Left in the Dark

                                                                               Amelia P.O.V. I glare at the time on my phone. I have ten measly minutes of peace left before I need to get ready for work. I press my palms against my eyes to ease the on-coming headache, a frustrated sigh slipping past my lips. The past month has been hectic at work, three people had quit and I was the only one willing to pick up the sudden slack. The back-and-forth shifting from nights to days is killing me. I've had never felt more exhausted in my life.     I glance at the time again and groan; it's go-time. I roll out of bed and shuffle to my small bathroom. After brushing my teeth I stare at myself in the mirror. I can't lie to myself, I look like s**t. My thick, unruly long blonde hair is a giant rat's nest on my head from my restless sleep. My pale skin looks dry and dull from the lack of rest and never seeing the sun has caused my normally dark freckles to lighten significantly  The dark bags under my ice-blue eyes seem permanently stained into my skin. The only part of my face that seems unaffected are my soft pouty lips that I make sure to always keep chapstick on.     The hairbrush tears strands from my head as I roughly force it through the tangled mess. I pull the long locks into a tight, high ponytail to keep them out of my face. I quickly apply some mascara and soft shimmery chapstick. When I had less shifts and more time I had enjoyed making my eyes pop with the colors in the multiple high-end eyeshadow palettes next to the sink, but now I just don't have the will or the time. The two simple steps are all I really need, anyway. My clear skin, high cheekbones, easily managed brows, and thin, straight nose keep me from really finding makeup necessary. I still love it, though.     Changing into my work clothes is always the worst part. It feels so final. Once that black polo and name tag rest on my shoulders there would be no turning back. No calling in. No showing hoe purely exhausted I am. I step into the navy blue skinny jeans and pull them on with a shimmy to get them over my hips before I shrug the shirt over my head. The weight of my shifts seem to push my shoulders down towards the center of the earth. I quickly adjust my name-tag and stuff my feet into my beaten down red sneakers. Finished, I snag my keys and purse off the counter and head out the door to my car, feeling more anxiety the further I get from home.     I rest my head against the steering wheel, mentally preparing for another long night. For the millionth time I question myself about staying here. I shake off the thought and unbuckle the seat belt.      "Let's get this bread." I sigh showing how tired I am, but no one else would pay my bills. I have to go in. Despite the recent city-wide curfew I walk inside to see the place is fully packed. The small beach-side town is a popular tourist destination, after all, and this is the only gas station still open this late. I quickly dodge through the bodies to go clock in, then head behind the counter to join my frazzled coworker.      "Hey Mark, busy night, ey." I greet with a small smile, raising my soft voice to be heard over the crowd.     "Thank god, Amelia, you're here! I can't handle a crowd like this." Mark runs a hand through his light brown hair, causing bits to stick straight up like a hedgehog's spines. His soft brown eyes dart around in panic as he takes in the building full of impatient customers. Mark isn't good at working quickly, and he knows it.     "Go clock out, man, I got this. Easy peasy. No sweat." I grin at him as I efficiently begin working through the line at my register, calming his nerves.     " You sure? I could stay..." Mark hesitantly offers while shutting down his register.     "Go home, Mark. You know I'm good." I quickly grab three packs of cigarettes from behind me for a customer as Mark scurries away, relief pouring through him. It's fine, I prefer to work alone, no one in my way. Customer service is easy as pie for me, thanks to my secret. I can feel the emotions of the people around me as easily as I can feel my own. I've never told a soul and can't remember ever not having this ability. It makes it almost too easy to work with people, feeling them out to get the best results every time.     It's one in the morning by the time I finish getting the customers out and cleaning up. After a glance at the clock I hurry outside for a quick smoke break. I lean against the wall as I takes a long drag off the cigarette, the empty parking lot staring back at me in silence. Night shift is my favorite. The gentle silence only marred by the cool ocean breeze softly brushing through the palm fronds high above my head. It's peaceful, and the only time my mind isn't bombarded with the emotions of others.     A slick black Mercedes pulls into the lot and slides in next to pump ten as I finish my smoke. I walk inside and behind the counter, spritzing myself with the perfume I keep in my purse. Even though I smoke I don't want to smell like it. The bell above the door jingles.     "Hello!" I cheerfully call out. The driver of the car looks at me with mild disdain as he steps inside. Its obvious he isn't used to shabby surroundings. His perfectly tailored suit hugs his form impeccably. His dark brown hair looks carefully mussed, thick shapely brows drawn down in annoyance over his deep coffee eyes. His strong jaw is tense from his obvious displeasure at the store.      I immediately feel uncomfortable. Something definitely isn't right about this guy, though I can't tell what yet. He walks towards the counter with the fluidity of a predator and the confidence of someone who has never doubted themselves. Only after he stands directly in front of me do I realize why I feel off. I can't feel him. Not a thing. It's as if a ghost had wandered into the store. Not once in my life have I met someone I couldn't feel, the void of nothingness in front of me makes my stomach twist in anxiety.     "Wh-" I clear my tense throat and try again. "How can I help you, sir?" I muster up my confidence and look him in the eyes. Brown meets blue in a clash of dark versus light, I can't help but feel it's a fitting comparison.  "I need forty dollars on ten, and tell me what horrible little s**t-hole of a town I'm in." His voice is deep and velvety-smooth, matching his appearance perfectly. I resist rolling my eyes. Of course some big-city d**k wouldn't be impressed by the tiny seaside town. I quickly enter the amount he wants onto the correct pump and point at the card reader.     "Thats forty for ya. This 's**t-hole'-" my normally amicable voice drips venom. "Is Bayport, Texas." The man narrows his eyes at my tone, evidently not used to sass. He'll have to get over it, I'm not in the mood for bullshit tonight.     "Do you always have an attitude towards customers that can get you fired with a single word?" He glares at me, voice lowered threateningly.      "Only towards jerk-bags that look down on us small town bumkins'." After dealing with so many assholes my tolerance for rudeness has hit rock bottom. I can't stand when people look down on me for my town, light southern accent, or job. I take a deep breath to calm myself, it doesn't actually do any good to lose your temper on these people. An idea hits me, even if I can't feel his emotions I might still be able to influence his.      With a deep breath I focus calmness outwards towards him, wanting to de-escalate the situation. The mans eyes flash with surprise, before darkening in anger.     "Stop that s**t, Empath." He snarls.      "Excuse me? Is that some sort of slur?" All thoughts of relaxing the atmosphere forgotten, I glare daggers at the man. I absolutely will not tolerate being called names. I angrily shove the card reader closer to him on the counter. "Pay and get the hell out." I'm not afraid of repercussion, my job needs me too dearly to fire me. The man swipes his card, eyes watching my face in a mix of fury and curiosity. He walks out to his car after paying, and I slam his receipt into the trashcan next to me.     Once he gets the gas flowing into his tank, the man pulls his phone from his pocket and calls the first contact listed.     "Yeah?" A male voice groggily answers after the fourth ring.     "Everett. I need you to get all the information you can on the night clerk of the gas station off highway 35 and Bay street. Name of Amelia. Call me in an hour with everything." He ends the call before Everett can reply. He then hits the second listed contact. "Marcus, its Max. I'm going to be delayed a bit here, I found something interesting. Reschedule everything I have for the next two weeks, this could take some time." This time Max waits for confirmation before ending the call. He pulls the finished gas nozzle from his car, secures the cap of the tank and drives off.