Perfect rings float towards the ceiling between each drag from the smoldering cigarette. Ashes fall like snowflakes around the ceramic ashtray and onto the kitchen table. A haze of smoke blurs the fluorescence above me as I sit down to write.
My name is Frank Stark. I’m a police officer at the Rochester New York Police Department, Precinct 13. We call it the RPD for short. It’s been a turbulent fifteen years, and within the last three I became Sergeant. I passed the psyche exam when I first started, but due to a few missed days this past year and alcohol on my breath, the Captain suggested I seek help.
Many years have passed since I’ve written to you. I’ll attempt to write to write to you as often as possible. I’ve been instructed to create this diary by my psychiatrist. She insists with my great memory and investigative skills, I should pinpoint and solve my problems. I do not believe this to be true. She also says the more I write, the more I’ll be able to better understand myself. I do not believe this to be true either. For me, psychological issues reflect a lapse in judgement, a plethora of uncontrollable thoughts with consequences. Mine, well... those thoughts—those actions—they’re all calculated. Only time will tell if she can convince me my mind is broken.
She says to write when negative situations arise, as they did last night, but my mind refuses to instruct my hand. The pen strangled by a three-fingered death grip bleeds blue from its needle tip through the blank pages. My mind shocks the pen into an upright position. I must write, must continue. Made an agreement and must stick to it. I can’t continue. The box of memories has one more addition. I must rest.