Omens (wattys2016)

Seven.

"Double cheeseburger, onion only and a large cherry Coke." The waitress looks towards Jackson, who has not once glanced down at the menu she handed up ten minutes ago.

"And for you sweetie?" she asks, her southern drawl coating every word.

"Tomato soup and the grilled cheese. Coffee, black," he responds as he hands her the folded menus. She winks at us, hips swaying as she makes her way back to the kitchen.

My phone vibrates and I pull the bulky thing from my pocket, flipping open the screen. The envelope icon flashes at me.

Daph: If you don't call me and tell me everything afterwards I will hunt you down! The text reads, followed by far too many heart eyed emoticons. I slam the phone closed, placing it in front of me.

We sit there silently and I begin to regret accepting his offer. What do people even talk about on a date? Wait, is this a date? I can feel the sweat begin to bead on my forehead. I am overthinking this, as usual. Why oh why must I be such a loser?

I continue to say nothing, tearing my napkin into small pieces as I wait for our food to arrive. At least I will have a reason not to talk. My mind is racing with thoughts. Most of them revolve around asking him if he just so happened to be at the scene of a gruesome murder about seven years ago. That probably is not the best conversation starter. I swallow the lump growing in my throat.

"How long have you lived in Portland?" Jackson asks, breaking the silence.

"Since I was ten. So about seven years now. My family moved here from Manhattan. "

"Oh wow, that's one hell of a move. Why so far?"

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. He would ask about the one subject I don't care to talk about. The urge to run is strong. I could do it, just get up and leave. I choose the diner down the street from the shelter for a reason. I could pretend to get a call, tell him there is an emergency at home.

Chill out, my mind tells me, He is just trying to make small talk. No need to freak out. This is how people get to know each other.

"Um, my father relocated for work". The lie sounds reasonable enough. No need to tell him the truth. That my father woke me and my brothers up in the middle of the night and told us to pack all of our things. That we we loaded into our van and hauled halfway across the US for unknown reasons. That my mother had spent every night after the move roaming the halls at night. Holding whispered conversations with my father about whether or not "they" would find us.

The waitress arrives, dropping full plates of hot food in front of us. I tear into my burger viciously, letting the grease roll down my chin. Jackson is more than likely only doing this to make up for being a jerk last night. I will probably never hear from him again, so why try and act like a lady?

"What about you?" I ask through a mouthful of burger, "How long have you lived here?"

"My whole life, " he responds, swirling his sandwich into the warm red soup.

I try and think of more questions but draw a blank. This is about as far as my interaction with the opposite sex goes. Usually by now they have either realized what a giant waste of time I am...or attempted to fondle me.

Jackson allows my oddness, finishing off his food well before me. He pays the tab, leaving large tip for the waitress. He rolls the sleeves to his sweater up, a flash of black catches my eye. My heart drops into my stomach. Tattooed delicately onto his strangely tan skin is a thick black tribal tattoo. I drop my food, appetite suddenly gone.

"What's wrong?" he asks. I shoot up front my seat, beelining for the exit. My stomach turns violently, threatening to spill its contents. I rush into the cold night air, rain bites at my skin as I walk as fast as humanly possible towards the shelter.

I duck off into the alley closest to the large metal doors that lead into the shelter. I brace myself against the wet brick walls, struggling to catch my breath. I think I'm going to be sick. This is not happening to me. I did not see that tattoo. I just imagined it. I am losing my mind. Yea, that's it. I have finally snapped and am now on a downwards spiral to the nut house.

"Whoa." Jackson places his hands on my shoulders. I pivot, pushing him away from me. He looks back at me confused.

"Don't touch me!" I yell. He backs up, hands held up defensively. The tattoo is still there. Mocking me.

"You were there!" I continue, "You were there that night, standing in the corner. You saw it all. You saw what he did to us and you just stood there, watching."

"Oh shit," he says under his breath, a flash of recognition moving across his face, "I didn't think you'd remember."

"Didn't think I'd remember? My whole family was slaughtered in front of me. How could I forget? What kind of person forget something like that?" I can feel the tears streaming down my face. Feel them slide down my cheeks, pooling at the hem of my hoodie.

Jackson begins to pace, talking to himself. I can't make out the words. He is talking too quietly, too fast. Anger takes over and I shove him, his back hitting the hard wall behind him. My blood is boiling, years of suppressed rage threaten to break free.

"What the hell are you?" I demand, "You were there. I died and you were there. How is that even possible?"

"If you would just calm down you and I could talk about thi-"

My fist connects with his jaw, sending him reeling back into the wall. Blood trickles from the wound, dribbling down to his chin.

"Stay away from me! Stay the hell away from me!"