1 A few months had passed and the ache was slowly dulling. Although nothing
could ever completely arrest the torment that either of them felt.
"Clark, darling…" Martha Kent absentmindedly broke off her sentence as she ran her fingers through his ebony curls.
"I'm fine Mom," he answered her unasked question. She nodded and let her hand linger a little longer then she had intended. Clark smiled slightly at her gesture, which seemed to make her give him a fragile grin in return. He watched her intently. Her once youthful face had grown tired and wrinkles that he had never noticed were tugging at the corners of her eyes. She had changed so much in just a short time.
He supposed that he had changed as well. Became more reserved and not so eager to be the hero he once was. From such an experience Clark learned that he couldn't always save people. Including himself. He felt as though he was falling deeper and deeper. No one able catch him. He hid it quite well, behind dancing hazel eyes and a charming smile. A smile that would only grace his face once and awhile, making it all the more special. He felt the grin leave his face and his lips settled into a thin line.
"Clark?" Martha questioned in a panicked tone.
"I'm just tired Mom," he heard his own voice quaver. She studied his face and then nodded. Clark wasn't sure if she had believed his lie or saw something in him that she would rather leave alone. He decided that it didn't matter as he gently kissed her cheek. He walked slowly up the stairs, instead of taking them two at a time; perhaps he really was tired. He must have been, because the moment he reached his room, Clark flopped down on his bed, pulling the comforter over his head drifting off into a deep sleep.
He had the dream again that night. The same one that haunted every time the sky turned dark and the moon hung high over head. And it was always as terrifying as the night before.
Clark stood in front of the open grave, his father's casket ready to be lowered in. The rain pelted down, hard. He kept one arm wrapped tightly around his sobbing mother, his jaw clenched. In the other hand he held an umbrella, but somehow he was soaked through and through, water mingling with his tears. White roses lay neatly atop the contrasting black coffin and as it began to descend into the ground Clark had to look away. It made it all too real. This was it. He was gone forever.
It was then that he felt his mother buckle beneath him, but Clark was frozen in place. He knew that he had grabbed Martha from falling, encircling her with his arms, the umbrella lying on the ground, forgotten. It amazed him at how close he had been to letting her slip away. How could he save her when he couldn't save himself?
Everything seemed to blur around him. Somebody lightly placed a hand on his shoulder, and as Clark moved forward the hand dropped. A chill ran through his entire body and he spun around. When he turned back he was met by the eyes of his father.
It was then that he woke up, in a cold sweat, panting. He glanced around his room, now with an absence of the ticking clock. He never did bother to replace it. The shadows danced about on his walls. Clark shut his eyes trying to block out the frightening image. It never worked. If anything it only made the pain in his heart cut deeper. He ran a hand through his damp hair and shivered in a way that made him not quite sure if it was from the cold or his real life nightmare.
The cool wind blew in from his open window. Clark tumbled out of bed and closed it, drawing the drapes tight. Then, he pulled back the soft material staring out into the darkness. He sighed somberly and instead of retreating back to the comfort of his bed he decided that he needed a different solace altogether. He tugged on his jeans that lay on the floor and grabbed a jacket, which had been carelessly flung in the corner. Slipping on his boots, Clark jogged out to the barn and up to the loft.
His breath came out in little white puffs as he shut the heavy door behind him. He loved the familiar way that the old wood creaked beneath his feet as he ascended up the stairs. Clark glanced around. It had been ages since he had been able to come up here. The mere idea of it scared him. Mainly the idea that his father, who had made it so much more extraordinary, was now gone. He walked up to the telescope, pushing it slightly with his hand, sending it swinging in a complete circle. He bent over, looking through the lens that revealed a blanket of sky, dotted with shining stars. He moved it downward, an old habit of when he would spy on Lana Lang. Lana was the perfect girl next door and Clark was almost the perfect boy next door, but not quite. He noticed her sitting on the worn porch swing, the dim light from above making her raven hair glisten in the night.
More concerned than curious, Clark ventured out. It was a fair walk, but it gave Clark some time for deliberation. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat as he ambled his way up the path. She glanced up, smiled then ducked her head again, staring at her slipper clad feet.
"Lana," he acknowledged her in a soft voice as he took a seat beside her.
"Hey Clark," she responded in the same tone. Neither asked what the other was doing out in the middle of the night, it didn't seem to matter because they had ended up in the same place. She tentatively rested her hand upon his knee, showing that she cared. He didn't grin, or scowl, just rubbed his thumb over her wrist before intertwining his fingers with her own.
"I had the dream again," he whispered, his confession exploding in the silent air. Lana began to nod, but didn't. Instead she tightened her clasp on his hand, giving it a squeeze. "I turned around…and he was there. Just staring back at me…like he wanted me to help him."
"And you couldn't," she frowned. He looked at her in disbelief and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, proving her embarrassment of almost finishing his sentence. "I used to have those dreams too. When I was younger, after my parents died. I would see their faces and it was like they were begging me to save them. But you can't save everyone Clark."
"I used too…" he admitted.
"I know," Lana skimmed her free hand along side his face, down his cheek. "Clark…" she paused. "You can't play the part of the hero, not always."
"But I want to, always," he said using her own phrase. "I was good at being the hero," Clark stated bluntly.
"You were," she agreed, thinking of the many times that he had protected her. "Your father didn't need to be rescued Clark."
"Yes he did. I just couldn't do. Why, why couldn't I do it?" Clark remembered when he thought he had cried all his tears. He was just as wrong then as he was now, the tears sliding off his face.
"Maybe you did," she said slowly. "Just not in the way you realize."
"Maybe," he conceded. He turned to her and in the dark night Lana hadn't noticed his hushed sobs. She rested her forehead on Clark's, her own tears running with his. Lana wiped his wet cheeks and Clark grazed the pads of his thumbs across hers. He cradled her slender face in his strong hands and Clark had the sudden urge to brush his lips against hers. Lana Lang always needed to be saved, and more than ever, no matter how much she denied it, Clark needed to save her.
"Clark, darling…" Martha Kent absentmindedly broke off her sentence as she ran her fingers through his ebony curls.
"I'm fine Mom," he answered her unasked question. She nodded and let her hand linger a little longer then she had intended. Clark smiled slightly at her gesture, which seemed to make her give him a fragile grin in return. He watched her intently. Her once youthful face had grown tired and wrinkles that he had never noticed were tugging at the corners of her eyes. She had changed so much in just a short time.
He supposed that he had changed as well. Became more reserved and not so eager to be the hero he once was. From such an experience Clark learned that he couldn't always save people. Including himself. He felt as though he was falling deeper and deeper. No one able catch him. He hid it quite well, behind dancing hazel eyes and a charming smile. A smile that would only grace his face once and awhile, making it all the more special. He felt the grin leave his face and his lips settled into a thin line.
"Clark?" Martha questioned in a panicked tone.
"I'm just tired Mom," he heard his own voice quaver. She studied his face and then nodded. Clark wasn't sure if she had believed his lie or saw something in him that she would rather leave alone. He decided that it didn't matter as he gently kissed her cheek. He walked slowly up the stairs, instead of taking them two at a time; perhaps he really was tired. He must have been, because the moment he reached his room, Clark flopped down on his bed, pulling the comforter over his head drifting off into a deep sleep.
He had the dream again that night. The same one that haunted every time the sky turned dark and the moon hung high over head. And it was always as terrifying as the night before.
Clark stood in front of the open grave, his father's casket ready to be lowered in. The rain pelted down, hard. He kept one arm wrapped tightly around his sobbing mother, his jaw clenched. In the other hand he held an umbrella, but somehow he was soaked through and through, water mingling with his tears. White roses lay neatly atop the contrasting black coffin and as it began to descend into the ground Clark had to look away. It made it all too real. This was it. He was gone forever.
It was then that he felt his mother buckle beneath him, but Clark was frozen in place. He knew that he had grabbed Martha from falling, encircling her with his arms, the umbrella lying on the ground, forgotten. It amazed him at how close he had been to letting her slip away. How could he save her when he couldn't save himself?
Everything seemed to blur around him. Somebody lightly placed a hand on his shoulder, and as Clark moved forward the hand dropped. A chill ran through his entire body and he spun around. When he turned back he was met by the eyes of his father.
It was then that he woke up, in a cold sweat, panting. He glanced around his room, now with an absence of the ticking clock. He never did bother to replace it. The shadows danced about on his walls. Clark shut his eyes trying to block out the frightening image. It never worked. If anything it only made the pain in his heart cut deeper. He ran a hand through his damp hair and shivered in a way that made him not quite sure if it was from the cold or his real life nightmare.
The cool wind blew in from his open window. Clark tumbled out of bed and closed it, drawing the drapes tight. Then, he pulled back the soft material staring out into the darkness. He sighed somberly and instead of retreating back to the comfort of his bed he decided that he needed a different solace altogether. He tugged on his jeans that lay on the floor and grabbed a jacket, which had been carelessly flung in the corner. Slipping on his boots, Clark jogged out to the barn and up to the loft.
His breath came out in little white puffs as he shut the heavy door behind him. He loved the familiar way that the old wood creaked beneath his feet as he ascended up the stairs. Clark glanced around. It had been ages since he had been able to come up here. The mere idea of it scared him. Mainly the idea that his father, who had made it so much more extraordinary, was now gone. He walked up to the telescope, pushing it slightly with his hand, sending it swinging in a complete circle. He bent over, looking through the lens that revealed a blanket of sky, dotted with shining stars. He moved it downward, an old habit of when he would spy on Lana Lang. Lana was the perfect girl next door and Clark was almost the perfect boy next door, but not quite. He noticed her sitting on the worn porch swing, the dim light from above making her raven hair glisten in the night.
More concerned than curious, Clark ventured out. It was a fair walk, but it gave Clark some time for deliberation. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat as he ambled his way up the path. She glanced up, smiled then ducked her head again, staring at her slipper clad feet.
"Lana," he acknowledged her in a soft voice as he took a seat beside her.
"Hey Clark," she responded in the same tone. Neither asked what the other was doing out in the middle of the night, it didn't seem to matter because they had ended up in the same place. She tentatively rested her hand upon his knee, showing that she cared. He didn't grin, or scowl, just rubbed his thumb over her wrist before intertwining his fingers with her own.
"I had the dream again," he whispered, his confession exploding in the silent air. Lana began to nod, but didn't. Instead she tightened her clasp on his hand, giving it a squeeze. "I turned around…and he was there. Just staring back at me…like he wanted me to help him."
"And you couldn't," she frowned. He looked at her in disbelief and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, proving her embarrassment of almost finishing his sentence. "I used to have those dreams too. When I was younger, after my parents died. I would see their faces and it was like they were begging me to save them. But you can't save everyone Clark."
"I used too…" he admitted.
"I know," Lana skimmed her free hand along side his face, down his cheek. "Clark…" she paused. "You can't play the part of the hero, not always."
"But I want to, always," he said using her own phrase. "I was good at being the hero," Clark stated bluntly.
"You were," she agreed, thinking of the many times that he had protected her. "Your father didn't need to be rescued Clark."
"Yes he did. I just couldn't do. Why, why couldn't I do it?" Clark remembered when he thought he had cried all his tears. He was just as wrong then as he was now, the tears sliding off his face.
"Maybe you did," she said slowly. "Just not in the way you realize."
"Maybe," he conceded. He turned to her and in the dark night Lana hadn't noticed his hushed sobs. She rested her forehead on Clark's, her own tears running with his. Lana wiped his wet cheeks and Clark grazed the pads of his thumbs across hers. He cradled her slender face in his strong hands and Clark had the sudden urge to brush his lips against hers. Lana Lang always needed to be saved, and more than ever, no matter how much she denied it, Clark needed to save her.