It was dark. It seemed to always be dark these days. The wind was harsh and blew up dust that stung Tatum's eyes. She missed her nice, warm home in California, U.S.A. Of course she had to be the special agent transferred to Britain. That was just her luck. She had probably been the one agent that didn't want it, with a new boyfriend and nice apartment keeping her grounded in Cali. But her boss had wanted the best for the diplomat police "merging" the United States and England were experimenting. Apparently, that meant her. So she broke up with her boyfriend, sold her nice apartment, and moved to dreary England. She pulled her scarf closer to her neck and hurried down the street to the hotel she was staying at. Tatum had not yet found a place to rent. Britain's housing was rough.
She got to the hotel swiftly, and rushed inside. She was coughing from the dust and her eyes were watering from the night's wind. So far, Tatum did not like her job transfer. It was cold, exhausting, dirty… Just a few appropriate that came to mind. She got into the orange elevator and pressed the "4" button. Some classy music was playing, but she was too tired to be annoyed at it. She had just spent the day with an inspector named something Lestrade. Brits had hard names to remember. He was not a bad detective, but he was an amateur.
They had worked a simple robbery case that day that she had wrapped up in twenty minutes. All the evidence had been right there in the room; the shape of the foot impression left on the carpet, the items that were missing, the man that had been robbed... All these made it childishly easy to come to the conclusion of who had done it after taking statements. She just had to check a couple records and she was set. However, Lestrade was still looking for signs of a struggle when she finished the case. So Tatum hadn't said anything. She let him go on his own and solve the case until he got stuck and then she had no choice but to help him. It had taken him fourteen hours to finally arrest the culprit.
All in all, it was an exhausting day.
She got up to her floor, and into the comforts of her hotel room. Locking the heavy door behind her. It was orderly; all her clothes packed in the closet and the cabinet. The sink was empty and the floor spotless. Her bed was made and her bathroom things put in specific orders. That's what happened when you were a highly trained agent; you were obsessive compulsive. Messes made Tatum's anxiety almost unbearable. Even if she took her shoes off in the wrong place, she would immediately have to place them back where they belonged by the door before she could relax. She couldn't complain though. It was nice to never have to worry about a dirty house or dishes to do. It was always done.
Tatum quickly got ready for bed and slid into her sheets. She curled into a ball as she closed her eyes and tried to block out all the horrific scenes that always played across her eyelids when they were closed. Another curse of an agent; they saw things that scarred. Tatum was scarred more than most, because of her special talent. She saw everything. Understood everything. She was always put on the most gruesome cases because she was the only one who could find the clues that would solve the mystery. And those gruesome cases always danced in her brain, a horror show entertainment every night that kept her wide awake.
After hours of trying—and failing—to sleep, she grabbed the bottle from her bedside, and downed her prescribed sleeping pills. She hated being at the mercy of drugs, but they knocked her out. And she knew that if she wanted to live through the transition from California to Britain, she needed sleep.
Only ten minutes after the pill entered her system, Tatum was snoring. Finally, there would be rest for the weary.