next customer arrives. “Uh, hi. Can I have a ticket?”

“Sure!” Lilah replies, eyes sparkling. “I’ll just–”

I seize this opportunity to swoop the newspaper out of the man’s hands. He removes the shades that he thinks looks “so cool” but just appears creepy. Then I make a face at the scarlet sunburn around his eyes, like he fried his eyeballs this morning for breakfast. Would it be rude to suggest he place them back on? 

“Hey!” he shouts, indignantly. “I paid a good dollar for that!”

Lilah’s eyes twitch, her smile looking more forced. “One second, please.”

She leaps to where I am, behind the counter, and pins my shoulders down. I’m sitting in the leather chair. And, for the first time ever, I don’t attempt to escape from her freakish strength. Instead, my eyes fix on the headline of the newspaper.

While Lilah’s giving me a lecture, about how my father won’t fire me ‘cause I’m his daughter, but she’s a goner. Then she gets teary-eyed, blubbering about two bratty boys next door –the ones she’ll have to babysit if she gets fired.

I’m barely listening. “Look at this.” I jab a finger at the headline, “TEENAGE GIRL MYSTERIOUSLY DIES ON CRUMBLING MOUNTAIN.”

She takes the newspaper. “Police are investigating the case of a 16-year-old female found on the waters surrounding Ayers Rock,” she reads aloud. “According to witness and the Rocky Tours owner, Mrs Dubose, ‘The mountain just crumbled down. I’ve never seen anything like this before.’”

Lilah’s eyes scan over the picture accompanying the news article. Her frown deepens, examining a picture of a female hunched over a giant rock surrounded by water. Dressed in winter clothes, her body is fixed on the surface, as if trying to avoid any falls. 

“This sounds so familiar,” she says, her fingers brushing over the picture. “But I don’t know where from.” Her eyes scan the article one more time, scratching her hair as she tries to pinpoint the exact encounter with this de ja vu. 

My heart is pounding. Surely this is a dream. Or maybe I'm overreacting. Yes, I must be. The truth is way too bland so I fantasied this into something more real. Lilah always babbles on about my extensive imagination and scolds me for not recognizing reality. This is exactly the kind of thing she meant. I sigh, a little relieved. 

"Nope, I don't know where it's from," Lilah says with a frown, glancing one last time before absentmindedly handing it to me. "It's so weird, because I've seen this. I've heard this. I've tasted this. But, ugh, where from?" She shrugs, then continues her shift. Lilah registers the shades-man's credit-card. 

Back to my desk at the reception, where the man glares at me, I reach for my notebook. I don’t cast him a single glance. With trembling fingers, I scuffle through the pages until I find it. My breath gets stuck in my throat. Although my blood-pressure is already high, it must’ve increased a million times more now.

Whatever relief I got before, it's no longer there. A pink woolen scarf, blue overalls and a purple beanie --three things of many mutually common between my fictional story and the news-article. Not to mention the small dimple in her left cheek, something I made up on the whim, but accuses me in the picture of her high-school graduation. She fits the description. 

White spots. I’m seeing spots everywhere. I know how the article sounded familiar, a girl at the top of a mountain which just crumbled until there was nothing left. And she fell. Like a raindrop, joining with the immense vastness of the sea.

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.

Chapter Two

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 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 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. They’re not the victim; I am. Of losing myself in a world where I’m left in the dark, somewhere I am considered strange and, quite frankly, unwanted.

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.”

Chapter Five

“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 do know. That is enough to keep falling.

I grimace. Sometimes, these stories aren’t horrific. This inner-dialogue I’m faced with, all the effort given to a particular object, and obtaining a fictional background; at times, they are nothing more than depressing stories. How they manage to creep into a twisted mind is beyond me. Where do I get the inspiration for tales like these?

A shiver runs up my spine. I hug my jacket closer, despite knowing it won’t help the sudden chill. This kind of feeling has no association with the temperature.

“How’re you going with your project?” Cameron leans against my desk, hands in pockets and grinning. He and Lilah normally look alike, but the resemblance increases when he grins crookedly. “Hope it’s good.”

“Our project, you mean,” I say, my tone dripping with accusation.

“Okay, okay. So it’s our project. Big deal. I’ve already done my part–”

“Which is nothing.”

“–And I plan to do more of it.” He slams his fist on the desk, as if showcasing some sort of newfound energy. Then the spell breaks when that goofy grin appears. “…Right after I finish my assignment for health, math, English.”

“School will be over by then!”

But I know better than to be irritated. Lilah doesn’t have enough dreams; Cameron has too many. A film-maker, he aspires, and a vet. Alongside those two professions, he plans to volunteer at the local animal shelter, regularly visit third-world countries and donate money –which, according to him, he’ll have mountain-loads of– while simultaneously balancing a career as an actor, drama teacher and looking after their farm.

If he half-completes all his goals, though, he will never finish a single one properly. That can do serious damage to his life. But I keep my mouth shut. With all the work he’s making me doing, he deserves having a lowly future.

“Whatcha writing?” Twisting his body around, he peers at my paper notebook and frowned. “Paper? They still make these?”

I resist the urge to slap him. “Yes, they still do. Seriously, people like you give the youth of today a bad name.” Then I show him my piece –the one I wrote yesterday. “This is one I wrote recently.”

Normally, I wouldn’t show him my works. Or anybody else, for that matter. But if I don’t openly allow him to read them, he’ll suspect I’m hiding something. This, I cannot deny; however, my business should belong to myself only. And this includes any potential lives I may damage with written words.

He reluctantly takes the piece of paper. At first, I am afraid he might think the story is lethal. Then I realise it’s him trying to act “scared” of this newfound invention of paper. When I finally catch on, I cross my arms. “You’re an idiot,” I grumble.

After he finishes reading, he says, “Wow. It’s actually a nice story… I never knew you were friends with Renee. But giving her good luck is nice. Um… is it okay that I’m really surprised?”

“What, did you expect something with murder?”

He looks at me as if I’m dense. “Obviously. After all, it’s you we’re talking about.”

The class is almost finished. Just five more minutes to go. I watch each second flicker by, mesmerised by the second hand, and occasionally distracted by the cross-bones and skull background. Annie for it for me as a birthday present.

To be quite honest, I find it repulsive –horror writers do like girly symbols and love-hearts at times; after all, there is nothing greater than a disastrous love-life. But I keep it on anyway, just to prevent hurting her feelings. It’s already bad enough she criticises her body; questioning her fashion senses would be another blow to her self-confidence.

My ears perk up at the announcements.

“It’s that time of the day! Friday raffle, everyone. Today, we have a whole lot of winners for our weekly draw. Third prize goes to Patrick Kennedy in Year 8, second prize goes to Cornelia Harris from Year 10. And the lucky winner of the first prize is…” I can barely breathe. “Renee Parker from Year 11. Please collect your prizes at lunch-break. Thank you!” The announcement flicker off, unaware of my racing heart.

Cameron turns to me, an expression I recognise immediately. One of confusion, awe and a little suspicion attached. “How did–?”

“Coincidence,” I say casually. He probably doesn’t notice it, but his eyebrows betray him. They narrow. His eyes search my face. Then I sigh heavily. “Fine. They do the raffles the day before. I asked Peter O’Harra –twelfth grade– who the grand winner was and wrote a story about it.”

His eyes stop searching. The eyebrows, heavy with suspicion, have their burdens lifted. He sighs. “You wrote a story like that to freak me out with your ‘prediction of the future’?” Then he ponders it. “No, actually, that’s pretty neat. The best horror story of all time.”

“Glad you think so.”

Of course, now isn’t the time or place to tell Cameron I had no idea who the winner was. Or that Peter O’Harra was a random name that popped into my mind after watching Sebastian simultaneously skimming through The Hunger Games and Gone with the Wind. “Peter O’Harra” doesn’t exist, let alone run the raffle.

Then again, I don’t believe there will ever be a “right time” to admit all these things. But I’ll say something: it’s awfully convenient that, even in such a small school, Cameron doesn’t notice the nonexistence of Peter O’Harra. He must be classmates with almost everyone. Yet, he doesn’t acknowledge this.

He didn’t listen to the facts, I think to myself, a strange feeling in my chest. He wouldn’t care if I said Mattress S. Hart was the name I fumbled up. Despite whatever I say, he wants to believe me. Not once does he recognise me as a bad person –one capable of truly hurting another human being. Or even a liar.

Through all the rumours about me, my twisted viewpoint of the world I accidentally voice aloud sometimes, and my introversion, he expects the best of me. He doesn’t let prejudice cloud his mind.

Maybe that’s why I snapped fully when Charlotte Martin entered the picture. With her lip curled, she sits next to me, uninvited. “How’s the freak show going, you two?”

Ever since the Martins lost the annual pumpkin festival –a winning streak they held for seven years in a row– to the Parkers, Charlotte declared war. It’s an ongoing banter, struck at the most inconvenient times, as both parties engage in heavy verbal abuse.

Cameron himself isn’t innocent as he once called her singing voice “like a dying awful-pitched seal” which ended in tears. This may not sound bad, yet it is the most difficult criticism for an aspiring professional singer. So maybe Cameron has his share of faults.

But I am unafraid to say I’m biased. I fully believe Charlotte started this unnecessary rivalry.

“Leave me alone,” Cameron says, averting his gaze.

“Oh? What’s the matter?” She slides down her desk, enjoying every second of this mindless torture. “Too shocked about the refusal into med school? After all, you are really stupid. How can you possibly compete with everyone else?”

The violet pen. It sits there, tempts me. And for the first time, I am drawn to the allure. Anger, hatred for this uninvited girl, and pure wrath builds inside me. I pick up the pen, much to the oblivion of Charlotte Martin.

With great force, I stab the pen into her arm, ignoring the bloodcurdling scream as it ruptures her skin.  

Chapter Six

The whole class is silent. I suppose a random bloodcurdling scream triggers that reaction. Charlotte snaps her arm back towards her, jumping away from the chair, chest heaving and eyeing me with crazed eyes.

A stream of blood runs down towards her elbows. In the pinpointed location of the wound, a dark shade of violet mixes with her blood. It produces a violet with an edgy, uncomfortable red tint. Just staring at it makes me cringe. And to believe I’ve actually caused this kind of tragedy.

Cameron is horrified. Yet, there’s an edge to his expression; one of sick amusement for the girl who’s given him nothing but grief for a victory he fairly earned. Despite the twinge of happiness, he shuffles backwards a little.

“Char, you okay?” Renee grabs her best friend’s arm, then gives me a death-look. But in that stare, created intentionally to scare me, there’s a slightest bit of hesitation. As if unsure of the future if she’s imprinted on my bad books. “Let’s go have lunch. The bell’s rung.”

Although the bell’s rung, everybody remains in the classroom. All eyes are on me. The teacher particularly eyes me, mouthing the words, “Come see me afterwards.” Undoubtedly, stabbing a student in the arm with a pen results in an immediate detention.

Charlotte stares me, with a bleeding arm, and a quizzical expression as if questioning the recent events. Her eyes widen then contract. A sure sign of madness. I watch those brown eyes, the caramel hair which suddenly appear frizzy, and the limp arm held in an odd angle.

“Sorry.” I feel a devious smile on my face. Enjoying every bit of the moment, every physical portrayal of her fear, I lean forward. “It slipped.”

*

Annie sits on the table, swinging her legs in the air. Flick. Flick. Flick. Although it’s my duty to acknowledge whatever strange hobby she’s engaging in, I am too scared of the response. It’d be something to help lose weight –I already know that much. Even that alone is too much information.

I shove more turkey in my mouth, gulping it down with large amount of apple juice. Whatever insecurities Annie faces, it’s definitely not genetic.

That’s when Mum enters the picture. “Get off, Annie,” Mum growls, practically shoving my little sister off the table. Mid-chew, I stare up at her, utterly shocked by her violent behaviour. “You are too heavy. You’ll break it.”

Although my mother didn’t mean Annie’s weight specifically but the excessive weight of an individual, the self-conscious, miserable little girl took the issue personally. She arises from the ground and, with slumped shoulders and tightly shut eyes, blindly races to her bedroom.

Oblivious to the potential damage she’s done, my mother sits at the kitchen table and glare down at me. Alongside, she drinks and eats all the leftovers, but never once tearing those piercing green eyes away from mine. This isn’t just any half-hearted glare parents seem to throw around like a softball; this is the stare.

The same stare which made Annie, somebody who wouldn’t be caught dead with dirty sneakers, carry the trash out every day. My father was also manipulated with this look –in fact, he hates the house we live in currently. But Mum loves it more than words describe. It was using that expression to her utter advantage which bought us this house.

“Tessa, is there something you’d like to tell me?”

I have the paranormal ability to completely determine a stranger’s path. “No.”

“Anything happening with you?” She gulps down a mouthful of orange glass, yet her eyes remain firmly on my face. In silence, I am astonished by how she can multitask so efficiently; death-glaring me while simultaneously eating her afternoon tea.

I wanted to be good. But I love horror too much. “No.”

“What’s this, then?” She holds a wrinkled piece of paper, previously scrunched. I gulp. It’s one which was flung in my wastebasket a few days ago. “Tessa, why aren’t you entering the National Writing Competition?”

Technically, she is questioning my refusal to participate in the only thing I can do. My insufficient grades and poor sporting performance –not to mention the lack of talent in absolutely everything– leads her to one conclusion: I must continue my writing. Maybe even my film-making skills, but that’s all interrelated

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.

Chapter Seven

“I’ll tell you again; whatever past you speak of, I have no clue,” Sebastian says, tilting his face away.

Using excessive force, he kicks ground and energises the next flight into the air. The swings in the park may be getting smaller, but the childish aspect of his personality is ignited; he flies into the air, glasses off, and a startled expression on his face.

However, this starry eyed expression is no excuse for his reluctance to inform me of my own past.

My teeth grit and I grab one of the ropes. He immediately stops, the swing jerking in the process, and leaving an unhappy Sebastian. “Quit using passive voice. It’s freaking pretentious.”

“I’ll use whatever voice I desire.” He always sounds extra snobby when he’s annoyed, feeling awkward or both. It just happens to be one of those times. “If you don’t mind, miss Theresa, could you kindly leave me to be?”

“Not until you tell me my past.”

“Stop bugging me, okay?”

Despite the situation, the intensity of my missing past and pieces of unknown jigsaw puzzles, I grin.

Sebastian could’ve easily inserted long, memorised words which haven’t been in use since last century. But his annoyance prevented him from doing so. Thinking up the words “halt” to replace “stop” and “irritating” in place of “bugging” could’ve been simple for a recent bookworm like him; yet, I’ve pulled on his strings too hard. He’s left, wordless and lacking verbosity.

It makes me smile, knowing my influence over a single human being. Perhaps this would be the beginning of a new revolution where my words alone can manipulate the world. What an edgy, disturbing yet exciting thought.

These thoughts, however, won’t extract an answer from him. I need more. There are numerous techniques I can attack with; the notorious, “I know what you did last night” to draw fear; painful violence to literally draw blood or the last resort option, which is to threaten to stalk him.

None of these seem fitting for sagacious Sebastian. Inhaling a sharp breath, I say aloud the one thing I never, in a million years, imagined myself voicing: the truth. “I think I’m adopted.”

He stops the swing. “Do you have any proof?”

“I literally look nothing like my parents. Or my grandparents. Or my sister, my uncles, my aunties; I don’t look like any of them. Not even a little bit.”

I’m surprised to find him snickering. Rage boils inside me. I shoot him my most threatening glare until he stops.

“Sorry. Just… first world problems.”

“Says the boy who cried last year in class ‘cause his father bought him the wrong thousand-dollar action figure.”

His face immediately darkens. “And the girl who has absolutely no talent with words, but wins international writing contests –over people who actually deserve them– because her plots are morbid, gruesome and somehow brainwashing.”

I don’t say anything. After a long silence, Sebastian finally says, “You claim I know something about your past.”

“I know you didn’t say the words themselves. But I want you to help me understand why I thought you somehow did.”

I remember the discovery with my violet pen. Renee and Sebastian didn’t speak those words as I’d assumed; it was a deception played by supernaturalism, a warning reminding me stories I write can apply to myself. I am never out of the equation.

Yet, there’s a reason Renee and Sebastian were in that hallucination. No matter how misty and surrealistic it feels, there’s a reason for their presence. Why would their faces be on these people, telling stories of my past, a conversation which may never have happened? I’m choosing to believe there is hidden symbolism.

“So I was in this, uh, daydream… and you’re wondering why?”

I nod. “There must be some hidden meaning.”

“Or maybe there is none at all. A flaw of the human mind is the inability to properly recall an event.” Sounding conceited again. But I listen anyway, and am relieved when he begins speaking normal English again. “Memories you once had have been, and always will be, changing themselves. So I think that maybe you heard this conversation, but don’t remember the people having it. You used me and Renee and substitutions for no apparent reason. But the memory lives with you.”

This clicks something in my mind. He’s right. Renee and Sebastian may not serve as a symbol, but a substitute for abandoned memories. There’s a real message carrier, the initiator of this conversation and the replier, yet I can’t recall any memory of  them. My job is to go ahead and find them.

“Thanks, Sebastian,” I say quickly, jumping off the swings.

Just as I’m about to run off, determined to uncover the mysteries of my unknown past, Sebastian calls out, “Wait. Have you ever read Anne of Green Gables?”

“Nope.”

“Who am I kidding? You and the words ‘books’ can’t be in the same sentence,” he mutters under his breath, but I hear him anyway. He clears his throat before I can retort to this insult. “Theresa, you have a perfect life, perfect family, perfect friends. Yeah, there are the occasional people who’re hostile towards you, but rumour says you stabbed one of them in the hand with a pen.” He pauses. “I’m honestly curious; did you actually–?”

“Get to the point, Sebastian,” I interject, having no patience for whatever judgement he’d enforce after I reveal the sudden spontaneity of that attack. Even if I explain I was someone else in that particular instance, I doubt he’d offer anything more than disapproval.

“What I’m saying is, you’re already Anne of Green Gables. You might be adopted, yeah, but who really cares? Your life’s perfect the way it is. I don’t know anything about this secret past of yours, but I doubt it’s something positive. Is it really worth knowing something that can potentially damage you?”

*

I start by writing a story. Another simple story, nothing significant or life-changing, yet every word etched onto paper feels foreign. A story of hope, not murder; dreams, not cynical viewpoint of the world and an environment of two characters, a mother and daughter searching freedom; not the fantasy-based ghouls haunting their house.

They are running away. This doesn’t set them apart from the rest of society, or the world itself, but their determination and passion shines through. Their faces, clad with dirt and hair frizzy with the lack of hygiene, they adventure through the world, looking for empathy in those at a higher social status. Escaping poverty, starting anew and making dreamy ideals become reality.

Nothing will stop them. Especially the ending, a simple, “And they never had to experience such tragedy again” which may also be on the cliché side, is completely different from my usual writing style. Just re-reading the story makes me feel sick.

But when I feel a tiny zap in my forearm, something minor and almost microscopic, I am aware this story has transferred from fiction to reality. This is a story somebody in the contemporary world, a person I may never know, can tell with utter confidence. I may have changed the course of path for struggling parties and made a change.

It might not change the whole world; yet, it changed theirs. And their stories are also altered, which they’ll undoubtedly tell for generations to come. There’s warmth surfacing such a sensation. I suddenly feel glad I wrote this, despite how my fingers itched to scrawl lines of something more sinister.

“You’re Tessa, right?”

I’ve almost forgotten where I am. A boy, undoubtedly half my height, leans again my table and observes me. The scar on his right cheek gives his identity away. Everybody knows how he got that scar and who caused it. Yet, it’s so much more entertaining when he says it himself.

“Ouch. That scar looks like it hurt.” I point at my own cheek. “How’d you manage to do that?”

Immediately, that inquisitive nature disappears. The gaze which confirmed I was somebody he barely met, may have recognised or was trying to piece together, shatters. What’s left is a defensive posture, initiated by the sudden staggering and the folded arms, and narrow eyes which said more about his emotions than words.

“None of your business.”

“It was from Sebastian, right? You guys used to be best friends. I’d never see you guys separated, and now, you guys are total strangers. It must hurt, right, Flynn?”

The composure, previously in shambles by my ruthless accusation, repairs itself. A step forward, the twitching of his eye set to a minimum, and even his buck teeth appears menacing. He audibly inhales and then turns to me, a slight smile on his face. “You won the short story contest.”

It’s not a question. Therefore, I take it as an excuse to remain silent. Not that it’d deter him from what he intends on voicing aloud.

“You are good at writing horror stories,” he continues. “At first, I thought it was just something of a whim –a one-off, if you’d prefer. But after seeing your previous entries, all of the same genre, I can’t stop noticing the effort you put in.”

“So?” The word escapes my mouth before I intend. Since the single word is already said aloud, already hanging on a thread and dangling in front of Flynn’s dumbfounded face, I elaborate. “So what if I’m good at writing horror stories? I’m not gonna write a script for you and nor am I going to help you out in any way, shape or form for your own entry. So whatever ‘effort’ you saw me having, I have no intention of putting it under your name.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. Then sorry,” I say, not really sounding apologetic. “Everyone who wants me to ghost-write their stories start off with the same sentences. Couldn’t really see how you were any different.”

He stands there for a while. There’s nothing particularly scary about Flynn, yet the mere physical appearance of him makes me shiver. All his childlike traits –the buck-teeth, the slight lisp and overly late growth spurt– mould together to create a horrifying recreation of the stereotypical child, but not in an adorable manner.

When he opens his mouth again, I feel cold all over again. “See, I have a proposal. My parents want to sell our house so we can move to Italy, because it’s the only valuable asset we have. But I don’t wanna go. Inspections are now being held and everything, and a lot of people are interested in buying it. I don’t wanna leave, though. I like it here.” He clears his throat, probably noticing my sleepy posture, and speaks extremely fast to get his point across. “And here’s where you come in. I’ll set up fake inspection times and I want you to go across and point out negative things about our house so they don’t buy it.”

“Thanks, but no. Sorry.”

I turn to my piece of paper, ready to write another optimistic story to “broaden my writing abilities,” when Flynn says in a quiet voice, “Would you do it for a price?”

Instantly, I drop the pencil. “Name it.”

“You want to know about your past, don’t you?” When I give him a look which betrays my feelings of utter shock, he adds, “I know everything about everyone. Don’t feel targeted.”

Actually, this makes me more uncomfortable, but I keep silent about such trivial matters. My emotions are nothing without advancement into my past. And if what Flynn says is remotely true, then that’s the missing puzzle piece I’m searching for.

“You know about my past, do you now?”

“I know more than you do. That’s a fact.”

I sit there for a while, contemplating the situation in my mind. There are many things which may divert into a separate, worsened path; he might not know anything about my past, and all this big-talk is nothing short of lying.

But I have my violet pen with me for situations like that. Karma or the concept of “what goes around, comes around” no longer is infinite; I control exactly what happens, when it happens. Maybe it won’t go according to plan. In that case, I’d be extremely specific about the choice of punishment, whom it’s inflicted upon and the time. Supernaturalism will never betray  a good cause.

“If I help you out, will you tell me what you know?”

He smiles. “Wouldn’t mention it if I didn’t.”

I hold out my hand, almost comically. He shakes it regardless of my wordless mocking.

Chapter Eight

In front of me stands a giant house, at least several metres tall with endless storeys and flashing windows. Sunlight captures every aspect of the broken, ragged building, making it beautiful in a vintage perspective. Yet, I can’t see why Flynn is so desperate to keep this ruined house; change is always uncomfortable, but not to the extent where I’d sacrifice happiness for this pile of bricks.

But I’m smart enough not to question this. If I do, he may realise the obvious mistake he’s making, and call off our deal. Going another day without knowing about my past will drive me insane.

Broken memories. Familiar strangers. Words that make no sense but soon will. This is everything Flynn can provide me; the key to my past, an inevitable one. Without his source of information, I am lost. I’ll be roaming the streets blindly, telling my problems to scornful strangers and frightened acquaintances.

I need closure. And I need it now. No matter the consequences, the possible precarious events about to happen, I will recover my unattainable past.

“Nice house.”

He stands beside me, grinning. A scar reaches from the tip of his left eye to the beginning of his lip –it extends with the movement. “Nice lie.”

I step into the dark building, ignoring his swift recognition of my fib. Sometimes, I foolishly forget who he is. Flynn Mason, son of a policeman father and psychologist mother. He’s born for this kind of personality; the kind of mind which allows him to understand human intentions greater than anyone else.

In every bookshelf –and there are a lot of them, just in the living room alone– there are at least twenty books. Analysis of the human mind, essays on criminal investigations and factual information regarding contemporary cases. Even if his parents work all day, there are enough resources around the house to intrigue knowledge of the world surrounding him.

“So, when will they be here?” I ask.

He glances at his watch. “In ‘bout five.” There’s a knock on the door. “Or now.”

We open the door. A family of three await us, with a blonde mother with an upturned nose, a father with slightly bent ears and a child, cradled to its mother’s chest. They shoot us warm smiles. Whatever we return doesn’t offer the same warmth, and their eyes cloud with suspicion.

“Come on in,” I say, gesturing to the living room. “Hi, I’m Theresa.”

The eyebrows of the husband knit together. “Theresa? But we’ve been talking to a woman called Mirabelle–”

“Oh, yeah,” Flynn says quickly, “about her. She got called on duty for something –you know how it is for psychologists, don’t ya? Well, this is Theresa –she’s my sister.”

They glance at me from head to toe, turning to do the same with Flynn. It’s evident in their stern gazes alone that they don’t believe we’re siblings –which is acceptable, as their suspicions are completely and utterly correct. I continue smiling, feeling my lips falter every second. Without them, the deal will be off.

“It’s a lovely house,” the woman says, glancing at her surroundings. “It’ll be good for Edward here.” She gently pats her son’s hair. Then turns to her husband. They share such a personal moment, I feel sick.

It’s time it disappears. For good.

“This way, please,” I say, directing them upstairs. “Careful, don’t touch the banisters. The last owner of the house slipped and fell, hitting their head on that rail. They had cold sores –like, a lot of them– and some of the germs might be left over.” I sneak a look at the family, praying they don’t have enough medical knowledge to work out cold sores are only contagious from the person themselves. Judging by their widened eyes and distance from the handle, I have estimated correctly. “We’re on the second floor now.”

I gesture to a stained-glass window. “There’s a story behind it. The last owners of this house painted that for his wife, but she died the night before. Now he lives in this mansion, roaming the hallways.” I laugh at their uncomfortable smiles. “C’mon, don’t tell me you believe that. It’s just a story.”

“Yeah,” the woman echoes. “Just a story.”

“Over here,” I say, pointing to a bedroom with wall-sized mirrors and windows near the ceiling of the rooms. It is impossible for one to stare out of the room without standing. “This is my favourite room of the house. These mirrors didn’t used to be there, did you know? But after an incident, they got put here.”

Flynn catches on, and says the most generic comment applicable to the situation, “It was tragic, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” I sigh. “On this floor, in this very room, a girl was soundly asleep. Back then, the bed was right underneath the window. She was staring up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. Then, suddenly, she heard a scratching sound. And there he was, a masked figure who smashed the window. He had a gag with him. She suffocated to death.”

This time, though, their eyes are wary. All this time, they’ve been following along with whatever I said. But now, they are holding their own questions in their head.

The father speaks up. “I don’t understand. You want to sell this house, and we want to buy this. Why would you say anything that hurts your profit?”

Good question; a surprising one, even. Guess I underestimated both this couple and two-year-old son, who’s now awake and watching with curious eyes. He sucks on his thumb.

“You’re right. I don’t want to sell this house.” I meet their eyes. “My sister lives here, and I can’t bear the thought of selling her home.”

“You mean the girl who was murdered…”

“Was my sister. And I wish it was a lie. Or a myth. Or something else but the reality I suffer through every day.”

We stare at each other. Sweat forms on the mother’s face. The father clutches at her hand, and with a tight-lipped smile, says, “Thank you for showing us ‘round. We, uh, have other houses to inspect so we should better get going.”

They race down the stairs before I can blink, careful to avoid the banisters with the supposed contagious germs. The mother grips on the child, and the father dashes out the door. Neither of them turn back. But the young boy does, still suckling on his thumb, and giving me an innocent door before the door shuts in front.

“That was…” Flynn begins. “That was brilliant.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t get how they fell for it. They looked like intellectuals to me–”

“Were we looking at the same people?” I smile. “Actually, yeah –I see where you’re coming from. Their outfits were smart, the baby was in a simple, comfortable cloth and the husband wore glasses. But did you notice the woman’s necklace?”

“The baby was blocking it the whole time.”

“Not the whole time. Just some of it. And on that necklace were little gold-plated charms; a four-leaved clover, a grey rabbit’s foot, a couple of horseshoes and mini lanterns. My friend, Lilah, lives at a farm. Her father is a blacksmith and it looked exactly like the metal he carves. That metal’s expensive, and so is her necklace.”

Lilah’s father was extremely passionate about metal. Once, I went over to their house and spent the entire day hanging around her father’s workshop. The works he crafted looked too perfect, too professional, to be created by human hands alone. But they were. Each and every artwork was another addition to his gallery.

Very soon, after endless questions and marvelling sighs, we learned about all the metals he surrounds himself with –especially gold, his favourite. It’s strange to think this happened so long ago. Another past, almost.  

“So you figured out she was superstitious by looking at her accessories.”

“Superstitious to an extreme level, if she’s to go as far as making a gold necklace out of it.”

“How’d you know the father was superstitious as well?”

“I didn’t.”

He looks surprised. “And you did it anyway? Even though he might’ve seen through it?”

“I knew he’d react this way. That wasn’t due to being superstitious, but being a parent. As any parent, he feels as if he’s responsible for his family. Choosing a home that might endanger them is a big no. So he went along with it. He didn’t feel safe here.”

“Of course,” he says under his breath. “Masculinity psychology.” Then he fishes something out of his pocket. “This is a key for a locker belonging to a toddler Theresa Hawthorne.” As soon as I step to grab it, he twists it away from me. With a sly grin, he says, “How do you know I’ll give it to you?”

“We had a deal.”

“Deals mean nothing.”

He screams as I shove him to the ground. My leather boots, equipped with four-inch heels to appear professional for the inspection, serve another purpose. The heel of my left boot stabs into his shoulder blade. Struggling in his spot, he stares up at me with flashing eyes. Fear.

“I’ll take that, thank you,” I say, swiping the keys from his immobile fingers. Before I begin racing down the stairs, I can’t resist calling an ironic, “Have a nice day!” and then barge open the door, leaving Flynn and his giant mansion to rot.

When I next glance at my right elbow during this moment of pure adrenaline, I perceive a vague violet tint; it’s barely noticeable, but undeniably there.

*

There’s a small tag attached to the single key; a number reading “Locker 2” in scrawled, tiny handwriting. An additional piece of paper reads an address. My hand freezes when I notice it’s not any address, but belonging to my own house. The concept of Flynn knowing where I live, let alone a key to a secret compartment, scares me beyond words.

These aren’t my parents. Annie is not my sister. Maybe I should’ve noticed a long time ago, but I never felt different until now. Suddenly, I feel like I’m a little strange in comparison to the happy, joking lives of those around me. Weak. They are weak human beings, hurt by little comments and bad grades. Is this all there is to life? Watching them meander around without a life of my own?

“Oh, you’re home,” says Annie, seeing me enter the living room.

I flash her a quick smile. “Yeah. Been out for a while.”

“Has life been treating you well, Tessa?” She leans against the sofa, her eyes shut. In front of her is a glass of water. Ever since she found out water has virtually no calories, she has given up food. “I got a phone call from Mr Sanatori. He says I have an appointment with him on Monday. Funny, because I was never told.”

“Annie, we’re only doing what’s best for you.”

“I am not a mental patient. So why are you treating me like one?”

Just as I’m about to return the indignantly in her voice with a hurtful remark, I am halted by the tears flowing down her cheeks. Little droplets of water streaking her thinned, hollow face.

“Sorry,” I say, heading to the garage and closing the door behind me. Annie’s problems can wait; I have enough of my own.

Behind the garage is a storage room with approximately ten lockers. They are small, torn and rusted in some areas. Cobwebs hang onto them like accessories. I can see why Flynn might find an interest in these lockers; they are exactly like his own house.

According to the instructions on the tag, I find a locker with the number “2” written in big, bold writing. My key fits into the lock perfectly. I am more unsettled by Flynn’s uncanny knowledge of those around him. As I twist it, anticipation builds up within me –along with a pre-satisfaction, a bubbling excitement of finally unravelling a mystery.

Inside, there is a single piece of paper. It’s slightly rumpled and contains a horrible mixture of colours. What is this? I think, turning the paper over and examining it. My eyes widen. It’s a drawing by a child, a terribly drawn picture with two stick-figures; one standing upright, and the other lying on the floor, little crosses acting as eyes. Splashes of unevenly spread red cover the ground. Blood.

“She’s awfully odd,” Mum says to Dad, holding my hand. I hear her every word, even though I’m barely at her waist. “I’ve never met anybody who doesn’t have quirks, but she’s so…”

“Different.”

“I was going to say strange.” She gives me a wide, condescending smile as I hand a crayon to her. Then she turns back to her husband, still miserably bad at whispering. “They were asking students what they wanted to be. All the students said normal things –doctors, astronauts, detectives, nurses– but she… she drew this.”

My father doesn’t say anything. He keeps walking. And just when I think the conversation has ended, that he won’t contribute anything more, he says:

“She won’t ever be normal; nobody would be, with a past like hers.” He reaches over to ruffles my hair. “But we love her anyway.”

__________

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 09.09.2013

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