All my life I've lived in a world that's made out of cardboard - always taking constant care not to break something . . . not to break someone. Too late. This cardboard world is crumbling and there is nothing I can do to stop it, not even with all my powers. I'm an iron giant living among paper dolls and everything I touch turns to dust. In a moment of weakness I forgot the rest of humanity was not made out of steel.
A sound like bones snapping cuts through the silence and I wince. For a heartbeat I fear I've crippled someone else, but when I look down it's just a broken branch. Blood rushes to my head and I remind myself to breathe. Nobody got hurt, at least not this time. I force my feet to keep moving, ignoring the chill seeping into my bones. The skeletal trees cast ghostly shadows over the snow covered ground. The trees grow close together in the woods and I can't help feeling I'm trapped inside a dungeon, the bars growing ever narrower the deeper I wander. But no prison cell can hold me.
I look down at my hands and recoil. Five fingers on each hand, like everybody else. No scales to speak of. It doesn't matter. Those hands are a weapon, a deadly weapon that does more bad than good. I might look like everybody else on the outside, but looks can be deceiving. The reflection looking back at me from the mirror, is a monster, plain and simple. A monster that should be six feet underground not mingling with other humans. Hell, I am not even sure if I am human.I chug that dark thought deep down. I am overthinking things as per usual. Of course I'm human. My birth parents are two of the most human people I know. I simply had the misfortune of being born different.
I shove my fists into my coat pocket, and turn down a familiar worn dirt path. I've walked down this road more times than I care to remember but now each step is a punch to the gut. There's the overturned old trunk Pete and I used to play 'Pirates' in. Over there yonder, across the rolling cornfields, past the swamp, and through a tangle of weeds and skeletal branches, is the treehouse Pete and I built; Pete dubbed it our 'Fortress of Solitude,' a safe haven away from girls with the cooties. That never stopped Jill Kent though. She's about as subtle as a locomotive.
Because of me, Pete will never be able to climb the ladder up to the fortress ever again. All my fault. I should have listened to Dad. It was a mistake joining the football team. And I had been so careful, running slow as molasses, even tripping over the ball on numerous occasions, to the point I was nicknamed King Klutz. It only took one second of lapse in judgment to ruin everything. Freaks don't get to play football with normal people. Freaks don't get to have friends. Freaks like me, deserve to be buried alive and lost to the idles of time.
I kick a stray pebble, and wince when the force of my kick rockets the rock into outer space. Good gravy! I watch the pebble disappear into the gray sky, and groan. Yep, that's right. Nothing can be simple with me. Even my kick has to be a ticking time bomb. I feel like I live in a world that's made out of cardboard - always having to take constant care not to break something . . . or someone. Too late. That cardboard world is crumbling as easily as a game of dominoes.
I comb my fingers through my messy, black hair and let out a frustrated sigh. To continue, or not to continue? Now that is the question. My heart beats a mile a minute. Down that hill is nothing but misery, a reminder of why I can't be around other people. An echo of a past I must erase. Pete Ross would have been better off if he never knew me.
But Pete has been my best friend since our days in the sandbox together, back when my only worry was pleasing the went on our first camping trip together. Pete was there when I lost my first tooth - he was the one who knocked it out with a well aimed left hook. I owe him a goodbye at least. But I can't stomach seeing him so helpless. It would be best for everyone involved if I left. I am not that simple little boy any longer. My strength is a weakness I can't afford to exploit. I need to find somewhere I would never hurt another soul . . . or rid myself of this curse.
I finally reach Braverman Field and the sight fills me with dread. Squeezed at the bottom of the sweeping green hill, behind a picket white fence, is a quaint house, not unlike my own. Patched up frost-cloths cover Mrs. Ross's tulip pots by the door. I envy the flowers, I wish I could hide out all day in a pot. I doubt a rose would have to worry about crippling a friend. Though having bees suck the life out of me could prove problematic.
I sigh. Pete will be waiting for me inside, or what is left of him. It's not too late, I can still turn back. Home is only a mile away. No one has seen me. Alarm bells blare in my head as I draw closer. I'm the last person Pete wants to see. I ruined his life. He can kiss his dream of being a pro basketball player goodbye, thanks to moi. I stand frozen before the door. Mrs. Ross hasn't taken down the Christmas wreath yet, and the scent of pine and Christmas still lingers in the air. My throat tightens. I helped the twins make that wreath.
The door creaks open, and the choice is ripped out of my grasp. It's as if she were waiting for me to show up on her doorstep. Mrs. Ross's round frame blocks the doorway. Her warm brown eyes take me in inch by inch, and I feel like she is digging into my soul. Sometimes I wonder if she's the one with X-ray vision, not me. Her timing couldn't be worse. So much, for running away with my tail between my legs. No siree, not under Mrs. Ross's watch. Worry wrinkles line her brown face. I brace myself for the screaming, but instead her eyes twinkle like Christmas lights when she sees me.
"Clark!" she pulls me into a suffocating hug with her strong, dark baker arms. Her wiry brown curls tickle my face as she squeezes me tight. I take great pains to relax my muscles, and hold my breath, praying I don't hurt her. She smells of cinnamon and fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. It feels strange being in someone else's embrace that is not my mom. Despite my fears, I find myself hugging her back. I'm stunned speechless. She has every reason to hate me, yet she embraces me as one of her own. My throat grows raw with emotion. She would not be so kind to me when senior year rolls around and there are no scouts knocking at her door.
She releases me tentatively as if she can sense the turmoil boiling beneath the surface. She flicks one finger under my chin and forces me to look her in the eyes. Deep brown eyes filled with trust and love. "Pete is as much to blame Clark." No she's wrong. I was in control of my own actions. I did not have to push myself to go so fast. I let my arrogance get the better of me. We won the game but at a cost."He put you in an impossible situation." The sound of Pete's back snapping reverberates in my mind. I close my mind off to the memories.
"I'm sorry . . . was a mistake." I stumble over my words, slipping my backpack off. I fumble with the zipper, my fingers as slippery as a stingray's underbelly. Mrs. Ross places a hand over mine, halting my motions.
"Whatever goodies you have in there you can give to Pete yourself," she says sincerely. "Come along son."
The Ross' home is messy but cosy; it has a lived in feeling that you can only find in Smallville. Granted, I've never ventured out of my home town, so what do I know? Dirty dishes are stacked up in the sink; if I squint the stack resembles The Leaning Tower Pisa. A plate of untouched grilled cheese sandwiches sit on the kitchen table, long since gone cold. Flies swarm greedily around the sandwiches. Christmas wrapping paper lays in disarray across the floor, a reflection of the turmoil in the household. A framed picture of Lieutenant Jefferson Ross sits proudly on the mantle, his medals hanging on the wall behind him.
I follow Mrs. Ross up the rickety steps, dread creeping into the darkest corners of my pass a wall covered head to toe with hand drawn pictures. There's the Timon and Pumba drawing Pete drew in Pre-K. I recognize my own squiggly drawing of Hawkman and Power Girl, and my mood sours even more. An itty-bitty me is squeezed between Power Girl and Hawkman each holding onto one of my hands, as we float over a half-assed drawing of a barn that looks more like an angry Jackson Pollock doodle. I remember I was missing a black crayon, so I gave Power Girl blue hair instead of black, which made her look more like a smerf, than the superhero I idolized.
That was back when I believed the impossible was possible and I wasn't alone in the universe. I was obsessed with the JSA growing up. I used to stay up all night, waiting for Power Girl to come whisk me away on some mad adventure, and teach me how to control my powers. Keyword: was. Power Girl never knocked on my window. Hawkman never stepped in to teach the bullies at school a lesson with his mace. A child's fantasy. They're nothing but comic book characters, there to serve as a light in the darkness and confusion of childhood. I've long since outgrown heroes. Humans can't fly or wield a mace with the power of thunder. Humans can't run back in time.
Humans can't light a candle with a single look. And yet, here I am, with more powers than anyone should have a right to have. I'm a walking ticking time bomb. If Power Girl truly was real, why hasn't she reached out to me? I clench my fists. I need to accept facts. I am the only one like me in the universe. Friends are an anomaly I can't afford. This is a farewell to Pete Ross. After today, I am never going to speak to him again or another living soul; it's for the best. People like me don't get the luxury of having friends.
Mrs. Ross stops before a familiar door with a basketball hoop hanging on the front. The hoop is crooked as if someone recently pulled on it with a death grip. Scratches slash across the door frame. Visions of Pete struggling flash across my mind. Fear takes ahold of me like a giant with an iron grip. I struggle to breathe. I must have an expression of pure terror because Mrs. Ross quickly reassures, "It'll be alright," before opening the door.
The smell hits me first: leftover pizza and dirty socks wrapped up in a blanket of misery. The room is pitch black except for a TV screen on the wall across from the bed, playing reruns of Scooby Doo. It brings back memories of simpler times when I didn't have powers and we would stay up all night reenacting episodes of Scooby Doo. I usually ended up being Shaggy. Those were the good, old days. Now the memory turns to ash in my mouth. My throat stings. A patch of ghostly light cuts across the room. An ebony bedpost rises out of the shadows. I can make out the fuzzy silhouette of my friend propped up against the stark pillow. The white of Pete's eyes shine through the darkness, watching me with a heavy gaze. There was a time I could read Pete's expression like a book, but now his face is as motionless as his legs. My only hope is that he is not in too much pain.
I take one step, trip over a stray ball, and stumble into the room. My arms flail about, trying to find a hold on something . . . anything at all to halt my fall. My fists close around empty air - I fall unceremoniously on my rear end. And there is a distinct crunching noise. My heart jumps all the way to my throat. I swear as I clumsily climb back to my feet. There is a squashed skateboard at my feet. I've lost track of how many toys I've murdered in cold blood. I'm Woody and Buzz's worst nightmare. I climb to my feet and wait for Pete to make a snide joke about my clumsiness. Pete does nothing of the sort. He stares with dead eyes at the TV, pretending I don't exist. A silence so sharp it could cut through steel stretches out between us. Pete and I are only feet apart, but I feel like I'm stranded on another planet.
A shadow breaks away from the mass of darkness. "Silly Clark," Daphne strides to my side, smiling fondly up at me, but all the while she keeps a wary eye on her brother. "Clumsy as ever," she shakes her bushy head, mimicking her mom's tone expertly. "Clark Kent will always have two left feet, even when he's a hundred." she shakes a scolding finger at me and raises one eyebrow acutely. I'm a bit taken aback by her sudden appearance. But I guess I should have expected she would be at her big bros side for this ordeal. She shoves her tiny fist between my fingers, and guides me to Pete's bedside.
"I told you he'd come," the excitement in her voice is contagious, but Pete does not move from his position, continuing to glare at the TV as if by mere force of look he could make it explode. "Pete?" Daphne nudges her brother softly in the side. "It's your best bud," she says in a sing-song voice, much too chipper for the dank room. I feel like I have stepped into a black hole, that is slowly devouring all the light.
"Get that fucking mutant out of my room." I flinch at his cold tone, so unlike Pete's usual chipper demeanor. Though I can't blame him. No. There is only one person in this room to blame for Pete's sour mood, and so much more. I don't miss how Pete avoids looking at me. A chill settles over the room, and it has nothing to do with the brewing Winter outdoors. I want to apologize but no words would make a difference. They don't exactly make cards for 'Sorry I got you paralized.'
Mutant. Not Clark, or Speedy. I swallow hard, my throat growing tight. There was a time my metahuman status was viewed as a badge of honor. I could run to China and back in the blink of an eye, bringing all sorts of delicacies back with me. I beat Dean Reeve at arm wrestling, winning Pete countless bets. I was good for poker games, but not much else. When my friend looks at me now, all he sees is a mutant who ruined his life. No amount of dumplings from Hong Kong will bring my friend back. The comic books turn to stone in my backpack. I scurt back towards the door and bump into Mrs. Ross.
"I sure hope you don't kiss your mother with that mouth!" Mrs. Ross thunders. I open my mouth to explain it's totally alright, I deserve much worse than the 'F' word but my mouth refuses to work. I can focus on nothing but Pete's slack figure, rendered almost unrecognizable by harsh lines and turbulent features that remind me of a tornado. Pete slumps back into his pillow, his dark eyes swirling with unsaid words, but he remains silent.
"Don't be stupid," Daphne chides, squeezing my hand in her tiny one. "Of course you forgive King Klutz." Daphne looks between the two of us, heartbroken. "You're best buds, and friends forgive each other when they do stupid things." I'm afraid it's not that simple. I'm not Pete's friend anymore. "You're like Todd and Copper, and no matter what, you got each other's backs," her lower lip trembles as she says that.
Pete glowers at Daphne. "This is not just some stupid Disney movie where I can dance away my problems!" He flinches at the word 'dance.' "He destroyed my life!" In a fit of passion, Pete knocks over his bedside lamp and it lands with a resounding crash on the woodlined floor. Daphne shrieks and runs out of the room, whimpering.
Mrs. Ross lets out a heavy sigh. For a second guilt flashes across Pete's features as he locks eyes with his Mom. Her shoulders slump with exhaustion, and she looks between the door and her son indecisively. Daphne's soft cries can be heard all the way from downstairs. I sometimes forget at the end of the day Dapnee is just a little kid; she sometimes acts older than her six years. Mrs. Ross ultimately decides her youngest needs her more, and slips out of the room muttering a hurried, "Behave yourself," over her shoulder.
I wish she hadn't left. I feel like a sheep being led to slaughter. There is no Daphne or Mrs. Ross to hide behind. A silence stretches between us as thick as a bank vault. The iron wall grows ever stronger between us, and no matter how hard I punch I can't break through. The TV is the only sound in the room, but even that feels like a distant echo, far away in another galaxy.
I can't stand the silence any longer. "Sorry," I choke out. Sometimes, it's easiest to rip the bandaid off nice and quick. "I should have been more careful . . . heat of the moment, you know how it is?" I wince. Heat of the moment? That is the stupidest, most unfeeling thing I've ever heard anyone say. I wring my hands together, that's no excuse. "I had no business being on the field . . I'm a terrible friend. If you never want to talk to me again, I understand," I say this all in a rush.
Pete crosses his arms but otherwise shows no indication of hearing me. At least he's not screaming at me, that's encouraging, right? The last time he screamed at me was because I used my powers to save Lana from becoming roadkill. Back then he felt it was the worst kind of betrayal. Lana couldn't be trusted. She would only exploit my speed and turn me into a caricature of myself. I trusted Pete, so I never told Lana about the other arsenal at my fingertips. Now regret simmers in the pit of my stomach. Maybe if I never opened up to Pete, things would be different. To him, it would seem like just another typical fluke accident. Football players got hurt all the time; it's a violent game. Pete would be happy to see me, not resent my very existence. But deep down I know I never would have been able to look him in the eye and lie.
"I don't need your forgiveness," I say cautiously. "I just wanted you to know . . . that is . . . I mean if I could take back what I did, I would," I struggle to form a coherent sentence. I wish I had no powers to begin with. None of this would have happened if I were plain, ordinary Clark Kent. Emphasis on the ordinary. "I never meant to hurt you, man. You know that, right?" Pete slowly looks my way, and for a heartbeat I think I see a glimmer of sympathy in his gaze. But the moment is gone in a flash, and he resumes glaring at the TV.
When Pete doesn't protest I inch closer and slide onto the edge of the bed. I try not to notice Pete drawing the covers up tighter around him, like a kid hiding from the monster under his bed. When he looks at me, he no longer sees a brother; I'm a monster in his eyes. Pete's reaction hurts more than drowning in a river of lava. At least he's not screaming at me, that's got to count for something, right?
I slip my worn backpack off my back, and dig out a collection of comics: Warrior Angel, Hawkman, Zorro, and so many more, all sticky with remnants of childhood. Books I've let catch dust at the bottom of my closet. Books full of myths and lies. Books I have no use for any longer. But once upon a time two naive boys worshipped the ground those heroes walked on.
"I thought these would cheer you up," I say helplessly, but now I realize it was a mistake bringing them. They're an echo of a past I can't return to.
Pete halfheartedly flips through a Hawkman comic. Hawkman is in mid leap on the cover, inches from pummeling Vandal Savage with his mace. I grit my teeth. It'll be nice if I could solve all my problems with a well placed left hook. No. I'm no hero, and violence never did anyone any good.
"Just what I needed," Pete grumbles. "More things to do in bed," he lets the book fall limp in his lap, still not looking at me. I try to read his expression, but for once Pete is as stoic as a statue. Daphne took all the light with her when she left. I can almost feel the shadow of a dementor hovering over the room, sucking all the joy out of the air.
"You delivered your package, you can go now mutant" he subtly inches away from me. I don't know what I expected, but not this. I thought at least he would humor me, hear me out. This is the same guy who convinced me to run to China and get us some real Chinese food when the parents were out of town. I used to be the cool meta-human in town with multiple tricks up his sleeve. Now I'm just the monster who ruined Pete's life. A hurt expression brushes across Pete's features and he looks like he wants to say more but is holding back for my sake.
I'm halfway to the door when Pete says, "You belong in a lab where they can dissect you." I'm grateful my back is turned so he can't see the treacherous tears that leak out of my eyes.