Title: "Conversations in a Graveyard"
Author: Niggle
Genre: Angst/Alternate Universe
Summary: What if Clark's fight with Eric had turned out differently?
Rating: PG-13 (violence, morbidity and some language)
Acknowledgements: Thanks to SullivanLane and Irishgryphon for beta-ing. Many thanks to PQSP, Anna and Da Boy (you know who you are :p) for reading and rereading the drafts, offering helpful suggestions and listening to the author's incessant ramblings.
Author's Note: It has been suggested to me by several people that the constant shifts in perspective (especially the last) are confusing, the transitions jarring. I have not figured out a way to clarify them without violating my sense of "show, don't tell" but I have tried to provide ample clues. If you have any suggestions for revision, please contact me, either through a review/post or email (niggle@ureach.com). I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. :\
I stand before the stone, unmoving. There's a light breeze about me, cool but not chill. Sometimes I worry about you being cold up here on this hill. That's stupid, huh? To worry if a dead person's cold? Just as stupid as wondering if he likes the view. You can see a lot of gravestones from here, stretching away in neat little rows. Far below I can just make out the others, walking slowly from the paved lane that winds its way through the cemetery. Lana is there, her hair and skirt floating in the wind. Chloe stands next to her, their differences long forgotten. And your mom and dad, climbing out of the pickup, supporting each other with light touches and meaningful glances. It's quite a walk; they won't be here for a while. For now it's just me and you, buddy, just like when we were kids.
I still don't know what happened that night. I'm still trying to piece together what I know for certain. Known to unknown, that's what Chloe's always saying. Start with what you know, and then use that to make the logical jump to what you don't know. But if even she couldn't figure it out, how am I supposed to? She tried, you know. Christ, did she try. It was all she did, the first few weeks. I guess that's what anybody would do, try to understand it. But you know Chloe; she didn't pull any punches in her investigation. It didn't make any difference, though. There simply wasn't enough information. Remember when we used to joke about the mystery that was Clark Kent? I bet you'd laugh to know that mystery is buried forever.
How did you know that the meteor rocks would weaken Eric? That he would be at the dam? Why did you go alone? What possessed you to tenaciously hold that stone to his skin even as he spilled your blood and broke your bones? We've asked ourselves these questions a thousand times, but silence is still the only answer.
I think your parents know. More than they let on, anyway. But I could never ask them, not even for my or Chloe's peace of mind. I was there when they were shown the body, when they realized their son had been taken from them.
It's something I hope I never, ever see again.
Echoes of it still haunt their eyes. Neither of them will be the same, I think. If that memory is enough to still give me nightmares, I hate to think what their lives must be like. I remember your mother's scream, torn from her as if her heart and soul went with it. I remember your father trying futilely to stay strong for her, while he himself could only stare numbly. I remember what she whispered at the funeral: "We shouldn't have let him go." What secrets does your family keep, Clark?
I was watching the game on television. Michigan was up by ten points. I can't believe I remember that. Chloe called me, told me to come down to the Rockway Dam. She didn't say why, really, just that she was afraid you might be in trouble. She said Lana had called and sounded pretty upset.
When I got there, the police already had the area cordoned off by yellow tape and flashing lights. Lana was the first to find you, though. You'd already gone into shock, but she held your hand while you died. She wears that necklace everywhere now; never takes it off. I don't know how she knew where to find you; maybe you guys were meant to be together after all.
Sometimes I feel guilty that I wasn't there for you, that I never got to say goodbye. Sometimes I wish I could have seen you before the end. Sometimes I'm just glad I didn't have to watch.
I pulled up just as Chloe was getting out of her car. Together we ran forward through the flashing strobes of blue and red. Lana was cradling your head in her lap, sobbing while two officers, their faces ashen, tried gently to pull her away. She was covered in your blood. In the same moment, Chloe and I saw your eyes, staring sightlessly. We stopped dead and leaned against each other as the world tilted crazily about us. It was like a tidal wave crashing through my soul. Sudden, irrevocable. There is nothing like that first, interminable moment when you realize that someone you love is gone. It flows through you, from your head to your feet, and changes everything in an instant. For the longest time, we just stood there.
I know there were things you kept from us, from everyone. Sometimes I try to be mad at you for that, I guess so I can feel something other than pain. But I can't. I can't bring myself to believe that you didn't have good reasons for what you did. Still, it hurts that you never told me. That's what friends are for, man, to help. I would have liked to help you. I would have stood with you, if you would have let me. I wouldn't have let you die alone. Who knows? Maybe things would have turned out different.
They're getting closer now. Close enough to see the unshed tears in Chloe's eyes, the way Lana reflexively clutches her skirt, the silent giving and receiving of support between your parents. Just a few more moments of privacy. I place my hand on the stone, on the firm lines where your name is etched, as if to tangibly bear witness to the fact of your absence.
Why? Just give me a reason. Give me something. I can't live the rest of my life not knowing what happened. I can't live the rest of my life with my best friend gone for no reason.
The graveyard is silent. I lift my head and watch a crow trace a lonely path through the sky, wings seesawing as it rides a thermal through the freedom of an unending field of blue.
She approaches the gravestone slowly, hesitantly. The others, even the Kents, have left, and she kneels alone before the place where his body lies. She swallows and nervously fingers the green pendant around her neck. The grass is soft beneath her, the breeze cool, the sky perfectly blue. It is as if the earth itself is in denial…or knows something she doesn't. She pulls her long ebony hair back from its dance with the wind, tucking it around her ear in a habitual gesture.
"Hey, Clark," she says conversationally, but with a tremor in her voice. "I would have come earlier, but I had to, uh, get up the courage, you know? But it's been a month, so…I just wanted to explain what happened. As much of it as I understand, anyway. I hope you still think conversing with dead people is normal behavior." She smiles a humorless smile, trying to make her tone lighthearted. "I would never in a million years have thought that I'd be talking to you like this." The smile withers on the last few words and she lowers her eyes.
"The night you…you left. I was scared, seeing you run out like that. It sounded like you never expected to see me again. I tried to tell myself to trust you, that I was being paranoid, that…any minute, you'd walk back through those doors with a big smile on your face and tell me what was going on. I know now why you didn't. I would have told you not to go, to leave it to the police. Somehow you knew how to stop Eric and for some reason you felt that you were the one to do it. If it were anyone else, I'd think you just wanted to be a hero…but you weren't like that. I don't know why you felt responsible. You always were mysterious, Clark Kent.
"I don't think I've ever been so scared in my life. For a while, I couldn't put my finger on it, and then all of sudden I just…knew. I knew where you were and that something was really wrong. I still don't know how. So I…I called Chloe…I've never been good under pressure. I don't think I made much sense to her, but I thought I should tell someone before I went down there. When I got to the dam, it was already over. There was…there was a lot of blood. You were still breathing, but…"
She trails off and shakes her head, as if to clear it. When she speaks again her voice threatens to break and tears, renewed, slide down her cheeks. "I didn't know what else to do…so I held your hand and kissed your forehead. It took…it took a lot longer than I would have expected. I called you, but…you didn't answer. Your eyes were open but I don't think you could see. So I just held on until finally you stopped breathing and…"
She takes a breath before continuing, wiping her eyes as she does so. Her voice shakes, but she stubbornly forces the words to come out. "And then I realized that I loved you. And all this time you had loved me and I never even saw it. And I never got to tell you. I never got to…to give you anything back for everything you gave me. I would have left Whitney for you."
She runs her tongue over her teeth and looks at the ground. "I stopped seeing him. He didn't take it very well. Ran off to join the Marines. I feel horrible about it, but I couldn't lie to him. Every time he kissed me all I could think about was you. I tried so hard to love him again, but I just couldn't. Maybe I should have given it more time. I don't know. I don't know what I'm even doing anymore, I just…I just want you to know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you, that you didn't know before…and I'm sorry that I wasn't there in time. I would give anything if I could go back and do things differently. I would have given anything to save you. Even if it meant losing you. It's not…it's not right that you're not here. There are too many people that need you…Pete, Chloe…Chloe. She loved you. Did you know that? She wanted you the way I wanted you, except she knew it. And she didn't get to tell you either. That's one thing I guess we have in common now.
"And your parents. Do you know what your mother said to me? She said that the morning after the funeral, when she saw the sun rising all she could think was that it was impossible. That the sun couldn't come up, because her baby was gone." She pauses, closing her eyes and biting her lip to keep control. "I just want to know what to do. I just don't know where I go from here."
She relaxes, with bowed head, feeling as if she has been purged of some poison. She lets the gentle silence of the graveyard lull her senses and soothe her wounds. It brings no answers, but as usual she finds herself answering her own questions. She knows what Clark would ask of her, if he could. She knows what he would want of her and everyone else he loved.
He would want them to live.
"Goodbye, Clark," she whispers.
Breathing. All I can hear is breathing. Eric is panting beside me as he tries to move, but the tiny green stone in my hand has finally subdued him. My own breath sounds wet as it rattles through my throat, pushing past the hot blood that threatens to completely block my mouth and nose. It's over. I did it.
I'm lying on my back, in a puddle of something warm. I should probably get up, but I think I'll just wait here for a few more minutes and rest. My whole body hurts. But it's all right. It doesn't hurt as much as meteor fragments. Eric's probably hurting more than I am. I hope he doesn't die. I don't even know if that's possible, but I hope it doesn't happen.
I try to move and manage to claw my way a few inches to the right, but I'm too tired to continue. The pavement's actually comfortable and the pain is fading. But it's cold. I try to hunch deeper into the warm liquid around me. I'm so cold. I don't think I've ever been this cold. I think maybe I'd feel better if I were shivering, but for some reason I'm not.
Some time passes, and I realize that I'm not going to be able to get up any time soon. I'm not getting up, period. This is it. I'm going to die here, alone, on this dam.
Oh, shit.
The swear word feels good, even if it's only in my head. I savor the mental sound of it, pour the fear into it. If any occasion warrants cussing, it's this. It's scary. Scarier than someone finding out what my secret is. Scarier than the thought of asking the girl of my dreams to dance. Scarier than "waking up one morning and having powers". I've never been so afraid. I've never felt such visceral, gut-wrenching fear in my life. I wonder if this is what it means to be human.
I mentally claw for an escape from the fear, but I can't even move my arms anymore. The night around me is dimming. I thought there was a street lamp or something, but now its getting too dark to see anything. I concentrate on breathing. In and out. In and out.
I start to think about stupid things. Like whether there's a separate afterlife for aliens. That's not getting me anywhere, so I try to concentrate on something else. My parents, safe at home, sitting down to dinner. Pete watching baseball with his brothers. I picture Chloe in the Torch office, her smooth skin bathed in her monitor's glow as she works on the latest issue. And you, sitting on your front porch, reading a book.
For a moment, I think I hear you calling me, think I feel you beside me. Almost, I think you take my hand in yours. But that's impossible. I left you back at the Talon, safe. I must be imagining things. Still, an imaginary Lana is better than no Lana at all. I hold on to your presence, real or not, and use it to keep the fear away.
He got in a few lucky punches, but I still feel I won the fight.
You don't laugh. I don't think you heard me. It's getting harder to breathe; it's almost too much effort. But I keep at it, forcing my chest to rise and fall. I don't know why. Even though I know its pointless, I can't stop. I'll hold on as long as I can. I'll stay with you as long as I can. I don't want to leave. In and out. In and out.
One last time I exhale. I try to start again, to force air into my lungs, but I can't. No matter how hard I try, I can't. My chest refuses to move. There's blood in my throat, blocking the airway. I try to cough or choke, but I can't. There's nothing more I can do. That's all.
My mind makes one last grab for you before my sense of up and down spirals away. I can't feel anything at all anymore. Not even the fear. Everything just floats away into nothingness. Even me. I feel light. I feel free.
I finally know what it is to fly.
She strolls through the rows, as always mystified by the smooth cleanliness of the markers. They really are beautiful things, too beautiful to herald death. But maybe that quiet irony is intentional. She ponders the purpose of a tombstone. To commemorate, certainly. To give the family something by which to remember their loved one. Perhaps to offer comfort in the face of death. Solid stone, worked by human hands, seems most fitting for this purpose.
She begins climbing the hill, to a section she has never visited, a white rose resting carefully in her hands. It is a long walk to the top of the slope; she has time to think, to remember.
She calls to mind her husband of forty years. It is his mission she carries out, a yearly ritual that she has not missed in the five years Michael has been gone. He went down fighting, just like the archangel for whom he was named.
Saint Michael, protect us. Sancte Michael Archangele defende nos in proelio. Let your sword defend us, warrior of heaven…
The words tumble through her head, snatches of prayers and homilies she's heard over the years. She still wears the medal her husband wore. She touches it now, briefly, running her fingers over the raised images of Michael defeating Satan and protecting a child. Michael was always her favorite saint, even before she met her husband.
There was time, before the disease progressed, to discuss what was going to happen. Michael didn't run from it. They spent hours talking about it. He repeatedly insisted that he had no preferences for what funeral arrangements were made, since he would be beyond caring. He didn't have any requests. He wanted his family to do what whatever would be easiest on them.
They talked about graveyards. He said he always wondered about the people in the graves they passed on their way to see their relatives. He wondered who they were, how they died, who they left behind. He wondered if anyone prayed for them. She decided on that day how she would honor Michael's memory. Every year on the anniversary of his death, she pays her respects to a stranger's grave on her way to visit her husband.
She stops a moment to rest. The incline is steep; steep for an eighty-year-old woman, at any rate. But she has made her decision. She spotted the marker from the base of the hill and immediately made for it. Sometimes she can just tell right away which grave it will be. After a few more minutes of walking, she crests the hill and looks at the stone. It's the simple, modestly sized type that speaks of a working class family.
Beloved Son
1986-2002
Sixteen years. So young…
She wonders what he looked like. Did he have dark hair or light? Was he tall? Muscular or bony? She wonders how he smiled. Was it a soft, thoughtful half-smile, or a full-faced, beaming grin? She wonders who his friends were and what they did for fun. She wonders what his parents are like, whether he has any brothers or sisters. She wonders what destiny was cut short the day he died, what gifts he never got to share. She wonders who visits him to bring the flowers she sees partially obscuring the graven year of death. She wonders what was, and what might have been. She fancies that she has an idea, the vaguest glimpse of a tall, dark-haired boy with a friendly, white-toothed grin and broad, strong shoulders, but it's probably just her imagination.
She lays the white rose on the flat top of the gravestone, being careful to avoid the thorns.
"In aeterna luce quiescas," she whispers.
Finis