Out of Sight, Out of Mind

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters – I'm just borrowing them for a little bit.

Author's Note: This is my first Smallville fanfic. I have to admit, I just started watching the show and have only seen three episodes. However, I was instantly intrigued and have fallen in love with the show and all of its characters. Please, please leave me a review and let me know how I'm doing or send me an email personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com.

This story will be in two parts and takes place a few days after the events of "Nicodemus."

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Part One

A symbol of ultimate betrayal.

It's amazing what one simple, everyday object can represent. How much it can…hurt…to just look at it.

Parents are supposed to protect their children – it's been their job since the beginning of time. Raise them, teach them, protect them…and die for them if necessary. And his parents would, he knew that, but – still…it was hard to look at it without remembering that heart-rending incident, without seeing what had happened like a movie stuck on pause.

The day it had happened, he'd been completely stunned, the incident so incomprehensible that he'd buried it in the back of his mind, barricaded it deeply behind the concern and fear he felt for his father's condition, caused by a then-unknown, mysterious illness. Physically, he'd hidden the evidence, grabbing a dark coat that was in the blue pickup truck and zipping it nearly up to his neck. He wasn't ready to face what had happened, and he didn't want his mother asking any questions.

It was too painful to accept.

Later on when he'd finally made it back home, he'd literally shoved it under his bed – as far back as possible – thinking in some strange, detached way that the darkness would swallow it up and erase the image from his mind.

After all, out of sight, out of mind.

As far as he was concerned, it could stay that way forever. And that did work…for a while.

What he hadn't counted on was his mother.

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Martha Kent slowly climbed the stairs of the old farmhouse, holding the overflowing basket of clean clothes in front of her, being careful not to overbalance and tumble backwards down the steps. It wouldn't be the first time, of course. That memorable and painful event had left her with a sprained ankle and wrist and a terrified little seven-year-old, who'd practically lifted her with one hand and carried her to the couch. She was not in a hurry to repeat that accident, nor the disconcerting feeling of being carried by her little boy. If you just watch where you're going, it won't happen again, she told herself.

Clearing the stairs, she took a second to glance down at the basket she held. The blue jeans, white t-shirts, and various other colors of flannel shirts created a rainbow that she held captive in her own two hands. She couldn't help but smile at the whimsical thought. I think Clark's writing skills are starting to rub off on me. Shaking her head slightly, she entered her son's room, upended the basket on his single bed, and proceeded to quickly fold the laundry, leaving it in three neat stacks on the quilt, all the while wishing that some of her skills would rub off on him. Like the ability to do the laundry, she thought wryly.

When she'd finally finished, she grabbed the basket and went to leave…only to brush up against his bedside table and accidentally, knock off a glass that the teenager had left upstairs overnight. She held her breath as the glass flew through the air and hit the floor, waiting – cringing – for the glass to shatter in dozens of tiny shards.

Miraculously, it didn't break.

What it did do, however, was roll right under Clark's bed.

"Oh, Clark," she muttered aloud as she knelt down on the hard floor, crouching on her hands and knees to retrieve the errant glass. "How many time have I told you to take your dishes downstairs?" she asked, exasperated. "A thousand and one times," she answered herself, grunting softly as she stuck her hand into the dark netherworld that was the space under her son's bed. "And I'm sure I'll repeat it another thousand more times by the time he leaves the house." She tried – without success – to see into the dark space and found herself briefly wishing for Clark's superhuman vision. "That would certainly make this easier."

She kept searching for the glass, her fingers feeling about like a blind person, mentally envisioning each object that she came into contact with: a couple of crinkly paper balls (Earlier drafts of his latest English assignment, no doubt.); a too-small, old work boot (So that's where the other one went to, she smiled); and several dusty, old magazines (Remnants of his fishing magazine collection, I suppose). Each object showed another aspect of her multi-faceted son's personality. He's not as simple as he pretends to be, not even to us, his parents. Even though he's not from this planet, he still acts just like a typical teenager. Still searching, her fingers stretched as far as humanly possible, waiting to feel the smooth, cool form of the drinking glass, but instead came into contact with a well-worn, flexible fabric. She couldn't stop but grimace that creased her face.

"Not again," she moaned, closing her eyes for a second before retracting her arm slowly to pull the offending piece of clothing out from under the bed. "Not another stained shirt. How am I supposed to clean it if he tosses it under here? How do I…" her voice trailed off as she got her first close look at the crumpled flannel shirt. But Martha wasn't looking at grass stains or oil stains.

She was looking at bullet holes. A lot of them. Right in the middle of his chest.

 "What the – ?" she gasped and abruptly sat down on the bed before her shaking legs could collapse on their own. Grasping the red flannel in two white-knuckled, trembling fists, she stared with horror-stricken eyes at the ruined red shirt.

It took a while before the truth of what she was seeing finally sunk into her stunned mind and into her thumping heart.

Someone had…shot…her son.

Oh, dear Lord, she repeated mentally over and over again. An invisible hand closed around her chest, clenching with all its mighty strength, and for a brief moment, she was afraid that the shock might be too much for her. She opened her mouth, gulping for air, and after a few frantic, never-ending seconds, her frozen lungs reluctantly obeyed her command, leaving her chest heaving, trying to make up for lost time.

Once she'd gotten her racing heart and panting lungs under control, her mind went into fifth gear creating questions that flew around her like a swarm of angry bees, each one stinging her mentally and yet bringing about a physical pain that nearly made her sick. What happened? Why? Who had shot her son? When had it happened? Who would shoot Clark, the kindest and most considerate boy in all of Smallville? She was too upset to think about his reaction if she were ever to repeat that last question a loud in his presence.

Then, swiftly on the heels of shock and disbelief, came anger. Not just at the shooter – who, right now, she could literally rip limb from limb, her anger was so great – but at her own son as well. She knew that the feeling was irrational, but it existed nonetheless.

And that brought up the most important question: Why hadn't Clark told her?

She couldn't understand why he had kept such a thing from her, his own mother, or from his own father. As if the actual shooting wasn't terrifying enough, he had the added danger of his secret being revealed as well. That alone should have been enough of a reason to tell them. I think I would notice if I shot someone in the chest, and he didn't die or bleed. For that matter, he probably wasn't even knocked down by the blast. Just a little strange, wouldn't you think? She clenched her teeth and fought to control the angry, sarcastic voice inside her head. Get a hold of yourself, Martha. Sarcasm isn't going to help anything.

But as the anger slowly simmered down, she was still left with her overwhelming feelings of concern for her son's safety and frustration at his actions. Oh, Clark…why didn't you tell us? How could you keep this from me?

How long she sat there on the bed, she wasn't sure. It seemed like a long time – hours, even, but she didn't care, and honestly, it didn't matter. She held the bullet-riddled shirt in her hands and just stared at it with unseeing eyes, her fingers absently touching the holes, counting them, horror growing within as each new hole was discovered. Twenty-Seven, she concluded, the number shocking her enough to truly focus once again. Twenty-seven holes. "A shotgun," she uttered quietly, eyes wide. She examined the cloth even closer and saw the powder burns that darkened the entire area around the holes. That shocked her even more. The proof was irrefutable. Someone had shot her son in the chest with a shotgun at point blank range.

With that realization came another disturbing thought. For someone to come that close with a weapon…a gun…Clark must have known his attacker. The thought stunned her and left her mentally staggering. But as the pieces began to come together and the picture became clearer, she realized that Clark must have hidden the evidence not only to protect himself, but also to protect his attacker. But why would he want to protect the identity of the person who tried to kill him? Who did shoot him?

She didn't know the answers, and that only made the situation worse. The drive to protect her son was stronger than any other need in the world. Clark may not have been her flesh-and-blood son, but he was the child of her heart. She had to find out what had happened. She would not rest until she did.

And only one person could tell her the truth.

Clark.

Mind firmly made up, she stood, the ruined shirt clenched in a tight fist and headed down the stairs to the kitchen, the glass still under the bed, the empty laundry basket completely forgotten. Her son would be home in a little over an hour, and they were going to have a talk about what she had found. Only then would she have her answers. Only then would she know if her son was truly safe or if he was still in danger.

TBC….