I can't stand to fly
I'm not that naive
I'm just out to find
The better part of me.
I'm more than a bird...I'm more than a plane
I'm more than some pretty face beside a train
It's not easy to be me
He examined his face carefully in the harsh fluorescent light, which seeped through the window from the murky darkness outside. His face seemed to float in the blackness, like a brittle leaf on a defrosting pond. His skin was pale, paler than he was used to, and those new freckles swam together, like an impressionist painting. He wasn't too sure how he felt about his face similarities to "The Waterlilies." But then it didn't matter how he felt, did it? Nothing had been under his control for months. Not his destiny, not his life, hell, not even his body. He had been more than this scared little boy he'd become. He would become more than this again. He only had to remember how...
Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home I'll never see
There was so much missing from his mind, so much Nicholas's relentless invasions had destroyed. Perhaps in some ways, it was a blessing. He already missed his parents unbearably and he couldn't remember half of his life with them. His memories of Liz and Maria were clearer, but that was only because of the stories he told Tess in the lonely hours between torture sessions. What did it say about him that those hellish moments, the instances where he prayed that they would add just a little too much juice and end it all for him. If his parents could see him now, what would they have to say about this new son of theirs? The weakling who wished for death? The coward who couldn't sleep alone? The man who had become an unsure child again? Their son with a stranger's face. Their son who was risen from the dead.
Another week and they would be gone, moving on with their lives. Isabel and the others had packed up his old room, brought some of his things to this place. He had his computer system again, his bass, and all the other trappings of his old life, brought here, to his new one. The house would stand vacant and his parents would be gone, but he would still be here, trying to repiece together the broken shards of his soul.
It may sound absurd...but don't be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed...but won't you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It's not easy to be me
The carpet was scratchy against his bare feet as he left the bathroom, heading for the couch. He slept there, when he could sleep, that is. Aside from the time he fell asleep in the car on the way back to freedom, he hadn't been in a deep sleep for months. It wasn't the loss of sleep he objected to, as much as the loss of identity. Kivar had help him captive for so long, he'd forgotten what it was like to be alone. Maybe that was the real reason he needed Tess at night. So he wouldn't be alone. He was sure if he gave the slightest indication, Isabel would be here in moments.
She would come, tears lurking in the back of her honey brown eyes, as she tried desperately to hide the guilt she felt. How she felt that she should have known, should have suspected, should have seen that Alex was in trouble. Instead she went along with the fairy tale Kivar concocted, went along with it because it was new and intriguing. Kivar as Alex was a better match for her than Alex could ever be alone. He knew it and, even if she refused to admit it, she knew too. Kivar had taken more than his freedom from him. The alien had stolen his dreams too.
Up, up and away...away from me
It's all right...You can all sleep sound tonight
I'm not crazy...or anything...
He laid back against the couch, closing his eyes, but not attempting to seek rest. Whenever he attempted to sink into the depths of slumber, his iron will relaxed and all his senses lit up with phantom pain. Images of a battered and violated Tess swam before his eyes. Sounds of his own grunts of pain reverberated in his ear drums. Liquid fire lapped along his skin, lingering on each sensitive nerve. Wafting through his nostrils were the scents of salty swear, long dried against clammy skin, and the acridness of roasting flesh. Metallic, tangy, copper red blood bathed his taste buds, causing bile to burn its way up his throat. No one sensation came first, but invaded all at once, leaving him trapped, overwhelmed by his own body. Again.
I can't stand to fly
I'm not that naive
Men weren't meant to ride
With clouds between their knees
Sometimes he wondered what life in Roswell, New Mexico would have been like if the aliens had never come. If they'd beaten Kivar the first time around. It was funny, really. Out of their entire group, out of all the possible candidates, he'd been chosen. Not Liz, so connected so closely to Max. Not Maria, who had never been able to be physically separated from Michael for longer than two days. Not Kyle, the newest member of the club, the one who lived with the Sheriff and Tess. No, he, Alex, had been chosen because he was the one on the outside. He was the one who could say he was suddenly, unexpectedly going off to a foreign country, and receive only minimal curiosity in return. Only him. The only one with no ties. Disposable. Expendable.
What would his life have been like, if they had never come? If they'd died in the fiery crash. If the other members of their race had never played God, if they had just stayed dead? What would his life have been like, if not for them? High school would have been hell, yes, but he wouldn't miss so many classes, fighting off evil space creatures. He would have graduated, gone to a good college, chosen a great career, married a wonderful girl. A human girl. It would have been normal. Sometimes he really wished his life had never left normality.
I'm only a man in a silly red sheet
Digging for kryptonite on this one way street
Only a man in a funny red sheet
Looking for special things inside of me
It really did no good, he supposed, to keep pondering the "what ifs." Even the aliens couldn't travel back in time and make everything right again. No one could undo what had been done. All he could do was move forward. Maybe, in a way, Kivar and Nicholas had done him a favor by clouding up his past. Now he could only look ahead, at the future. His old dreams were gone, so he'd just make new ones. In a way, he could start all over. Become whoever he wanted. Do whatever he wanted. Go wherever he wanted. Alex Whitman was dead forever, and Andrew Maines was on the threshold of a brand new existence.
Rest in peace, Whitman. Nice knowing you. It was fun while it lasted, but now Andrew's here to stay. Old model out, new model in, complete with upgrade. No more dorky, bass playing, dodge ball loving, geek. Nope, that loser, Alex Whitman, was gone forever.
Andrew Maines sat on the lumpy brown couch and looked around at his new home. Andrew Maines was not a man who grew up with two girls for best friends, so he did what real men did. He locked all his emotions behind stone walls and went to sleep. And if a single tear trickled down his cheek from behind closed lids, it was not Andrew Maines who cried.
It's not easy to be me.