Journal Entry 1: March 5th, 1923

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.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***