The Roof Terrace

A short story, written for my Creative Writing coursework for AS, inspired by Angela Carter's 'A Bloody Chamber'...

His hair was so close to my rouged lips now, I could taste the intoxicating salt, carried by blasts from the waves below us on the roof terrace. A generous amount of moments consumed of brooding on what my next motive was, and what was his; while he had spent his reading the subtleties of when to engage.

Earlier, he told me he had been travelling: a ‘gap year experience’. The evening brought about many of his type and their canny smirks, knowing so much of nothing. Yet, he was different. Foremost, he had not taken to bleaching his roots until the scalp begged with a merciless itch. His shoulders arched downwards, elongating the neck, protruding a head brimming with confidence of knowing a little more than nothing. He was perfect.

Before that, we were sipping florescent cocktails, and I had noted of his absent charm, rather brash, rather bold. An arrogance penetrating the atmosphere: I was so lucky to be honed in on by him. He was a gift. A cherry, already plump with glucose, bobbed in the glasses, oozing into the alcohol-laced concoction. A harmless umbrella crowded the glasses too, connoting Hawaii, though we were not situated near. I wondered how many of these adolescents, pressed up against each other at this ‘evening do’ – this party – enjoyed the feeling of the pungent drinks throbbing in their throats, or if it was merely a show. Admittedly, I didn’t care much for them, but when he swooped in and gallantly offered to purchase one for him, and myself, there was little point in refusing.

As soon as he arrived, along with his band of equally egotistical company, the atmosphere seemed to shift, as the whole party gravitated towards them: rocks orbiting their life source. The weekend parties at these clubs would always draw these types, along with gaggles, pleading seductively for the attention. When he swanned over, it must have been for either the fact no one else was tailed on my arm, doggedly waiting for the whisper of consent; or that he had taken instant pleasure in my outward appearance. Like I had done to him.

So as we perched on the roof terrace only an hour or a little longer after meeting, glasses now drained of liquid, the flaccid cherries now at the bottom of the glasses, it was time. He kept glancing at me, as I appeared hypnotised by the sea, which lapped violently at the cliffs, below the club. Below us. After some time had passed and many unanswered glances had been avoided, his hand crept down, clasping my rear, now formalising his intentions. Timidly, I simpered, which made him assume the authority of the next base to be conquered.

***

When the screams from the terrace had subsided enough, I began to inform the police – who were so kind as to speak all the English they could muster – of the terrible fate of the young man I had been with, who fatally tumbled from the roof terrace to the sea below. All remotely convicting evidence flagellated from a body now slashed by rocks to form pathetic, limb debris. A dreadful accident of ‘too much to drink and too much cockiness’ I whimpered in sorrow. For, who would not believe an innocent girl like me?