I needed to think so I gave Clark another dose of exposure to a meteor, then after I saw him to the room I now thought of as his, I sat for several hours, contemplating my next move.
My father once had an exceptionally fine Stradivari violin. I've always prefered the cello or better still, the piano, among classical instruments, but even so, I could appreciate its beautiful tone and the air it exuded of simple perfection. Even sitting on a table, it seemed to declare to the world that it was one of the finest things ever created, a treasure. However, despite the climate-controlled room, one day it developed a hairline crack. When that happened, my father threw it away without a second glance. I was young--I protested--but he told me that when something once great develops a flaw, it has no more worth of any kind, that it has betrayed its own nature.
For people like Clark, flaws are endearing, proof of humanity. It struck me as the supreme irony that he, the one justly called a Superman, was so tolerant of flaws, when he had the capacity to be flawless himself.
More and more, flaws have the power to fill me with disgust, though as a hater of hypocrisy I must say that my own fill me with the most. I have become to believe in the destiny that I had despised. He cannot be a Superman without me.
For several years, I thought that my father's decision to throw out the violin was wholly wrong. I thought so for all the wrong reasons, of course. He was right to destroy the violin; it was perfect as it was before. But Clark, on the other hand, is a few steps short of perfection. Once I've made him so, cleaned him from the doubts and qualms in him that prevent him for reaching for all he can have, he will be flawless.
Of course, winning his trust and belief in me, would be easy, judging from the progress I had made. But from there to obeying me? Obedience is based on greed or fear. As for greed, wealth would hardly attract him; he could have all he wanted for the taking. Power? The same holds.
I stood up, impatient with myself. I'd compared my thoughts to a grand master's or a great general's, but forgotten the primary rule, to enter one's opponent's mind. I startled to scribble on a piece of paper that was lying to hand.
Gratitude.
Affection.
The instinct to help.
Charity called me. She'd been monitoring Clark's room, on my orders to alert me if he showed any signs of severe emotional distress. "Boss?"
"Yes?"
"He's crying."
I got up and went downstairs, first to the control panel where I set it to give him the full strength for about ten minutes, and then subside. I joined Charity and watched to make sure that it wasn't going too far, and then went inside after the ten minutes had passed.
He was in almost as much discomfort as when he first arrived. "Clark!" I called, holding him up as his head lolled. I rubbed his wrists, wiped his face, and called to him again, in a seeming near frenzy. Just as he began to show signs of life, I pleaded, "Don't leave me, Clark. You can't leave me alone again," then resumed calling his name. I enfolded him in an embrace that was far better-acted than any of my father's were, then lowered him back to the pillows immediately. He didn't say anything or return the touch, but he wasn't oblivious.
"This can't go on," I murmured as the effects wore off and he started to sit up. "It's not wearing off. If it's your body's response to being unhappy, it's gone into overdrive. I'm afraid it's going to kill you.
"I'm going to have to ask you a question. Do you trust me?"
*****************************************
The next chapter will have a lot more action. Assuming you want it to go on, that is!
My father once had an exceptionally fine Stradivari violin. I've always prefered the cello or better still, the piano, among classical instruments, but even so, I could appreciate its beautiful tone and the air it exuded of simple perfection. Even sitting on a table, it seemed to declare to the world that it was one of the finest things ever created, a treasure. However, despite the climate-controlled room, one day it developed a hairline crack. When that happened, my father threw it away without a second glance. I was young--I protested--but he told me that when something once great develops a flaw, it has no more worth of any kind, that it has betrayed its own nature.
For people like Clark, flaws are endearing, proof of humanity. It struck me as the supreme irony that he, the one justly called a Superman, was so tolerant of flaws, when he had the capacity to be flawless himself.
More and more, flaws have the power to fill me with disgust, though as a hater of hypocrisy I must say that my own fill me with the most. I have become to believe in the destiny that I had despised. He cannot be a Superman without me.
For several years, I thought that my father's decision to throw out the violin was wholly wrong. I thought so for all the wrong reasons, of course. He was right to destroy the violin; it was perfect as it was before. But Clark, on the other hand, is a few steps short of perfection. Once I've made him so, cleaned him from the doubts and qualms in him that prevent him for reaching for all he can have, he will be flawless.
Of course, winning his trust and belief in me, would be easy, judging from the progress I had made. But from there to obeying me? Obedience is based on greed or fear. As for greed, wealth would hardly attract him; he could have all he wanted for the taking. Power? The same holds.
I stood up, impatient with myself. I'd compared my thoughts to a grand master's or a great general's, but forgotten the primary rule, to enter one's opponent's mind. I startled to scribble on a piece of paper that was lying to hand.
Gratitude.
Affection.
The instinct to help.
Charity called me. She'd been monitoring Clark's room, on my orders to alert me if he showed any signs of severe emotional distress. "Boss?"
"Yes?"
"He's crying."
I got up and went downstairs, first to the control panel where I set it to give him the full strength for about ten minutes, and then subside. I joined Charity and watched to make sure that it wasn't going too far, and then went inside after the ten minutes had passed.
He was in almost as much discomfort as when he first arrived. "Clark!" I called, holding him up as his head lolled. I rubbed his wrists, wiped his face, and called to him again, in a seeming near frenzy. Just as he began to show signs of life, I pleaded, "Don't leave me, Clark. You can't leave me alone again," then resumed calling his name. I enfolded him in an embrace that was far better-acted than any of my father's were, then lowered him back to the pillows immediately. He didn't say anything or return the touch, but he wasn't oblivious.
"This can't go on," I murmured as the effects wore off and he started to sit up. "It's not wearing off. If it's your body's response to being unhappy, it's gone into overdrive. I'm afraid it's going to kill you.
"I'm going to have to ask you a question. Do you trust me?"
*****************************************
The next chapter will have a lot more action. Assuming you want it to go on, that is!