Vulnerable
Spoilers: Extinction
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: "Smallville" and its characters do not belong to me. No infringement is intended and no profit is made. So yeah. I'm doing this for fun.
A short story from Clark's POV.
* * *
Dad smiles at me and walks away. I'm still thinking about what he just said and turn around to follow him back to the truck when I hear the shot. I spin around, trying to locate where it comes from. As usual time seems to slow down around me as I concentrate on the bullet that's coming straight at me. It's too late to just step out of its way, so I hold out my hand to catch it. It's no big deal. I've done it dozens of times.
But this time – this time it's different.
The bullet hits my open palm, slicing through it like a hot knife cuts through butter. Seeing the gaping hole in my hand and the blood splashing over my shirt comes as such a shock that I don't even feel any pain. Split seconds later the bullet slams into my shoulder. The force of the impact sends me reeling backwards and time speeds up again.
The bullet is sending white hot jolts of pain through my body. My shoulder is on fire, and a hoarse scream erupts from my lungs. I can't see; the pain is blinding me. It is worse than anything I've ever felt in my life. Still screaming I collapse on the soft grass, only vaguely registering Dad's concerned voice. I feel his arms around my shoulders, his hands cradling my head in his lap. I stopped screaming; it has become too difficult to breath and I'm desperately gasping for air.
"Dad…"
Another scream is ripping through the air; it's Dad. His voice sounds agonized, like he's feeling my pain. Weakly I try to lift my head, but the pain is too intense. I can't do anything but close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing.
I want to warn him, tell him to be careful – after all, the sniper may still be out there somewhere. But I can't speak. Hot tendrils of pain start crawling through my chest; the bullet in my shoulder is emanating surges of agony with every heart beat.
Dad's strong arms help me into a sitting position; my head is resting against his chest as he grabs my wrist and swings my right arm around his shoulder, careful not to touch my bleeding hand. His other arm around my waist, he half drags, half carries me over to the truck.
"Easy, son. Almost there… almost there…" I hear his voice. It's so different… it sounds… panicked…
I open my eyes wearily. Two steps… I feel the metal of the truck's open tailgate against my thighs. Dad slowly eases me onto the bed of the truck, quickly slipping something soft under my head. I don't know what it is… I can't seem to focus. Dad's hand is resting on my forehead for a moment.
"Hold on, Clark. It'll be all right. We'll make it," he whispers, and then I hear the tailgate being slammed shut. The engine roars to life, the sudden acceleration making me slide a few inches towards the back of the truck. The fire in my shoulder is spreading out, and I can't hear anything but the pounding of my own heart beat in my head. It seems like forever until the movement of the car stops.
"Martha! MARTHA!" I've never heard Dad's voice sound so desperate. I slowly turn my head, trying to keep my eyes open. The tailgate is down and I see Mom's eyes, wide and full of fear.
"Clark! Oh my God… Jonathan! What…"
"He was shot. Martha, we have to get that bullet out. I don't know what it is but it's killing him. I need a knife. You know what to do."
Mom's face is pale but she nods determinedly. I can't keep my eyes open any longer.
Hands are gently pulling me off the truck, lifting me up, carrying me inside. I feel the hard and smooth surface underneath me as I'm carefully lowered to the floor. Dad's hands are on my chest; they're shaking heavily. He tears my shirt open, sending another flash of pain through me as the dried blood sticking to the shirt is ripped off the wound.
Moaning softly, I painfully open my eyes and look down on my shoulder. Dark red blood is oozing from the jagged wound right above my collarbone, with a spider web of thin red streaks spreading out under my skin. I feel my strength fading away with every ragged breath I take. I hear Mom's and Dad's voices, but I don't understand what they're saying. They are so far away...
Then I see the knife, red hot and gleaming. My eyes go wide and I take a deep breath, trying to brace myself against what is about to come. But as the blade enters my shoulder it's like an electric shock lashing through me. My whole body contracts as the knife digs deeper into me. I throw my head back and scream as the pain is searing every inch of me. My vision starts to blur, Mom's and Dad's faces are melting together in a fiery bright red spot before my eyes and then, mercifully, everything goes black.
Spoilers: Extinction
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: "Smallville" and its characters do not belong to me. No infringement is intended and no profit is made. So yeah. I'm doing this for fun.
A short story from Clark's POV.
* * *
Dad smiles at me and walks away. I'm still thinking about what he just said and turn around to follow him back to the truck when I hear the shot. I spin around, trying to locate where it comes from. As usual time seems to slow down around me as I concentrate on the bullet that's coming straight at me. It's too late to just step out of its way, so I hold out my hand to catch it. It's no big deal. I've done it dozens of times.
But this time – this time it's different.
The bullet hits my open palm, slicing through it like a hot knife cuts through butter. Seeing the gaping hole in my hand and the blood splashing over my shirt comes as such a shock that I don't even feel any pain. Split seconds later the bullet slams into my shoulder. The force of the impact sends me reeling backwards and time speeds up again.
The bullet is sending white hot jolts of pain through my body. My shoulder is on fire, and a hoarse scream erupts from my lungs. I can't see; the pain is blinding me. It is worse than anything I've ever felt in my life. Still screaming I collapse on the soft grass, only vaguely registering Dad's concerned voice. I feel his arms around my shoulders, his hands cradling my head in his lap. I stopped screaming; it has become too difficult to breath and I'm desperately gasping for air.
"Dad…"
Another scream is ripping through the air; it's Dad. His voice sounds agonized, like he's feeling my pain. Weakly I try to lift my head, but the pain is too intense. I can't do anything but close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing.
I want to warn him, tell him to be careful – after all, the sniper may still be out there somewhere. But I can't speak. Hot tendrils of pain start crawling through my chest; the bullet in my shoulder is emanating surges of agony with every heart beat.
Dad's strong arms help me into a sitting position; my head is resting against his chest as he grabs my wrist and swings my right arm around his shoulder, careful not to touch my bleeding hand. His other arm around my waist, he half drags, half carries me over to the truck.
"Easy, son. Almost there… almost there…" I hear his voice. It's so different… it sounds… panicked…
I open my eyes wearily. Two steps… I feel the metal of the truck's open tailgate against my thighs. Dad slowly eases me onto the bed of the truck, quickly slipping something soft under my head. I don't know what it is… I can't seem to focus. Dad's hand is resting on my forehead for a moment.
"Hold on, Clark. It'll be all right. We'll make it," he whispers, and then I hear the tailgate being slammed shut. The engine roars to life, the sudden acceleration making me slide a few inches towards the back of the truck. The fire in my shoulder is spreading out, and I can't hear anything but the pounding of my own heart beat in my head. It seems like forever until the movement of the car stops.
"Martha! MARTHA!" I've never heard Dad's voice sound so desperate. I slowly turn my head, trying to keep my eyes open. The tailgate is down and I see Mom's eyes, wide and full of fear.
"Clark! Oh my God… Jonathan! What…"
"He was shot. Martha, we have to get that bullet out. I don't know what it is but it's killing him. I need a knife. You know what to do."
Mom's face is pale but she nods determinedly. I can't keep my eyes open any longer.
Hands are gently pulling me off the truck, lifting me up, carrying me inside. I feel the hard and smooth surface underneath me as I'm carefully lowered to the floor. Dad's hands are on my chest; they're shaking heavily. He tears my shirt open, sending another flash of pain through me as the dried blood sticking to the shirt is ripped off the wound.
Moaning softly, I painfully open my eyes and look down on my shoulder. Dark red blood is oozing from the jagged wound right above my collarbone, with a spider web of thin red streaks spreading out under my skin. I feel my strength fading away with every ragged breath I take. I hear Mom's and Dad's voices, but I don't understand what they're saying. They are so far away...
Then I see the knife, red hot and gleaming. My eyes go wide and I take a deep breath, trying to brace myself against what is about to come. But as the blade enters my shoulder it's like an electric shock lashing through me. My whole body contracts as the knife digs deeper into me. I throw my head back and scream as the pain is searing every inch of me. My vision starts to blur, Mom's and Dad's faces are melting together in a fiery bright red spot before my eyes and then, mercifully, everything goes black.