"Nothing As of Yet"
The Morning After
I stand there at the end of his driveway cursing myself. The feminist side of me has no compunctions about going up to his door to ask about what was wrong with him, but the medieval damsel part of me, deep inside, thinks that it's wrong for me to be making the first move. We've been flirting around this for a while, but I need to know what last night meant. Why did he come to /me/ of all people? His instinct was to cuddle up to me- the Clark Kent I thought I knew wouldn't do that, wouldn't even /consider/ coming over to my house that late. My thoughts have taken me to his front step, but I hesitate there on his front porch when I hear raised voices coming from inside the house. The tiny thread of resolve that I have worked up snaps in an instant- I would obviously be intruding. I turn on my heel and start to walk back down the driveway, away from all the answers and potential beginnings, but my feet won't let me go. I actually look down at them, semi-expecting my feet to be looking back at me with stubborn expressions. They weren't, of course. I realize, suddenly, that I am worried about Clark. I feel like I need to protect him- from what I'm not sure. Himself, maybe, his parents, I'm not sure. But all of my instincts are screaming that I should protect him, even though I am quite sure that he is able to take care of himself, much better than anything I could ever offer. My treacherous feet allow me a few more steps, to the safety of the ornamental shrubs that Martha insisted be planted by the driveway- they are tall now, much taller than the sproutlings that Clark and Mr. Kent complained so much about putting in- and they shelter me from anyone looking out of the house so I can talk things over with myself. All talking is forgotten after what happens next. While I have been loitering outside, the voices have escalated in volume. They reach a final crescendo with Clark shouting something about "My choice!!" and then zipping out the door. Literally. I saw nothing but the door opening and then slamming, a bit of what could have been a colored blur, and a breeze as this maybe-blur passed me. And turned into a very obviously pissed- off Clark a little further down the driveway. He stood there, hands clenched into fists at his sides, angrily kicking at puffs of dust. Apparently not finding satisfaction in that, he walked over to a tree stump. It was more of a tree, actually, the topless remnants of a dead tree Clark and his dad had to cut down a few months ago. They obviously hadn't gotten around to cutting down the rest of the trunk and making it into firewood yet. Clark stalked around for a few minutes more, obviously trying to get a hold on his anger, then suddenly spun and punched the stump. My eyes got really big here, because that large stump was now doing a great impression of a box of toothpicks. Clark had. punched it. And it was. toothpicks now? What was going on here? I took an involuntary step towards him before I realized that this should probably be treated with caution. I shouldn't go barging into this like the reporter I usually was; I needed to conveniently bring it up and be very careful, since this was obviously a big secret that he didn't want anyone to know. But I must have made another one of those involuntary sounds, because a very wide- eyed Clark spun to face me. The naked terror on his face was heartrending, and I tried to say something, tried to reassure him of my intentions. "Clark, I." I couldn't think of anything to say, my mind was blank except for the questions I knew I shouldn't ask. The reporter questions, meant to bare everything to the light of day, ruthless and cutting. The only thing that came out of my mouth was wrong, quite possibly the wrongest thing ever. "You're a meteor freak?" I heard the fright laced with disgust in my voice, even though I felt none of those things. And I regretted it immediately, but it was too late. I called after him, but after shooting me a look of absolute terror and confusion and hurt, he sped away across the fields, leaving me standing in the middle of his driveway, alone and confused.
*****
I was reeling. My parents were being entirely unreasonable about this whole thing. I knew the dangers inherent in telling anyone about my abilities, and wasn't planning on telling everyone as my dad seemed to think. I only wanted to tell Chloe. And maybe Lex. If I decided that I could trust him. I believed that she would accept me, deal with who I am without flinching, with her normal Chloe- like resolve. Not this. Never this. Her question was ringing in my head like a bell, bouncing around until it drowned everything else out. You're a meteor freak? The words kept bouncing, not leaving me alone. Freak, freak, freak, freak, you're a freak, you're a freak. I glance at Chloe, still standing there, mouth open, an astonished expression still on her face. I want to go to her, explain to her, but the words ringing in my head won't let me. A cynical thought creeps up in my brain; **not that she'd let you explain anyway.** I look at her for an eternal instant, tears clouding my eyes even as I try to push them back; and then my instincts take over and my feet kick into my super speed, taking me away from this madness, to safer places, though I know not where. {GAHHHH!! Ackk, bad phrasing!! Any suggestions??}
The Morning After
I stand there at the end of his driveway cursing myself. The feminist side of me has no compunctions about going up to his door to ask about what was wrong with him, but the medieval damsel part of me, deep inside, thinks that it's wrong for me to be making the first move. We've been flirting around this for a while, but I need to know what last night meant. Why did he come to /me/ of all people? His instinct was to cuddle up to me- the Clark Kent I thought I knew wouldn't do that, wouldn't even /consider/ coming over to my house that late. My thoughts have taken me to his front step, but I hesitate there on his front porch when I hear raised voices coming from inside the house. The tiny thread of resolve that I have worked up snaps in an instant- I would obviously be intruding. I turn on my heel and start to walk back down the driveway, away from all the answers and potential beginnings, but my feet won't let me go. I actually look down at them, semi-expecting my feet to be looking back at me with stubborn expressions. They weren't, of course. I realize, suddenly, that I am worried about Clark. I feel like I need to protect him- from what I'm not sure. Himself, maybe, his parents, I'm not sure. But all of my instincts are screaming that I should protect him, even though I am quite sure that he is able to take care of himself, much better than anything I could ever offer. My treacherous feet allow me a few more steps, to the safety of the ornamental shrubs that Martha insisted be planted by the driveway- they are tall now, much taller than the sproutlings that Clark and Mr. Kent complained so much about putting in- and they shelter me from anyone looking out of the house so I can talk things over with myself. All talking is forgotten after what happens next. While I have been loitering outside, the voices have escalated in volume. They reach a final crescendo with Clark shouting something about "My choice!!" and then zipping out the door. Literally. I saw nothing but the door opening and then slamming, a bit of what could have been a colored blur, and a breeze as this maybe-blur passed me. And turned into a very obviously pissed- off Clark a little further down the driveway. He stood there, hands clenched into fists at his sides, angrily kicking at puffs of dust. Apparently not finding satisfaction in that, he walked over to a tree stump. It was more of a tree, actually, the topless remnants of a dead tree Clark and his dad had to cut down a few months ago. They obviously hadn't gotten around to cutting down the rest of the trunk and making it into firewood yet. Clark stalked around for a few minutes more, obviously trying to get a hold on his anger, then suddenly spun and punched the stump. My eyes got really big here, because that large stump was now doing a great impression of a box of toothpicks. Clark had. punched it. And it was. toothpicks now? What was going on here? I took an involuntary step towards him before I realized that this should probably be treated with caution. I shouldn't go barging into this like the reporter I usually was; I needed to conveniently bring it up and be very careful, since this was obviously a big secret that he didn't want anyone to know. But I must have made another one of those involuntary sounds, because a very wide- eyed Clark spun to face me. The naked terror on his face was heartrending, and I tried to say something, tried to reassure him of my intentions. "Clark, I." I couldn't think of anything to say, my mind was blank except for the questions I knew I shouldn't ask. The reporter questions, meant to bare everything to the light of day, ruthless and cutting. The only thing that came out of my mouth was wrong, quite possibly the wrongest thing ever. "You're a meteor freak?" I heard the fright laced with disgust in my voice, even though I felt none of those things. And I regretted it immediately, but it was too late. I called after him, but after shooting me a look of absolute terror and confusion and hurt, he sped away across the fields, leaving me standing in the middle of his driveway, alone and confused.
*****
I was reeling. My parents were being entirely unreasonable about this whole thing. I knew the dangers inherent in telling anyone about my abilities, and wasn't planning on telling everyone as my dad seemed to think. I only wanted to tell Chloe. And maybe Lex. If I decided that I could trust him. I believed that she would accept me, deal with who I am without flinching, with her normal Chloe- like resolve. Not this. Never this. Her question was ringing in my head like a bell, bouncing around until it drowned everything else out. You're a meteor freak? The words kept bouncing, not leaving me alone. Freak, freak, freak, freak, you're a freak, you're a freak. I glance at Chloe, still standing there, mouth open, an astonished expression still on her face. I want to go to her, explain to her, but the words ringing in my head won't let me. A cynical thought creeps up in my brain; **not that she'd let you explain anyway.** I look at her for an eternal instant, tears clouding my eyes even as I try to push them back; and then my instincts take over and my feet kick into my super speed, taking me away from this madness, to safer places, though I know not where. {GAHHHH!! Ackk, bad phrasing!! Any suggestions??}
