Summery:
Chloe FINALLY gets the dress of her dreams…with help from an unexpected source. We gain more insight into the mind of our mystery boy...



Rating: PG-13…it's just more fun. 

Disclaimer: I own nothing. NOTHING I TELL YOUS,  NOTHING!!!!


A/N: My last chapter wasn't my best. I'll admit that. But I made up for it with this chapter! I wrote it while listening to 'Carol of the Bells'. Damn creepy song. But approiate, considering the nature of it.

NOW…on with the show!!!!

~*~*~

Of Mice and Men

By Calette

Chloe fingered the silk in between her fingers. She had finally taken the initiative, got money from her dad, and was now here, buying a dress. Well, if she ever decided on one. Good lord…they were all too low, too high, too tight, too revealing too expensive, too…everything! Didn't they make decent dresses anymore?

Chloe moved on to the next dress. It was nice enough. A deep burgundy, floor length, spaghetti strap dress. She picked it up, and holding it against her body, looked in the mirror behind her. The burgundy really showed up nicely against her lightly tanned skin, not to mention looked great against her hair. This dress would be perfect! Chloe looked at the price tag….

$350???!!!!! Good grief! Chloe flung the dress down, collapsing into a nearby chair. Resting her head against the wall behind her, she closed her eyes and sighed. This was a very, very, long day.

"Excuse me miss, can I help you?"

The voice belonged to a man, looming over her. He had deep brown eyes, and ebony black hair. Chloe looked at his nametag. Apparently his name was Jeremy.

"Well Jeremy, I need a dress, and everything in this damn store is either not right, or too expensive!" Chloe said in exasperation.

"Ahhh, I see. A special occasion?"

"Spring formal."

"Hmmm, special date?"

"You might say that. Look, I've been to five other stores already. Just tell me - do you have anything, or should I just leave and go somewhere else?"

"Hmmm…" Jeremy said, stroking his chin in thought. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. "Stand up."

"Excuse me?" Chloe asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Stand up, I need to get a good look at you."

"Ok…" Chloe stood up, a skeptical look on her face. Jeremy made a twirling motion with his hand, indicating that she should turn around.

"Hmmm…"

"What?"

"I've got it!" Jeremy said, clapping his hands together. He took Chloe's hand, and let her into a section of the store she swore wasn't there before…in the middle of the section was a dress hanging on a mannequin. Pink and strapless, it hung off the mannequin perfectly, hugging its curves in all the right places. Walking over, Jeremy took it off, and held it in front of Chloe. She could see herself in the mirror with it on. It was…perfect. She took the dress from Jeremy's hands, pressing it against her body. The fabric felt wonderful on her skin, complementing her complexion perfectly. Without even trying it on, Chloe somehow knew it would fit.

"I'll take it." She said listlessly to Jeremy. He just smiled and took the dress from her hands up to the cash register. Chloe followed, pulling out her wallet.

"How much is it?" She asked, pulling twenty dollar bills.

"I think $100 would be fair."

Chloe looked at Jeremy strangely, and then just gave him the money. Hey, she wasn't going to complain about a deal like this. Jeremy folded the dress, put it in a box, and with a smile, sent her on her way. He watched her as she walked out the door and down the street. Checking she was gone, he walked into the backroom. There, a figure lay unconscious on the floor. 'Jeremy' ripped of his nametag, tossing it on the man on the floor. He tore off his wig, glad to be rid of it. The saying it true, blondes do have more fun. Putting a finger to each eye, he carefully took out his brown contacts. Blinking away the tears, he took off his shirt, replacing it with his familiar, old, comfortable shirt.

Ha.

I can't believe it.

I can hardly believe it.

I was right in front of her.

*Right* in front of Chloe Sullivan! Intrepid reporter and all that! And she hadn't expected a thing. He was giddy with delight.

He pulled on his jacket, walking out into the street, more confident then he had been in years. He was well aware of the looks people gave him as he walked past. Hell, he knew he looked like shit. He had been locked up in a tiny white cube of a room for the past 20 years. Thanks to…

Clark Kent.

Across the street.

Right now.

He stared at the brown haired boy in shock. It was amazing. After all these years, he had distorted the image of Clark in his mind so much that it turned into a monster. A vile, black beast with claws outstretched, waiting to grip at his soul and tear it out of him.

Hehehe. Except he had already done that.

But this.

This image before him.

It was no monster at all.

It was…

The devil. Only the devil could disguise him like that. Only the devil could make a monster look like Adonis. Only the devil could entice people to follow him like that. Only the devil himself could turn a hell beast into an angel of the light.

No, he wasn't that crazy. Clark Kent wasn't the devil. Except after thinking of him as a monster for so long…then to see this image of beauty before him. It was slightly unnerving. Clark Kent was a mortal devil among men. And nobody else knew it.

Hell, nobody else had a reason too. But that's not the point here, is it? Walking on, he began to dwell more on the issue that had been stuck in his mind for 20 years.

Clark Kent had been trying to help him, he supposed. His own, twisted, perverted sense of heroic duty compelled him to. But so what? Clark Kent, despite his attempts to 'save' him, had ruined his life. Dragged it through the mud for all the world to see.

He could still see the headlines in his nightmares. 'Freak' they called him. His mother's voice, crying, rang in his ears every night. His father's words haunted him everywhere, reminding him of his fallacies. 

His father.

Oh, how he hated his father. Psychologists for years attributed his strange behavior to his loathing for his father. No matter how hard he tried to tell them that wasn't the case, they wrote it down as if they knew everything. Damn psychologists. Their arrogance infuriated him to the point where he once took the pen out of the women's hands and rammed it through her hand. Hehehe. They might have pumped him full drugs after that, but her screams were enough to send him to Elysium for months after that.

He still remembered that day.

~*~*~

She was sitting across from him, pad and pen in hand, poised to write something every time he uttered a word. He had stayed silent the entire time, and so had the pen.

"So…what was it like for you growing up?"

"…"

"Did the other children ever terrorize you?"

"…"

"Did you feel as though you didn't measure up to your father's expectations of you?"

She started to twirl the pen impatiently at this time. His eyes locked on that instrument of evil as she continued to talk.

"Did you ever wet the bed?"

Twirl.

"Frequent nightmares?"

Twirl.

"Do you feel as though you related more to your mother?"

Twirl.

Twirl.

Transfixed by the pen, he forgot everything else. Just the swirling colors the pen made as it rushed though the air.

Twirl.

Twirl.

Twirl.

She droned on and on, asking question after question. Still, his eyes remained locked on that pen, that damnable pen. He knew what it could do it him. If he uttered a single word, words would come out of that pen. It would go into papers, and people all over the country would read about how crazier the freak had gotten.

Twirl.

Twirl.

Twirl.

On and on she went, and still he watched it go around. It gave him a sense of peace inside…

SLAM!

The woman had slammed the pen down on the table.

"Listen boy. You're here to answer my questions. Not to sit there like a retard. And don't play dumb with me. Your IQ tests have shown a high intelligence level. Start answering."

Something in him just…snapped. He took the pen from underneath her hand, and rammed it down, pinning her hand into the table. The blood ran everywhere. It coursed over the table, onto the floor, into little pools. He looked down, noticing that his hands were covered in, deep, dark blood. Someone somewhere started to laugh.

Oh. It was him.

He continued to laugh, even when she wouldn't stop screaming. Even when the men in white coats came in with the needles. Even when they pinned him down, restrained him, and pumped him so full of drugs that he was out of it for a week.

When his mind cleared of the fog, he had gotten hold of a newspaper. They mentioned him. Called him a psychopath. Ahhh, but it wasn't like he was getting out of here anytime soon. He was still locked up for tests. As far as he knew, that's where he would spend the rest of his days, locked up in that little white cell, drugs coursing through his veins. Closing his eyes, he remembered her shrill, air-shattering scream. Over the years, the sound became less of a harpy, and more of a siren's song, filling his ears and head. It was often enough to drive the pain away, after a particularly grueling day of tests.

~*~*~

Closing his eyes again, he called up the siren's song. Walking along the streets of Smallville, the song played out in his head. It calmed him in the face of the devil. Getting to his hideout, he went in, mindful that nobody saw him enter. Resting upon his old, worn, mattress, he reviewed his plan. It was almost coming to an end. The event drew near. Soon, Clark would experience the pain he had felt for years.

Soon.

Soon…it would all be over.

~*~*~

A/N: MuaHA! Now there's an extra heavy dose of mystery boy for ya! Sounds seriously messed up, ne?