Title: Vanilla Ice Cream
By bitmaxmouse
Rating: PG?
Disclaimers: you know the routine. Smallville not mine. characters not
mine, etc.
Summary: Lex's last moments of life.
~~~
In. out. in.. out.
My thoughts have shrunk down to those two simple words. Cold air painfully enters my lungs, causing them to stretch wearily.they tingle with pain. I wince as they convulse every so often. Then I slowly exhale the air back out, warmer than before and probably intermingled with poisonous gases.
My burning dry eyes close, trying to ease away the headache. There is a momentary bit of relief, until the ache slowly climbs back to the surface. I don't want to open my eyes, I know that the ache will be worse than seconds before.
I flinch slightly as some faceless doctor places cool hands on my heated skin. Earlier they had tried to put me in a lukewarm bath. It had hurt so much touching the cooler water that I had screamed my vocal chords raw. I croak softly and try to pull my weak arm away from him. It hurts, just touching someone that feeling cooler; everything seems to sizzle like ice water poured into a preheated pot.
The world is blurrier and softer, my cotton filled brain seems to creating some euphoric hormones, almost like it's apologizing for the rest of my body's pain.
I swallow, but instead of the warm saliva I had hoped for, my dry esophagus just rubs against each other.
I hadn't drank any water for what seems like a year. It hurts too much, going down. When they had tried earlier, even with water that was near my body temperature, I had thrown up the water and my bile.
A nurse places a cloth covered hand on my forehead, it still hurts, but it feels better than the doctor's bare cold hands.
Eventually I sort of drift off, when I wake up, I'm still in the hospital. Clark's here, sitting by my side with a worried look on his face. His face is tearstained and he sniffles quietly.
"Clark?" I whisper almost inaudibly.
Clark gives me a weak smile and softly says, "Shh, save your strength love. You'll get better."
I stare at him, he's wearing a soft pale green shirt and kakis slacks. I stare a bit, the colors are soothing, soft. His face is free of those horrible glasses. His hair is tousled from hours of not sleeping. I stare into his hazel eyes, trying to memorize every speck of color that makes up those beautiful penetrating eyes.
Soon, he's crying again, his watery eyes blur the colors of his pupils, like pouring water over a watercolor painting. My good left hand crosses over and reaches out to wipe away his tears.
Instead, my hands pass right through the mirage and my dream angel disappears, fading away and leaving only the cold lonely room.
Suddenly, the ache in my chest becomes overwhelmingly painful and hot tears of regret slide down my face.
The world fades out once more and I'm sucked into the darkness with no way to climb out. I go more willingly than before.
When I wake up the second time, the pain isn't gone, just numbed. There's a strange sort of clarity and I know that the nurses bustling around the room aren't part of my delusion.
I realize that I've reached 'that point'. That point of clarity that everyone has before they die. A sort of gift from God, a way to say goodbye to your loved ones one more time with a clear mind. For me, it's a curse. There is no one here for me to say goodbye to. So I lay there and reflect.
Even as I think of it now, it still seems so absurd. I mentally scold myself for being so absentminded. I should have never passed off that pain in my amputated right hand as the same sort of ache I get when it's raining. Never should have been so obsessed with making sure that my last few months in office weren't just written off as a "Lame duck" period. I should have just let my predecessor finish up those treaties instead of flying all over the world. The fever I had gotten on the way to North Korea should have set off alarms in my head. I never get sick, not since after the meteor shower.
One would have speculated that I was trying to kill myself.
Now that I think of it, I'm not too sure that speculation was all that inaccurate.
As my mind refocuses, I realize there are only two women left in the room. One is a nurse or a doctor. and the other...
I stare for a few seconds as soft blue eyes watch me silently. I mouth the word, "Mom" and a smile touches the auburn haired lady's lips. She quietly walks over and kisses me on the forehead, I can feel the cool touch of her lips, but they don't burn like I had expected. Instead they seem to soothe the burning. I close my eyes for a second, savoring the relief. When I open my eyes, my mother is still there. Her eyes twinkle softly as she sits down next to my left side, stroking my left arm.
I begin to comprehend that I'm dying. But I'm not dead yet either. I'm in that space in between. My mother is coaxing my weary soul to follow her and reality is becoming more unappealing by the second.
"Mr. Luthor." The nurse/doctor says in a reserved manner, interrupting my thoughts. I look at her frowning face and wondering why she looked so distressed.
The sound of my erratic heartbeat on the monitor answers my question.
It's almost time.
"Do you have any last words?" She asks me softly.
I look at my mother. She continues to smile and then tilts her head, indicating for me to go on. Suddenly, I feel like I'm five years old being coaxed to tell Santa what I want for Christmas. I look at the nurse and thoughts fly across my head. 'I should say something profound, I was the president. Maybe some famous quote in another language? But should I waste my last words on politics? How about, "I don't want to be buried in the Luthor tomb area". No. too bitter. "Tell Clark I loved him?". no. too late.'
I can't. I just can't, there's nothing to say, that's just it. I can't summarize my life up into some silly words that no one understands.
Finally I just shake my head and give her a small peaceful smile. It's really just that simple.
I look at my mother, she seems satisfied with my answer. My chest fills with pride and I allow a soft final exhale of relief. My eyes are getting heavier and I allow them to fall shut. The last thing I hear isn't the deafening sound of my monitor flat-lining, it's comforting words of my mother murmuring, "Let's go home sweetie."
~~~
When I become aware once more, I'm standing in the corridors of the hospital. I notice the rush of doctors and nurses entering the room I had occupied. I don't know how to explain it, but for some reason. Everything makes sense now, the universe, every molecule, every human intention. and suddenly the efforts of the doctors and nurses in the room, trying to keep me alive seems so trivial.
My much smaller hand reaches up and slips into my mother's warmer large hands. I think I'm six years old right now.but regardless of the spiritual age I am at, I know my comprehension is not that of a child's.
I look up at my mother and tell her, "They don't understand. It's really all okay.It doesn't hurt. Dying isn't all that bad.All those fears we had of death never existed."
She nods in agreement. We look on until the nurses and doctors come back out with my cloth covered old body.
My mother reaches down and picks me up, balancing me onto her hip and begins to walk out of the hospital. As we exit, she asks me softly, "So what did you like the most about living?"
I think hard. A million things pass my mind, but nothing really seems to satisfy what I found so great about life. But eventually I settle upon a particular happy memory, my first taste of ice cream with my mother. So, I tell her, "Vanilla ice cream, with the little black vanilla beans in it."
She laughs softly and nods, "Yeah, I think so too."
End.
In. out. in.. out.
My thoughts have shrunk down to those two simple words. Cold air painfully enters my lungs, causing them to stretch wearily.they tingle with pain. I wince as they convulse every so often. Then I slowly exhale the air back out, warmer than before and probably intermingled with poisonous gases.
My burning dry eyes close, trying to ease away the headache. There is a momentary bit of relief, until the ache slowly climbs back to the surface. I don't want to open my eyes, I know that the ache will be worse than seconds before.
I flinch slightly as some faceless doctor places cool hands on my heated skin. Earlier they had tried to put me in a lukewarm bath. It had hurt so much touching the cooler water that I had screamed my vocal chords raw. I croak softly and try to pull my weak arm away from him. It hurts, just touching someone that feeling cooler; everything seems to sizzle like ice water poured into a preheated pot.
The world is blurrier and softer, my cotton filled brain seems to creating some euphoric hormones, almost like it's apologizing for the rest of my body's pain.
I swallow, but instead of the warm saliva I had hoped for, my dry esophagus just rubs against each other.
I hadn't drank any water for what seems like a year. It hurts too much, going down. When they had tried earlier, even with water that was near my body temperature, I had thrown up the water and my bile.
A nurse places a cloth covered hand on my forehead, it still hurts, but it feels better than the doctor's bare cold hands.
Eventually I sort of drift off, when I wake up, I'm still in the hospital. Clark's here, sitting by my side with a worried look on his face. His face is tearstained and he sniffles quietly.
"Clark?" I whisper almost inaudibly.
Clark gives me a weak smile and softly says, "Shh, save your strength love. You'll get better."
I stare at him, he's wearing a soft pale green shirt and kakis slacks. I stare a bit, the colors are soothing, soft. His face is free of those horrible glasses. His hair is tousled from hours of not sleeping. I stare into his hazel eyes, trying to memorize every speck of color that makes up those beautiful penetrating eyes.
Soon, he's crying again, his watery eyes blur the colors of his pupils, like pouring water over a watercolor painting. My good left hand crosses over and reaches out to wipe away his tears.
Instead, my hands pass right through the mirage and my dream angel disappears, fading away and leaving only the cold lonely room.
Suddenly, the ache in my chest becomes overwhelmingly painful and hot tears of regret slide down my face.
The world fades out once more and I'm sucked into the darkness with no way to climb out. I go more willingly than before.
When I wake up the second time, the pain isn't gone, just numbed. There's a strange sort of clarity and I know that the nurses bustling around the room aren't part of my delusion.
I realize that I've reached 'that point'. That point of clarity that everyone has before they die. A sort of gift from God, a way to say goodbye to your loved ones one more time with a clear mind. For me, it's a curse. There is no one here for me to say goodbye to. So I lay there and reflect.
Even as I think of it now, it still seems so absurd. I mentally scold myself for being so absentminded. I should have never passed off that pain in my amputated right hand as the same sort of ache I get when it's raining. Never should have been so obsessed with making sure that my last few months in office weren't just written off as a "Lame duck" period. I should have just let my predecessor finish up those treaties instead of flying all over the world. The fever I had gotten on the way to North Korea should have set off alarms in my head. I never get sick, not since after the meteor shower.
One would have speculated that I was trying to kill myself.
Now that I think of it, I'm not too sure that speculation was all that inaccurate.
As my mind refocuses, I realize there are only two women left in the room. One is a nurse or a doctor. and the other...
I stare for a few seconds as soft blue eyes watch me silently. I mouth the word, "Mom" and a smile touches the auburn haired lady's lips. She quietly walks over and kisses me on the forehead, I can feel the cool touch of her lips, but they don't burn like I had expected. Instead they seem to soothe the burning. I close my eyes for a second, savoring the relief. When I open my eyes, my mother is still there. Her eyes twinkle softly as she sits down next to my left side, stroking my left arm.
I begin to comprehend that I'm dying. But I'm not dead yet either. I'm in that space in between. My mother is coaxing my weary soul to follow her and reality is becoming more unappealing by the second.
"Mr. Luthor." The nurse/doctor says in a reserved manner, interrupting my thoughts. I look at her frowning face and wondering why she looked so distressed.
The sound of my erratic heartbeat on the monitor answers my question.
It's almost time.
"Do you have any last words?" She asks me softly.
I look at my mother. She continues to smile and then tilts her head, indicating for me to go on. Suddenly, I feel like I'm five years old being coaxed to tell Santa what I want for Christmas. I look at the nurse and thoughts fly across my head. 'I should say something profound, I was the president. Maybe some famous quote in another language? But should I waste my last words on politics? How about, "I don't want to be buried in the Luthor tomb area". No. too bitter. "Tell Clark I loved him?". no. too late.'
I can't. I just can't, there's nothing to say, that's just it. I can't summarize my life up into some silly words that no one understands.
Finally I just shake my head and give her a small peaceful smile. It's really just that simple.
I look at my mother, she seems satisfied with my answer. My chest fills with pride and I allow a soft final exhale of relief. My eyes are getting heavier and I allow them to fall shut. The last thing I hear isn't the deafening sound of my monitor flat-lining, it's comforting words of my mother murmuring, "Let's go home sweetie."
~~~
When I become aware once more, I'm standing in the corridors of the hospital. I notice the rush of doctors and nurses entering the room I had occupied. I don't know how to explain it, but for some reason. Everything makes sense now, the universe, every molecule, every human intention. and suddenly the efforts of the doctors and nurses in the room, trying to keep me alive seems so trivial.
My much smaller hand reaches up and slips into my mother's warmer large hands. I think I'm six years old right now.but regardless of the spiritual age I am at, I know my comprehension is not that of a child's.
I look up at my mother and tell her, "They don't understand. It's really all okay.It doesn't hurt. Dying isn't all that bad.All those fears we had of death never existed."
She nods in agreement. We look on until the nurses and doctors come back out with my cloth covered old body.
My mother reaches down and picks me up, balancing me onto her hip and begins to walk out of the hospital. As we exit, she asks me softly, "So what did you like the most about living?"
I think hard. A million things pass my mind, but nothing really seems to satisfy what I found so great about life. But eventually I settle upon a particular happy memory, my first taste of ice cream with my mother. So, I tell her, "Vanilla ice cream, with the little black vanilla beans in it."
She laughs softly and nods, "Yeah, I think so too."
End.