A Fallen Petal

This was part of my AS English Language coursework which had to be based on a style model - I chose 'The Lovely Bones' by Alice Sebold, which is a dark but beautifully written book. Therefore the structure and some of the concepts and ideas are very similar( as they had to be) this is why I put it under fan-fiction.

I just thought I'd share it because it seems like a waste of my time I spent writing it with it just sat on my memory stick! Tell me what you think...

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2. Story

My name is Rose, like the flower; last name Roberts. I was thirteen when I was murdered on the 20th of August, 1976. There were few cases like mine at the time, children didn’t just disappear and people feared the concept. In those days murder was merely a term used in fictional stories and rarely a common topic in news reports. 

I’d only been in a newspaper once before, back then it was for my school’s nativity; I was the virgin Mary. They chose me for the part because I had good diction. My mother made my costume, and plaited my hair. My father told me I was blossoming into a promising young woman. I was very young then and my picture in the paper was small.

In my town there was never any scandal, apart from once when a black couple moved into one of the houses on our street. They had no children, but Mr. Amin liked the children in our neighbourhood. He always smiled at me and said hello, once he even gave me an apple off his tree when I fell over a paving slab outside his house.

I wasn’t killed by Mr. Armin, by the way. Don’t think everyone you’re going to meet in here is a suspect. You see, that’s the problem. We never know. Mr. Amin came to my funeral, as did most of my town and my class from school. Mr. Amin stayed at the back with his wife and shed a tear. They’d had a baby once, a baby girl, but she’d died of meningitis before she was one. He still cried for her, so I looked, but I never saw her in my heaven.

My murderer was a man from our neighbourhood. He owned the book shop down our road. My sister liked his window displays, My mother liked his romance novels. My father talked with him once whilst he pruned his roses. He gave me the head of one rose; my mother thanked him, I thought it was weird. My murderer believed in old-fashioned things like tea with sliced lemon and bone china, which reminded him of his youth.                                                                           

On the 20th August, it was hot, and in the evening light I peddled slowly carrying out my paper round. I felt clammy in the unbearable heat. My knee length black skirt was loose around my thighs creating a cool breeze as I moved. My bright yellow T-shirt clung to my skin and my Red cardigan tied in a knot round my waist matched the red ribbon my mother had placed in my hair.  The sky was still light and blue while the grass was dry under foot and decaying in the sun. Barely six feet from where Mr. Lock stood the ribbon flew from my hair and was taken by the wind. Trying to catch the ribbon I fell off my bike.  By the time they would find it I’d be dead, but my murderer would take the initiative and hide part of my nose nearby, which the Amin’s dog would take home to them.                                                   

“You should be more careful.” Mr. Lock said.                 

I thought he was unsympathetic, but I was glad I’d landed on the dead verge of grass which was springy and forgiving.    

"You're the Roberts girl, right?”                                          

“Yes.”                                                                                                                                                                                   

“How is the Robert household?”                                                                                                                              

Although confident in my classes at school, especially English; I had never felt comfortable engaging with adults. 

“Good,” I said. I was hot and tired and really wanted to go home. However being older, with the added fact he was from my neighbourhood and that he’d talked to my mother once about romance novels kept me trapped in his glance.     

“I’ve got a lovely book in my shop,” he said. “Would you like to see?”                                                    

“I’m really tired, Mr. Lock,” I said, “and my mother will want me home for tea.”                          

“But it’s already past tea time, Rosie.”                                                                                                

Looking back I should have known this was odd. Only my family and friends called me Rosie, and he was neither. I probably thought he’d heard my mother call to me in his shop, that day they’d talked about romance novels. My mother loved my name, she used to say it was impossible to say without cracking a smile, Now all it caused was her to crack.                                                                                          

As it turned out Mr. Lock had not heard my mother call to me in his shop. He would later offer his condolence to her as they passed in the street: “I heard about your tragedy; what happened to your poor daughter. What was her name again?”  

 “Rosie,” My mother would reply, not smiling as she used to, instead bracing herself against the burden my name enforced upon her, hoping that one day that burden and the dread would slowly fade until it was just a memory of the pain she once felt. But it never would, it would just grow within her, varying in the ways it imposed itself.                                                              

“Well,” Mr. Lock would reply, “here’s hoping they’ll find the twisted prick that did this.”                               

I was in my heaven by this point, fixing my features back together and I almost laughed at his hypocrisy. Everything was so simple in my heaven, with its tumbling hills and vast stone mansions, but it was a dreamland.  I was alone and I did not enjoy this intrusion of bullshit.                                                       

Mr. Lock had said it would only take a minute, so I’d followed him inside. The dark hit me without warning and my eyes stung as they adjusted. Mr Lock shut the door after us, I heard the catch click.                                                            

 The dark reminded me of hide and seek which I used to play with my mother and sister. One time we’d hid in my mother’s wardrobe and my father had accidentally locked us in. Lily had got scared but I told her everything would be fine. I wasn’t scared of the dark like she was. I was older.      

Mr Lock led me through his shop, past all the books. He took me out into his garden, which was perfectly maintained, leading me towards his greenhouse, which he’d painted black making it impossible to see inside; which seemed curious. He turned to face me. His gaze so intense I couldn’t meet it. I wasn’t used to grown men looking at me like that. 

“I’ve made a sort of secret den.” He told me and opened the door to his green house.                    

“Is the book in there?” I asked, peering into the darkness.                                                          

“Look and see,” he said.                                                                                                                                                              

But I didn’t want to look or see, I wanted to go home and see my mother. Mr. Lock entered first.  At that point I should have run; run for my life. But I didn’t... why didn’t I?                                                 

“Do you like it?” he asked.                                                                                                                                          

“It’s fab.” I told Mr. Lock, reverting to my little sister. I hadn’t used the word ‘fab’ in public since I was seven, but it seemed appropriate here “But Mr. Lock, I thought you wanted to show me a book?”                                                                      

“I will show you in good time, would you like a drink?”                                                                                        

“No thank you.”                                                                                                                                                                              

“Rosie. You are in my world now, you should not be rude.”                                                                               

“I really should be going.”                                                                                                                                           

“NO. Take off your clothes Rosie.” He ordered.                                                                                                

“What? Mr. Lock, please let me go.”                                                                                                                               

“You aren’t leaving, Rosie. You’re mine now.”                                                                                                       

I fought hard to stop him, harder than I’d ever fought before. I thought of my mother she’d be making tea, boiled egg with soldiers on a Thursday. But he was strong and he forced himself upon me. I thought of her looking at the clock wondering where I was, her little girl. Lying there, in his den, on my back, with him panting and moaning on top of me. She’d start plumping up the pillows on the sofa looking out the window for me. I begged for him to stop, I pleaded, and prayed, and cried. With his force he took away my purity. I saw the white walls of her bedroom and her vase full of flowers. The pain subsided as my eyelids closed, the last tear rolling down my cheek like the last petal falling from a rose. I felt the release as I emerged in heaven.

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