Birthing the Lucifer star Page 7

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  Yes, Ghostwolf’s future was certain; he was a victim of circumstance, an innocent led astray by the beckoning of the great serpent of the underworld. The gnarled trees boasted their ghostlike branches, reaching out to grab him—to choke the life from him.

  The red road … what was it called? The facts began to escape his mind to flutter on the cold wind. Whatever it was, it was supposed to be there—a blinding, piercing ocean of purity, glaring into his soul, begging him to spill out all the blackness within him that had interrupted its pale perfection. And then it would be gray, like the sky overhead, and everything would melt into blissful oneness.

  No longer aware of his actions, he stumbled over to the bridge’s overhang, near a plaque welded into the bridgework. He stared at the name on the plaque—Verrazano—next to a date that his failing senses could not discern. He dug his feet into the wires, wishing to find warmth underneath the wretched cold. He stared forward and looked upon the gray sky, with metal wires etching the ether. The man in the moon, the cynical observer that he seemed to be, exerted a bitter, mocking stare as another lost soul died in its mirthless light. And then it all faded into oblivion.

  He was cast into the depths of his mind—his last refuge. Vertigo … doom … the feeling of flying … a mother’s comforting voice … vertigo. Then the cold chills mercifully disappeared.

  Through his last remaining sense, he heard a soft, deep melody lilting up from somewhere in the rough waters below, floating above the misty air, landing gently upon his emaciated libido and burying itself deep inside his mind. Yes, in the misty waters below, he saw the faces of his mother, his wife, and his children, and with great happiness, he jumped into their waiting arms.