Title: The Pretty Face, The Funeral and Lex [Sequel to What Are You Doing New Year's Eve]
Rating: PG-13 [currently]
Email Address: nymph_du_pave@hotmail.com
Note: This is an on-going work that I am posting on my Livejournal (The Sun-Beaten Puddle, ) as well. I post first there, then I post another chapter there and the previous one here. That way the Livejournal is always one chapter ahead and if the story ever turns NC-17, I can link there for chapters that I might skip. Also, the chapters are going to be fairly short. This is a little more artsy than my other stuff and might have some heavy angst.
The Pretty Face, The Funeral and Lex
by Nymph Du Pave
"...with him on top...
arms raised in a V
dead lay in pools of maroon below...
...daddy didn't give attention...
...pickin' on the boy
seemed a harmless little fuck
but we unleashed a lion...
...daddy didn't give affection
and the boy was something mommy wouldn't wear
king Jeremy the wicked
ruled his world..."
Jeremy
Pearl Jam, paraphrased
Lex: Shism
I stand on the terrace of my new Ft. Lauderdale condo and watch as the ocean takes away a child's footprints from the sand. The tide is rising, a storm is coming and I feel cold, like the medallion.
Cold at the beach. That's something someone I know would have laughed about. He feels like years ago to me. Forever ago.
The salt air is as far as oblivion to me right now, and the breeze is not what chills me. I watch the ocean twinkle silver and gold, silver and gold in the setting sun. The beach, now deserted, looks more like a haven from one of my better dreams instead of the hotspot tourist location that it is. Alone in so many ways, not tied down for the next few hours to business meetings, limo rides, parties or conversations with my accountant, I am free.
"Free," I whisper with no real emotional content because I can't really feel anymore. I'm sure that once it would have truly upset me that freedom means nothing, is just a word, a toy, something that I never really have. Because I can't just pick up and leave. I can't stop the storm from coming, no matter where I am, or what I'm doing and I cannot keep this chill away. So what is freedom? It's merely a dream and, as Lex Luthor, I've got no time for dreams. I am the world's leading businessman now that I have stomped all over my father and his creations. Reduced him to a pile of pathetic, pleading mush on the floor.
And this is what equals my life sometimes.
It turn around, see the chocolate bar on top of my suitcase. Damn thing is what started all this inner thought anyway. I should really pick it up and throw it off the terrace, into the sand. Maybe if I throw it far enough, the ocean could take it away.
I do pick it up, but I know it will never make it's way down the 33 floors. I run my finger over the plastic wrapper. A Clark Bar. I don't need to muse on just how the thing got here. I know. And I will have to find away to let Mr. Ross know that there are things that are off limits, even to him.
Still... Sometimes I'm sure that I can feel him, Clark, my old best friend. Through the facade of life as a terribly important business man, off to real life, entering the empty domain of my bedrooms at night, somewhere that I can no longer bring another person, the life around me falls and I shatter, every night, in my dreams. I often wonder if that's where we both really live, and this is just some terrible nightmare that I have wrapped myself in.
I hope either way that it will someday end.
Next: Crash and Burn