colours - b.w.s

one

A-
Orange. That is the colour of the sky, an endless mass of flames illuminating everything below. I watch as cars pass, some with headlights beaming, others without, considering the dim, but not yet dark surroundings. All that reaches my ears is the pleasant din of daily life: engines rumbling, distant music, light chatter, songs of winged creatures. A breeze trails across my skin, nipping at the bare skin of my legs that dangle over the edge of the roof.
This abandoned warehouse has always been a place of sanctuary and peace for me. Whenever it pleases me, I can come here and know that there will be minimal distractions. The only distraction will be myself, trying to detach my brain from whatever it was infested with.
I close my eyes and begin swinging my legs to and fro from where they hang over the edge. If anyone bothers to look from their daily lives up to the crumbling warehouse that had seemingly blended in with the rest of the town, maybe someone would tell me to get down from the roof. But never once had an eyelid been batted at the sight of a teenage girl, carelessly swaying in the wind, whilst sitting thirty feet above solid ground.
As my eyes are shut, my other senses are heightened, and in the distance I hear faint shouts, almost as if they were directed at someone or something for getting away from the perpetrator. My eyes fly open, in order to see if anything was happening, the shouts growing in volume. Suddenly, a boy, no older than eighteen, enters the road on which the warehouse is. He continues sprinting until he spins his head round over his shoulder, his breaths coming in heavy spurts. I search for anyone following the boy, when two older, broad-shouldered men enter my vision. As soon as their eyes set upon the boy, shouts erupt from their mouths, yet again.
I watch intently as the boy turns into the courtyard of the warehouse, and instantly, I fling my legs back onto the roof and crouch down, hoping that the boy is too busy caught up in running away to notice me, staring, intrigued, at the situation. He continues up to the door of the warehouse, which is bound in several metal locks and chains. Panicking now, he sprints round the side of the building, where he slips into the warehouse through an opening. I see the two men look around aimlessly, but, fortunately or unfortunately, the boy has slipped from their grip. They turn around and begin to leave, cursing violently.
My mind focuses on the boy in the warehouse below me. Do I stay here? Do I try and leave? If I stay here, who knows how long he'll be before he leaves? I take my chances and I begin to crawl to the side of the roof, where a rusted ladder is cautiously nailed to the side of the building. I climb down it, trying to ease any sound by travelling on the tops of my toes. Once I reach the bottom of the ladder, I stand on an equally rusty platform, the bars around the edge hanging at different angles. I creep down the stairs as quietly as possible and enter the warehouse.
As I'm on the platform that curls around the edge of ceiling, I have a clear view of everything below: neglected machinery, vehicle parts strewn over the floor, and him.
I wander almost silently around the platform, until I reach the stairs leading to the floor. The gaping holes in the roof let in hardly any light; only thin slivers of deep orange. I crouch behind a pole, as I peer at the boy in the centre.
He's panting heavily, his brown locks stuck to his head presumably with sweat from running here. I can only see one half of his face, but I am able to see just enough to realise that he is in an unmistakeable state of joy. His eyes are wide and eager and his lips are curled into a subtle smile. Then, his hands fish out something from his pocket, and even from this restricting angle, I know exactly what it is. Money. And not just a few crumpled five pound notes. A huge slab of what looks to be twenty pound notes. There must be well over 4,000 pounds, maybe even £5,000.
He begins to count the money, his hands gliding over the notes. Once he's finished, a sly smirk grows on his face, and he breathes a small sigh of, most probably, relief. Whoever was pursuing him, wanted that money.
Then, all too suddenly, his eyes are on my mine. Brown orbs. Panic stricken.
In a burst of fear, I begin to run back to the roof, my heart hammering. What if he has a weapon?
I hear footsteps behind me and then a clammy hand clamps around my forearm, pulling me back violently.
"Who the hell are you?" the brown haired boy spits, not failing to loosen his grip on me.
"Look, I was just up on the roof, and I was leaving and you came in, and-" but my babbling was cut off by his harsh voice.
"I don't give a shit why you were here. I asked you who you are," his voice was quiet. But not a pleasant quiet. Menacingly quiet.
"Ashley. My name's Ashley," I tremble.
"How much did you see, Ashley?" he asks, his threatening front never faltering.
"I saw you running from those men, and then you hiding in here and counting the money," I state. As soon as he hears these words, his fingers instantly constrict my arm even more.
"If you even mention a word of it to anyone, you'll be dead before you know it. Is that clear?"
I nod, my eyes widening at the threat. I don't even question his capability of finding out whether I tell anyone. From the looks of things, he's definitely capable of murder, with or without a motive.
My arm is relived of pressure, and he turns and walks down the stairs. Just as his boot touches the floor, a wave of curiosity washes over me.
"Don't I get to know your name?" I question, my voice considerably greater than my confidence levels right now.
"Brad," he replies, not bothering to turn his head to look at me.
As he disappears through the opening in the warehouse, I limbs instantly relax, and I begin to deliberate over what just occurred.