Bluff.

Chapter 1.

Chapter1.

"Hi, my name is Jordan. I am a victim of a crime."

"Hello Jordan", the other people in the room responded with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The loudest response came from the group leader, Leroy, who practically clapped when I finished my sentence. The quietest response came from a disgruntled thirteen-year-old who glanced at me (I think) before returning to stare at his shoes. It had been two weeks since I had started coming here, to this old run-down sports hall, and listened to other people tell their stories about how they became victims of violent crimes. However, it was my turn. In movies, the groups ask "do you want to share" and the main character is like the silent one who never 'shares' anything, but our group isn't like that – you are given two weeks, and you are to begin sharing. It's sort of like a weird "process" – you listen to others share, they feel uncomfortable and squirm, then they start and usually within 5 minutes, they have done one of three things:

1. Started crying and/or sniffling

2. Ran out of the room wailing (they are given two more weeks after that)

3. Rushed through it, giving no details, only the bare minimum and sat down.

I decided that for me, this would not be the case. I would tell them the whole story, so I wouldn't be asked again and I could just sit down and listen. I love 'listening'; you can just sit and stare at the ground and no-one cares enough to ask for your attention. I never listen to other stories, after my first week, I realised they were almost all muggings so I lost interest.

I'm not a sociopath, I swear. Maybe I should just tell the story. I'll tell you it exactly as I told them, those people.

"I was in a diner, working the night shift with my Mom. It was July 15th, and a Friday, so I was in a good mood. Back then, money was a struggle, so usually my tips went straight to Mom. On Fridays, however, any money I earned was my own. This meant I was extra perfect on the job too, which was better for everyone concerned. The people there that night were almost all regulars, so as I gave our oldest customer his third piece of Rhubarb Pie, I was talking casually to my mother. We were joking about something pointless – at least I hope it was, it's the one detail I can't remember about the night- when another customer walked in. It wasn't my turn to serve, it was my mother's, and a mother and daughter walked out seconds later. Looking back, they probably have no clue how lucky they got, and as they walked out the mother gave me an apologetic smile. My face didn't drop, my heart didn't drop – the mother and daughter had been great. If she didn't give me a tip it's because she couldn't afford it. I cleaned their table and brought the dirty dishes into the kitchen for our dishwasher, Marco, to clean. I then went out to my mother who had given her customer a menu. He shook it away and muttered 'Coffee'. I went to the machine and started making it."

Everyone in the room was listening now. Even the kid had abandoned the view of his messed up shoes to listen to my story, it appeared that people didn't talk in this detail often. I paused to look around – all eyes on me. I swallowed – public speaking wasn't my thing. I forced myself to keep going.

"I took a cloth to the table the mother and daughter had been at, sprayed on the bleach and wiped it down. My mother signalled to the door – I was to switch the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed'. I did so, and gave the table a final wipe, and turned around. Then, everything happened at once. My mother was walking over to the table, coffee in tow, when I saw the guy had a gun. My first instinct, I to this day believe, killed my mother. I yelled "Gun!" and ran towards my mother in a sort of stupid effort to protect her or stop him... I don't know what went through my head; I just knew I had to be there. He raised it and fired at Mom twice. The coffee fell and she sort of whimpered, at which point I yelled and charged him, fury took me over. I slipped on the coffee at the same time he fired at me, so the bullet landed in my shoulder. I hit my head off the ground, and in that instant I knew that if I were to survive, I needed to hold my breath - he might think I broke my neck. I fell unconscious within seconds, but I remember my mother holding my head in her hands and stroking it softly... she thought I was dead, but knew she wasn't far behind. I guess I'm here now telling you lot, which means that I fooled the guy into thinking I was dead, but it hurts that to do that I had to do it to my mother too."

I sat down, folded my arms, and pulled my knees up to my chin. I thought it would have been harder actually, telling people the worst night of my life, but once I started I couldn't stop. Leroy stood up, and said Thank you for sharing, Jordan". I grimly smiled, and stared at my shoes. The kid had a good thing going there. My shoes were suddenly more interesting than any of the people around me. I heard Leroy say something, followed by a lot of shuffling, so I assumed that people were leaving, so I grabbed my bag, and then my phone when it fell onto the floor, and rushed out. Someone was calling me. It was the kid, the one who stared at his shoes. He ran towards me and pulled out his hand.

"Hi, my name is Carlos" he stated matter – of – factly.

"Hi... Jordan".

He then smiled at me, at which point I got both confused and frustrated.

"What did you want..? " I said as calmly as I could.

His jaw dropped a little, so he got to the point. I don't think he had counted on me having a short temper.

"Well, uhh, I just wanted to say that you are really brave to stand up there and tell your story like you did. No one ever does that, like at all, and you didn't receive any recognition for it. So here is the best I can do". He looked at me in an odd fashion, almost like I was some weird god, then I realised I was supposed to respond.

"How long have you been here..?"

He, once again, looked surprised. "Four years."

My turn for surprise: "Why so long..?"

He smiled at me, pitiful, and explained.

"Only a few of us are involved in murder cases, Jordan. Those that are... they are kept for longer." He turned and walked back into the hall. I stood in the parking lot watching him then, until I was beeped by my father to hurry up and get in the car.

I need to pay attention more to other people's stories.