In movies everything always seem bigger, louder, and often times better. Better than reality could ever be, louder than that raging voice, and bigger than anything we have ever seen. Or was it really bigger than anything we have ever seen? Maybe somewhere out there in the world, beyond cornfrields, beyond tar paved roads, and beyond all things we could imagine there was something big. Perhaps there were bigger and better things out there. As for louder, that was something many people were unsure of.
Certainly the sound of the bullet launching from the barrel of the gun was louder than any movie. More realistic than any film or computer genaterate pictures. It was certainly realistic as it easily entered the body, like a knife cutting into a steamed carrot slice, damaging veins and organs. And yet...
And yet, it seem all very surreal at a focal point. It seem like a scene from the Matrix, as everything around him seemingly froze in a split second. He felt the tremendous urged to shout, yell, scream; anything in reaction.
The attacker stood there a gun grasped in his out stretched hand. Lex Luthor was not granted the chance to even acknowledge his shooter as the bullet tore through his clothing and into his torso. He was not granted that one last request we all wish for when we secretly die in our beds. Those nights of which we lay upon our lonely beds gazing up at the dark ceiling. Where wonder to ourselves why we exsisted in an Earth where no one cared. Why we do the things we do?
Where we certainly wished it to be like our early childhood. Children seem to have such a heavenly life. Where nothing or hardly anything matter. Where the only possible worry to a child was if his mother had remembered to put his favorite snack in his lunch sack or if his favorite toy was waiting for him back home. Where crying was okay and emotions weren't a weakness. Whatever happen to those careless days?
I wanted you to know
I wanna be your shadow
Mystery is gone
So bring back the sun
And bury this hay
And fill it with love
Echoes. Blood. Screams. Yells. He only wish he had gotten there sooner. He only wish he had been a bit more faster on that last turn. Put on a bit more speed going down that one roadway. But he hadn't and he solely wished he had. It felt so dark around them now. Just as nothing mattered; just like childhood days. Those nights where Mommy had tucked him in after reading him a bedtime story.
When they say
You're not that strong
You're not that weak
It's not your fault
Life escaped his grasp as he held him close to his chest. He craddled him as his last breathe escaped his lungs. He held onto his friend as tightly as he could without damaging him any further. Perhaps in some childish notion, if he held him in his arms long enough; he would come back to him. But if not, then this moment would be the last he would have with his friend. The boy looked down at his lost friend; his friend so shattered, so broken and bruised and wondered what he could have done to save him.
Why wasn't I fast enough?
Clark could, with distinct clarity, remember those endless hours with Lex. Those pointless small talk, those long gazes, and that infamous smirk. He could remember as Lex taught him pool, art, and countless of history triumpts. As Clark taught him to live the days instead of counting them like the days on the calender.
They knock you down
I'll pick you up
They laugh at you
I'll shut them up
He ran his hand gently down his cold pale cheek. A part of him knew that this was over, there was nothing he could do but his childish part of him he held tightly onto his dearly departed friend.
"You can't be dead," Clark mumured to the lifeless Lex Luthor in his arms. "Don't die on me." Hot tears ran down his cheeks. They slowly carried (now vague) memories of his Lex. Of his friend, his true love, the person he denied himself so many times. And he held him, held him strong, and cried. Cried those tears he knew Lex wanted to cry for himself.
It's everything we dream about
I wanted you to know
I'm hanging up my ego
Lex Luthor laid dead in his arms.
