The forest you run through is black of branch and briar. ebony claws of wood reach out in the inky darkness to rip and tear. Blood, black in the moonlit wood, wells to the surface of your alabaster skin, and with it . . . fear. It flows in thin rivulets from a hundred torn armani rifts.
The very essence of your life stains your passage, marking your flight up the dark hill, a traitor to it's own existence.

In dark and silent night naught is heard except the sound of your heart beat racing, pounding, bludgeoning in time with your fevered steps.
And the wind, dark harbinger that it is, freezes the blood upon thy lips, as its song rises up the hill in pursuit. The song of hunger, the song of pain, the song of yearning, trial, and bane. It is a low rumble of patience carried aloft by gentle breeze. It is a knowing. It is time.

You stumble and fall amidst the dried husks of black wings. Bare skeletal branches loom about you. The twin razors of your teeth bite at the corners of your mouth. You can see the summit. Not far. So close. There is safety in its neon glow. The cross. The cross. If you can but reach the summit the light of the cross shall protect you . . .

A single branch breaks. The echoing crack of brittle death. Like crockery, pottery, or bone . . . You are not alone.
And your heart ceases it revelry, and freezes in an knot of fear.
One breath
two breaths
There is no wind.
Three breaths
Four breaths
The moonlight fades
Five breaths
Six breaths
There's something there . . .

Just beyond the darkness.

where are my legs!! where is my voice!! why can't I move!! Why can't I scream!!! Realization . . . I have yet to stop, I have barely begun . . .

Your eyes sharply open to the sound of the wind across the water. Something topside softly bangs in unison to the breeze. The crypt-like darkness which surrounds causes your heart to freeze momentarily as you leap to your feet. Your are naked and the cold wood sends soft slivers of pain through the souls of your feet.
'Montreal, I am in Montreal', the litany you repeat. Your fear subsides to the shadows.
Chicago seems so far away. You shower away the thin blood sweat which has dried to your body, and try to chase the nightmares from the edge of your shut-eyed vision. You pull a thick wool sweater over your towel dampened head to ward off a chill that comes from within and dress. The hunger within rises as you make your way topside. Funny how fighting the demons of the night can make one so hungry.
The wind is cool and moist. Your eyes pan the horizon. Lights, lights, a myriad of colors, all draw your narrowed stare. From the running lights of freighters, to sky top restaurants, they all vie for your attention. But upon a hill which rises above the city like a dark cloud, one light stands out in cruel mockery of the city beneath it. The crucifix, the cross, that spire of God fixed in neon fortitude against the blackness of the night atop Mount Royale stands glowing in spectral silence. You stand entranced.
Then the sounds of the city waken you for the second time this night. The pulse, the rhythm, the blood of humanity calls to you. Lodin offered this dark harbor as a gift and a tribulation. You can even feel his ice blue eyes staring at you, just behind you. You can feel his iron grip resting upon the shoulder of your subconscious. For the first time in your life you feel truly alone. You cannot help but wonder if this was the legacy of the favored son, or banished fool.
The wind blows chill, across the water. Lines creak and moan.
'Where the hell is Sam?' you wonder, walking the length of the dock. It is not like him to be absent when you awaken.
A cab pulls up. Yellow and black, it glides to a stop at the end of the faded word.
'You need a lift, Mac?' He queries. Oblivious in his denim shorts and Blue Jays rumpled hat, he unlocks the door.
'Yes.' you grin. 'Take me downtown . . . I need to get a bite to eat.'