Head bowed and shoulders hunched, he seemed oblivious to the worsening weather. Fat flakes of snow began to waft downward as evening gave way to night on the streets of Whitechapel.
In truth, he sought to both exercise and exorcise the voices whispering and gibbering in his mind. He took to the streets hoping to walk so long and so far they would be banished when he, at length, found it expedient to return to his home and the solace of exhausted sleep.
The demons murmured consolation the inclement weather would dissuade all but the most dedicated of the local constabulary from their rounds. They assured him, though, the conditions would not deter those sullied flowers of womanhood who peddled their flesh to the lecherous.
They chided it was his duty…his obligation to sweep such refuse from the streets. With a sigh and a nod, he acquiesced to their demands.
This story was written for the weekly Visual Dare flash fiction photo and phrase prompt: covert.