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IN THE DARK

CHAPTER TWELVE

Safe.

Say it with me: safe.

A small single-syllable word that's been responsible for so much in my life. A small, guttural Anglo-Saxon noun that has managed to terrify me more than serial killers, terrorists, bank robbers, drug dealers, and bald psychopaths ever could.

He hit a nerve, you see. Hit a nerve I didn't even realise was still raw until that night. Everything would have been fine if he hadn't used the word "safe." He was trying, I think, to make this thing between us tame and knowable, a fire that could keep you warm, not one that would burn down your house. But for me, for someone who works with words every day, who talks and writes and thinks using nothing but words, that one small word was a huge problem. I was afraid of it, and my fear made me hate it. When your universe is made of nothing but words, then they have a power over you that they shouldn't have. Words seem to be all that's real; they seem to be reality itself when really they're just a tool for describing it.

They seem to be concrete and whole and very, very frightening. And that word did frighten me, once upon a time.

A wise woman once said that people have a need to confess their sins, a need to tell their secrets. And she (whoever she was, because I can't recall a name) was perfectly right. Saying things out loud, describing them like I am here, makes them less scary because it makes them knowable, makes them tame. It's the thing I always distrusted about narrative when I was younger: I always knew it was a tricky proposition, more about what the person speaking feels and needs than about the truth of the situation. I always knew that narrative was flawed, that it helped make things knowable and palatable. Made things easier. And the mighty Lois Lane never does things the easy way. At least I never used to. I always felt like something wasn't worthwhile unless I got it the hard way. Sometimes I wonder how many of the mistakes I've made were down to that egotistical bit of logic, were down to my need to go toe to toe with the universe and see who'd come out on top. I know that's how I got to where I am professionally: Mad Dog Lane became the best as much through will as talent. But when it came down to dealing with Clark then this need, this chip I had on my shoulder, really did screw things up. I can see that now. If I hadn't felt so raw, so scared, I would have handled everything else better, I know I would have. I wouldn't have retreated into numbness, into being frozen. I would have talked him through things, would have been patient, would have forced myself to be patient. But I was hurt and panicked, and I didn't fight when he pushed me away. Because I hadn't felt safe, exactly, but I had wanted to. I had wanted to be safe with Clark, and that terrified me. It wasn't a grown woman who let him walk out that door, it was a nine year old kid, still caught in a trap of logic she'd worked out when another man she'd loved had abandoned her. Still trying to teach the universe who was boss, since it had screwed her over so royally. It's why I made the same mistakes over and over, why I continued for so long to behave in ways which hurt me even though I knew deep down that I was being stupid. More than anything else, I now believe that people want to stick with what they know. They know if they behave in a certain way then they'll get a certain outcome, and even if that outcome stinks they'll still follow it through to the bitter end. Because at least it's a familiar, knowable kind of stink. I still thought I could control this, I could force my will on the world. I still thought deep down that I could push, and make this come right. I can't decide whether it was blind egotism or blind faith.

And of course, if everything was down to me, then if Clark left I could kid myself that it was my fault, my decision. I could delude myself that I was Boss of the Universe, and things had turned out the way I wanted.

Isn't emotional logic fun?

When I walked out of his apartment that night I was numb, hurt. But the problem with believing that you're in charge of the universe is that you always think you'll get your way. You always tell yourself you'll turn things around. And I might have, if he hadn't taken matters into his own hands. If he hadn't disappeared into the great blue yonder then things would have been very different, I can promise you that. But it takes two people to truly screw up a relationship and we outdid ourselves. We went in opposite directions, both of us trying to do the same thing. Both of us trying to fix ourselves, and probably telling ourselves it was to fix the other person. So many supposedly good intentions. And you know what they say the road to Hell is paved with, don't you? I was so furious with Clark for so long not because I thought we were different, despite the yawning chasm I'd realised lay between us, but because I'd finally realised we were alike. We both wanted to keep things knowable and safe and controlled, just like telling you this story lets me make it knowable and safe and controlled. Makes it finally fit into my brain, into my mouth, into my heart. Finally lets me lay it to rest.

At least, that's the theory.

And here's the kicker: I didn't think deep down that he'd leave.

There, I said it. I know, it makes no sense: I was terrified that he'd leave and yet I didn't think he would. You gotta understand, there was a grown woman and a nine year old kid both looking at this situation. And while the kid might have had control of the heart-strings, it was the adult who had control of the brain. I thought I knew Clark; to be perfectly honest I thought he had more spine. So even when I got back to work after my three days mandatory rest (Perry's orders) and heard the news I didn't believe it. Clark couldn't, wouldn't leave. It was like telling me that I'd come to work one morning and find The Planet building gone. It was unthinkable. Nobody else was that surprised by his decision: everyone had seen how the Ice Sculptor case had gotten to him, and some of the more jealous (and frankly, less talented) members of staff even snickered about it, laughed about how the hick couldn't hack it here in the big city. They all knew that something had happened between us, but nobody had the balls to ask me and nobody actually thought they'd get it out of him. Most of them assumed he'd made a try and I'd shot him down: I mean, I was practically Superman's girlfriend as far as they were concerned. The idea that Kansas State and me were an item seemed ridiculous, which just shows you what keen, penetrating minds I was working with.

Everybody else could believe it except the one person who knew why he was going.

Looking back on it now, I know that I could have tried harder. It's why I'm still mad at him, still mad at myself. I had a week before he left and I did nothing, said nothing. Maybe I really didn't believe that he'd go. Or maybe that's a crock and I told myself I didn't believe it because then I wouldn't have to try again. Even now I'm not sure. But whichever it was, we just went through those last few days talking without really saying anything. If he stared at me sometimes, with that puppy-dog look I really wished I could loath, then I ignored it. Maybe I couldn't give up my hope, when I'd given up everything else in such a short space of time. But one thing I know: when he left I didn't think it would be nearly six years before I saw him again. And I certainly couldn't imagine that in that space of time I'd come to believe and accept that he was gone from my life forever. It's weird, I accepted Superman disappearing more easily, I think. Mainly because his going wasn't such a shock.

Not after everything we put each other through once Clark was gone.

Not after the gloves, and the cape, and what was left of my sanity, came off.

Safe and knowable went out the window with Superman, when they needed to be jettisoned with Clark. I was reacting, I was trying to take back control of my life.

Because I'm the one in charge, remember?

And the person in charge, no matter how much she tells herself she's immune to the concept, is always "safe." That's why she puts herself up for the job.