I was told by my therapist that keeping a journal  of my thoughts and feelings could help me with the troubles of my mind.

I always thought going to a jazz club and drinking would be enough, but apparently that only makes things worse.

Being the first female detective in the city was stressful enough, everything about me and my work is watched over. Even a single degree of too much anger or frustration and they'll use that to put me down, maybe even fire me.

I've worked too hard for too long to let that happen.

When I first applied to the department, they tried to force me into an assistant role. That just meant walking around with papers, handing them to men while giving them something to look at during the day.

It was gross and humiliating, so I did the police boot camp. I'll admit I wasn't the best in the class, but I was good enough.

Now it's years later. I'm never given any real assignments. All I've ever done is talk to women who have been attacked or threatened. They won't let me do anything else.

The stupid world.

The stupid people in this stupid world drive me crazy.

I spent tonight like I do every other night.

I went to the best jazz bar in the city: Chimera.

When I entered, the cloud of cigar smoke was so thick I struggled to move through it. The smell entered my nose and mouth, trying to burn the skin that had built up a tolerance to it.

I saw the tables were rather empty tonight. The band had just gotten on stage, so I went to get a drink.

I know my therapist says I shouldn't, but hey...they're not here tonight.

I didn't even have to say what I wanted. The bartender has seen me so many times he probably knows my face better than I do. If he ever needed to draw me from memory he wouldn't have any issue.

I sat down just as the glass full of liquid was forced down with quite a thud.

"Another boring day?"

He always loved to talk. I'm not much of a talker, even if this amount of writing proves contradictory.

"As always."

I replied as dryly as I could, hoping the tone would be enough of an indication I didn't care to chat.

The music started, catching me off guard.

It had less to do with the fact I wasn't paying attention and more so the fact that the music...well it felt off.

I turned to face the stage, staring at a few black men dressed in nice suits playing their instruments.

A large upright bass, a drumset, a trumpet, and a piano.

Yet...something wasn't right.

As I watched, the music wasn't lining up with what I was seeing.

There was this sound that wasn't coming from the instruments, yet they moved and played along anyways.

This strange sound that didn't register for me.

The trumpet player stopped moving their fingers, yet I could still hear the sound coming from the brass instrument.

"Hey Grace, you doing alright?"

The bartender spoke and made me turn my head rather quickly.

"Yeah...I'm fine."

But while I was facing him, the music skipped.

The music stopped before suddenly playing again.

I snapped my head back to the stage, a fifth player suddenly on their playing a saxophone. The sound was jarring, like a record skipping half a song and jumping to the next one halfway through.

Nobody else in the club seemed to notice, or maybe they did and just didn't care.

I eventually decided to shrug it off.

It had been a long day, and I wasn't the best when it came to sleeping. I was just tired. Exhausted. So I grabbed my drink and enjoyed the music as it played, not thinking much else of it.

I would say how many drinks I had tonight, but two things are preventing me from doing that.

1. I lost count.

2. My therapist will probably read this.

I forgot what a hangover felt like. I didn't wake up until noon, but yet I still made it to work on time with a fresh cup of coffee already in my hand. Yet the others who stroll in late never have issues happen to them.

I sure do love working here.

Now as for my day today, I haven't really had much to do. Just signing off and finalizing the reports from months ago. All these cases that I did but never finalized because APPARENTLY I'm supposed to do all the paperwork. Yet all the other detectives and officers can just hand it off to other people.

I already knew everything was right since, well I'm the one who did it, but there was one that caught my eye.

A murder case.

A woman murdered her rich husband to collect the life insurance.

Pretty common, almost cliche even.

I stopped to look at the file, but then I felt something I had never felt before.

I felt doubt.

Doubt that the person was guilty, yet they had been locked in jail for nearly 3 months awaiting trial.

I quickly collected the file and put it in my top drawer, that way I could grab it when I left later. Normally I would take it and leave for the day, but that probably wouldn't look too great.

"Grace!"

The shouting of my superior officer made me jump, shutting the drawer on my own hand and quickly yelping, rushing to put everything back to normal.

I held my hand close and rubbed it as the drawer closed.

"You know, it's impolite to just walk into an office without knocking. What if I was changing?" I asked.

"Well if you were changing, I'd be silent so I could watch." The officer replied.

I rolled my eyes, wanting to throw up at that comment.

I get them every day, so many times. Yet every time it really makes my blood boil. None of the other assistants seem to care about them. Hell they love them more than anything despite them all being married. I guess some women just love the idea of cheating or affairs. Must get them off or something.

"Grace, hello? Are you having a girly dream thing?"

I snapped out of my inner monologue, staring at my superior officer while still clutching my hurting hand.

"No. I was just tuning out your annoying voice." I replied.

"Ha ha, very funny. Now, we have an assignment for you." He said, tossing a rather large binder onto my desk. Nearly a hundred papers flung out all over the wood as I looked at it all.

"What the hell is this?" I asked.

"A cult thing...I think. It was too many words for me to read so I thought I'd give it to you."

"Yeah...thanks." I replied sarcastically.

I grabbed the binder, but his hand snapped out to grab mine. I felt panicked and looked up at his face.

His awful smugness was gone. The super serious and masculine expression was gone.

His face was pure panic and horror, heavy and tired eyes with a face hanging low.

"Grace...you need to wake up...NOW!"

I pulled my hand back quickly, almost falling out of my chair from the shock. I quickly looked back at him, but he was back to normal.

"Are you...oh is this a time of the month thing?" The officer gave a disgusting laugh.

I was breathing hard and fast, unsure of what to do or say. I was clutching my hand tightly as I looked back down at the binder.

"Good luck Grace!"

He laughed more as he left my office, shutting the door quite hard.

"Yeah...I don't need it."

I replied unassuredly. I was still trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

Yeah yeah Dr. Morrison. I didn't write an entry yesterday. I know you're probably reading this.

I got so tied up with work I didn't even have a chance to go home. Practically woke up, went to the office, then worked and slept there until this morning. This whole cult thing is a mess.

They call themselves The Omen Seekers.

Because that is a normal name for people.

They seem to believe that some specific person is going to be born.

Some person who will be able to see the future. But not just a single future.

Oh no, they're crazier than that.

Somebody who can see EVERY future.

Supposedly this person will be the savior of humanity or some crap like that.

I'm scheduled to go down to their headquarters, which is a secret place in the back of some random clock store.

I will definitely be cautious, but man I think this is the most real case I've had since I started. The first time they've given me something worth a damn.

I went home and got changed into more conservative clothing, putting on a large trench coat that covered my very tight dress. I couldn't wear something baggy or revealing since I might have to get physical. Give them the least amount of stuff to grab onto or use against me.

I took one last look at myself in the mirror. I had my long blonde hair pulled up into the tightest bun I possibly could right on top of my head, not letting any strands hang free to be grabbed.

I opened my coat to check on the weapons I'd be taking with me.

A small baton I had stolen from one of the other officers. I doubt he even noticed it's gone.

A small revolver full of six bullets, but that was all I had. Carrying anymore would cause too much noise.

And finally, a makeshift knife made from a piece of broken car metal. I made it when I was younger, seeing a car crash as a child sure does do things to your mind.

But you already know about that Dr. Morrison.

I took a deep breath and sighed, grabbing a hat to put on top of my hat and cover the top of my head. I buttoned up the coat and pulled it up to cover the lower half of my face, only making my eyes visible without any makeup to make them look less feminine.

I posed and tried to make myself look bigger, but that didn't really do much.

I didn't think it mattered too much. Hopefully the cult isn't just fat people, or else I won't be able to get in.

But hey, it'd make fighting them easier. Just gotta run around and they'll be taken out.

Well enough writing for now. I'll write down what I see if I get back.