The Detective Tag

I can't believe it took me three years to realize that being a detective is a curse. When my father first told me about it, I didn't believe him. Why the hell should I, anyway? All I needed to do was to chase down criminals and study their traces. For such a long time, I only thought about clues, forensic puzzles, and crime interrogation. Now, fuck it. It's my fifth bottle tonight. And I probably wouldn't stop until I knock myself out. "Damn, girl!" Brenna exclaimed. "I didn't know this is how miserable your life is." I bit my lower lip and replied with a shurg, opening another bottle of beer in front of me. Today was a hell day. And for the past few weeks, I thought of nothing but my job. I have no idea if there's any deed I can possibly do to make Officer Rankin think that I deserve to get that promotion. Each time I pass by his office, there was nothing but a slight smirk coming from under his moustache. He's probably been thinking how unfit I am for that damn position.

I keep going back over and over to what Officer Douglas just told me earlier. Instead of going to bed early, I ended up making a warm cup of coffee while staring into an empty space of my kitchen wall.  This is ridiculous. What I meant by gaining a new experience is for me to finally show them what I'm capable of. Alone. As a detective. As a professional worker, seriously. And by that, having someone to work on a case with is the LAST thing I'd want.  I wasn't able to fully say yes to what Officer Douglas told me about. But certainly, he knows I don't have a choice. It's either I accept this case or I continue to sit on my damn chair all day and read new cases about robbery and sick kids painting private vehicles with spray paint.  Who would choose the latter, anyway?  But at the same time, I am damn confuse. I want to do something for myself and my career so badly. I'm trying to make a point that I can do whatever the other office

I look out the window of the cafeteria. It feels calming to see raindrops falling down the glass. Everyone seems to be busy walking down the street. And here I am, sitting across someone I genuinely dislike, trying to avoid his gaze every now and again.  "We should start." Clayton sighed. "It's been thirty minutes, Samara. The rain wouldn't go anywhere."  Now a bit embarrassed of the immaturity I've been showing him, I turn to look at him back and finally open the folder that's lying down the table this whole time.  "Fine." I said. "I'm sorry."  He took out a pen from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to me.  "So this murderer," he began. "His main targets are usually those who live in secluded houses---where neighbors are practically nonexistent."  I nodded. "Yeah. And... it says here," I flipped a few more pages. "He's killed five victims so far. No clear signs of motive."  It's be

I drive on my way to work with thoughts of Clayton running in my head. Not thoughts that are romantic, though. We're far from that. But the kind of thoughts that just seems to enter your head every now and again. It seems to me that what happened last night sort of made me know him a little better. And I must say, he knows how to do his job well. I never would've thought about that weird symbol being a proper evidence. Now, at least, we'd have something to present to Officer Douglas later on. "How can I focus, seriously?" I heard Amanda said to Tin, sitting just beside her. "Stop it." she replied. "Just tell Officer Rankin you want to take Samara's spot and sit near him." I walk past them and ignore just how desperate they are about Clayton. They've been doing this for the past few weeks since he arrived here. All they talked about was how hot he looks when he pushes his hair back or when he rolls up his long sleeves before typing

I've been pacing back and forth the living room as I tightly embrace the bottle of alcohol with me. A few more drinks and it'll be empty again. I can't seem to remember how many glass I drank since I got home. But at this point in my life where everything about my career seems going downhill, I don't care. I could grab a knife with me and try to scare Clayton Jones when he gets to my door. But that would probably be too much. I just can't seem to find a way to let him know how much I despise his existence. Ever since that stupid car accident happened, nothing is going well around me anymore. I once thought that maybe working with him would help me hate him less. And it did work, for a little while. But now the anger just keeps coming back. He has everything with him and I basically have nothing to be proud about. This is so stupid. I nearly jumped as I hear a loud sound of bell coming from the door.