The Rose

~~~

Funny thing about a rose. It has such vast differences from stem to petals. On one end, you can be pricked, leaving you with a sting of pain. Yet on the other end, you can be stunned in awe of such vibrant perfection. But pricks or not, many are captured by the simple beauty of a rose.

It was the rain that fell down in sheets over the cemetery and the large crowd that stood there - the crowd that had gathered in one of their residents' memory. Clark Kent had always been a caring individual. He was always there to aid others in any way he possibly could. Labeled as the town hero by many, Clark never cared much about himself. As long as the occupants of Smallville, Kansas were alive and well, he was happy - or so they thought.

No one had ever really pondered much about how having the burden of saving a whole town would hurt Clark. They had pictured him as a polite young man, willing to help without a single complaint. No one ever asked for his aid - he just came and did what he did best.

So many lives he had saved . . . and now no one could ever truly thank him for his actions.

Because Clark Kent was dead.

Lana Lang watched Mr. and Mrs. Kent hold each other close, weeping over their deceased son. The whole town was crying as they stood before the grave - everyone, except Lana.

No, Lana Lang was a young woman who was now overcome by guilt. She would no longer allow herself to cry; to be happy; to feel. For she blamed herself. Clark Kent had committed suicide because she had abandoned him. He had poured his heart out, and she stomped on it with every inch of her being. The words she had spoken;

'I don't ever want to speak to you or see you or have anything to do with you ever again, Clark Kent. In my opinion, you're the biggest freak of them all!'

Those words had pained Clark in more ways than one.

When she imagined Clark now, she could only see the look of anguish on his face as she yelled at him, and then his prone figure when she had discovered his corpse in the barn loft a short time later.

***

Lana walked from her car across the barnyard, and into the barn that sat on the Kent Farm.

'I shouldn't have done that,' she thought.

Lana had sat upon the windmill at Chandler's field, a place that was once special to her and Clark, and had contemplated over what had taken place earlier that same day up in Clark's loft. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He was simply telling her what she had asked of him. That he was an alien. But was he really to blame for her parents' death? Most likely not. He had been three when he arrived on this planet. What toddler could control a meteor shower at that age, whether he was an Earthling or not?

Lana was angry with herself for reacting the way she had. She knew that Clark had always acted very closed off emotionally from most everyone. He only occasionally ever opened up to her, but even then it was only small tidbits of what was bothering him. She had promised herself not to push him - he would talk to her when he was good and ready - but Lana couldn't keep that promise to herself. Yes, she had pushed him. And yes, she now regretted it.

Because she loved him.

Walking up the stairs in the barn, Lana just hoped it wasn't too late.

It was.

The sight before her shocked Lana to her very core.

Clark Kent - the guy who had always been so strong, so willing - was lying upon the floor, immobile.

"NO!" she screamed out, immediately knowing something was terribly wrong.

She rushed forward, kneeling beside him. His skin was ashen and had a slight greenish tinge to it. Timidly, Lana reached out a hand and pressed two fingers to the side of his neck.

There was no pulse.

His chest was not rising.

He was dead.

"No . . . No . . . oh God, no. This can't be happening," Lana whispered, feeling tears gather in her eyes. "Please, not Clark . . . not him . . ." She begged to no one in particular.

"It's not supposed to go like this," she murmured, "And it's all my fault . . ."

Lana lay her head upon his unmoving chest - her incoherent rambling continuing on - and let her tears fall freely now, not bothering to wipe them away.

Having heard a scream, Martha and Jonathan became aware of someone other than Clark being out in the barn. They rose from their place at the kitchen table in which they were reading the day's newspaper, and walked briskly out of the house, into the barn, and up the stairs - hearing someone sobbing as they went.

"Oh my heavens!" Martha trembled, as she saw the sight that lay be fore her. Jonathan quickly moved opposite Lana, spotting the green rock in Clark's hand. He grabbed it quickly, and threw it to the side. He then repeated Lana's prior actions by checking Clark's pulse. After a moment, he slowly moved his hand away.

"Is he . . .?" Martha managed to choke out. Raising his head, Jonathan could only offer a small nod in reply. This action, though a very small one, caused Martha to burst into heart-wrenching sobs. Jonathan rose up and moved over to her, wrapping her shaking figure in his arms, as he too held back his own tears. Their son was dead.

Lana continued to lie beside Clark, holding him as close to her as possible. She then rose onto her knees and looked up to the older couple who still stood embracing be fore her.

"I'm sorry - it's all my fault. I shouldn't have done it. I'm so sorry. I - " she began.

"What are you talking about?" Jonathan question her, as he raised his head upon hearing the teenage girl speak.

"He - he told me. About . . . about his secrets. And I - I just . . . rejected him," she answered, tears still streaming down her face.

At this point, Martha's attention had been grasped. She too looked at the young Lana Lang. "He told you? . . ." was all she was able to whisper.

Lana nodded in response. "It's my fault he did this. I didn't mean for it to happen - I didn't know. I just . . ." she trailed off, unable to speak no longer. Crumpling back down to the wooden floor of the loft, grief overcame her.

And so the three were left. Only the faint glimmer from the clouded moon gave off dim light into the very barn which held the memories of an event which had just changed the lives of many.

***

Lana made no movement to wipe the rain from her face or to take cover under the umbrella a somber Pete Ross had offered her previously. Wet didn't matter no more. Nothing did.

The crowd slowly dispersed as the service ended. It was but only a few moments before Lana was the only one who still stood in the vast cemetery. The rain still fell heavily as though the heavens were crying. Crying for the death of a hero.

Taking a short few steps closer to the covered grave, Lana reached out and dropped a single white rose upon the ground in which her love now lay. The once elegant rose crumpled on impact. It was no longer the beautiful flower. Only small fragments of its life now remained.

An intriguing flower, and though it has thorns, much of a rose is pure beauty. And even with those pricks, the rose is accepted for how it is, flaws and all. But every so often, events can occur and the rose can be looked down upon. Certain actions then follow and the rose is no more - nothing can be done about it, for it's too late.

"I'm sorry, Clark."

. . . The End . . .