The alley clung to Jay like a second skin—stench of piss and rotting cabbage, frost gnawing at his knuckles. He stumbled, shoulder clipping a brick wall. His boots skidded on black ice, and for a heartbeat, the ground felt like mud, thick and hungry.
Then she appeared.
A woman in a fur coat the color of fresh blood, her perfume a cloying avalanche of lilies and privilege. She sidestepped him, gloved hand pressed to her nose. "Ugh. Damn peasant," she hissed, though her lips never moved. "Always reeking of booze and filth. They should be hanged for littering the streets."
Jay froze.
Her voice—sharp as a bayonet—hadn't come from her mouth. It had slithered into his skull, oily and unbidden. Just like the whispers in the trenches.
He wheeled around, swaying. "Wha'd'you say t'me, you… overdressed duck? "
The woman clutched her beaded purse, stepping back. "I said nothing, you uncultured pig! You bumped into me!"Her real voice was shrill, brittle. A crowd slowed to gawk.
But Jay heard the other words, the ones she didn't speak aloud: "Filthy veteran. Should've died over there. Saved us the trouble."
He opened his mouth—to spit, to scream—but the world tilted again. She vanished around the corner, her coat swishing like a retreating flag.
"Nobody's honest…" he mumbled.
A figure brushed past him, threadbare sleeve grazing his arm.
"Finally," a man's voice sighed inside Jay's head—raspy, desperate. "She'll have coin in that purse. Marta's fever won't last the week. Forgive me, Merciful Lord."
Jay turned.
The man was hunched, face shadowed beneath a moth-eaten cap. He stared at the spot where the woman had stood, fingers twitching.
"Don' say your plans out loud, buddy,"Jay slurred.
The man flinched. "I—I never said anything. How'd you…?"
'Because your thoughts stink louder than your clothes,' Jay almost retorted. But the words curdled in his throat. He'd heard this before—in the war. Men muttering prayers under their breath, their minds screaming "I don't want to die" as they charged.
"Jus'… don'," Jay muttered, shoving past him.
The man grabbed his arm. "You one of them? A Seer? I heard the army was testin' things on soldiers—"
"Let. Go."
The man released him, backing into the shadows. "You're cursed, same as us," he whispered. Then, aloud: "Get help, drunkard."
Jay lurched toward the street, the man's unspoken plea chasing him: "Tell the Lord I'm sorry."
He fumbled for his meds, but the vial was empty. Again.
Not real. Not real. Shell shock. The doc said shell shock.
But the voices didn't stop.
A newsboy hawked headlines: "Armistice Signed! War Ends in Triumph!"
Yet beneath the boy's cry, Jay heard his true thoughts: "Mama's still gone. They lied. They all lied."
He pressed his palms to his ears. The voices swelled—a chorus of fear, greed, regret. The city itself was screaming.
"Need my meds," Jay choked. "Need to… forget."
But the apothecary's shack was across town, and the shadows in the alley were lengthening.
No—not shadows.
Things.
Slithering, jointless, their eyes reflecting the gas lamps like shrapnel.
"Run, little soldier," they crooned, their words syrup-thick. "We've always heard you too."
---