Page 1 of Shadowed Whispers

Prologue

I’m dead inside.

Shadows cling to my flesh—not just figurative ones, but real, palpable darkness that responds to the dysphoria within my soul.

A void has taken root where a once vibrant soul danced with the light. I recall, with a bittersweet ache, those days when my heart swelled with an uncontainable love, and tears would well in my eyes at the sight of joyous reunions—those heartwarming scenes of loyal dogs greeting their owners, or battle-weary soldiers returning to the open arms of their children. I cherished such tender and raw moments with a fervor I never dared admit aloud, not even to myself.

The aroma of spring flowers and laughter of children playing in the park, which used to lift my spirits, now seem like distant echoes of a life once lived, and I can say I hated those moments, but I didn’t. I loved every simpering second of it.

Now, though, all these years later, I despise the girl I was, with her naïve heart and hopeful dreams. Her smiles, once the embodiment of her innocence, now seem like illusions, her truths as elusive as shadows, and her tears... those tears that once spoke of a heart too full, now only serve as a reminder of the depths to which she—no, I have fallen.

I loathe her with every fiber of my soulless existence, because she represents a past filled with foolish hopes and unguarded emotions, a stark contrast to the shadowed reality I’ve embraced.

I hate her. I hate every smile she wore like a shield, every lie she swung like a sword, and every goddamn tear she cried.

I fucking hate her.

As these bitter thoughts claw at me, I find myself in a dim downtown bar. The haunt is filled with the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation. Shadows flicker at the edges of my vision—not just figments created by the dim lighting, but manifestations of a darker force within me. They’ve been my silent guardians, ever responsive to the emotions I struggle to contain.

But him? The man at the bar with a sleazy grin and predatory gaze? I can fucking kill him. I watch him from my darkened corner, a place where the light doesn’t reach—a place I’m not even allowed to exist in yet. No one spares me a glance, they never do, not for the orphan who lives on the outskirts of society, one who others pretend doesn’t exist.

It’s best for them to think I don’t exist. Even now, as I watch him grab the drink his companion was sipping, and he dumps a small packet into her glass, no one notices either of us. She slides back onto the bar stool, with red lipstick smeared across her face and a brilliant white smile. Move, Frankie.

That age-old fear bubbles up as I watch her grab the glass, but thankfully, she doesn’t take a sip. It’s always like this in every time and every town. They are all the fucking same.

Swallowing my fear, I slide off my stool, pretending to stumble over to them. My steps are confident as my body sways right into them, knocking the drink over.

“I am so sorry,” I slur as I fall into his lap and blink up at him. I press a palm against his chest, giggling and biting my lip. Hook, line, and sinker.

“Ugh, you bitch!” Red Lipstick cries out. “Excuse me.” She rushes off to clean herself up. She can call me whatever she wants. I’m saving her from a fate worse than death.

Trust me, I know.

Darkness swells around me, and a gruff voice murmurs to me that everything is going to be okay. I just need to relax. Swallowing bile as I push the memories away, I push off from him—only he holds on to me, his touch gentle despite his earlier actions.

So fucking predictable.

“Come on, let me get you home,” he says, sweeping my hair off my forehead. I give him a watery smile, one I don’t have to fake, not completely.

“Really?” I hiccup.

“Yeah, sweetheart.” He lifts me up, setting me on my feet. I sway into him, letting out a giggle which he, of course, finds endearing.

They always do.

Tossing a few bills on the bar, he steers me to the parking lot with a palm on my lower back. He even feels wrong. He looks like a gentleman to the rest of the world, but through the years, I’ve uncovered his kind. They all feel the same—like an oil spill in fresh water.

“Where do you live, honey?” He pauses just outside the bar.

“Just a block over.” I hiccup as I give him a half-truth. He doesn’t need to know that my home is my Jeep. I point to an alleyway I scoped out earlier. It’s dark, desolate, and isolated—the perfect spot for a perfect crime.

“I’ll walk you.”

I just bet you will. “Thanks.” I hang onto him as we walk.

“What’s your name, kitten?” He grips me a little tighter.

Is that the third pet name he’s given me?

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