It had been a long night. Clark had dragged himself up the steps and slipped through the door as quietly as possible. He knew there was no point in the measures he was taking to arrive unseen, that his parents would find him and badger him with questions until they got the full story, but that didn't stop him. The effort felt good. Like he was a normal kid that had just stayed out late necking with his girlfriend or drinking instead of having his whole mindset and security shattered in the space of few hours. 'Cause, yeah,' he thought sarcasticly, 'that's how every teenager wants to spend their friday night.' He was so distracted and wrapped up in himself that he didn't notice his parents standing behind him as he stealthily shut the mahogany wood door.
His mother's face was painted with worry and fatigue. As if her day working mind and body on the farm wasn't enough, she'd stayed up all night waiting for him. Now, her worry faded faster than the color drained out of the sky after a sunset. Now, she saw he was in one full piece, trying to sneak in, and her mother bear instincts took over. She stood sternly next to her husband, who was already taking a deep breathe in to start the lecture of the century. The worry lines on his weather-worn face stood out in the dim lighting of the kitchen, his sunstained hair drooping slighting from a long day of physical labor and a wearing night of keeping his frantic wife from running out the door to locate her son. He'd nearly been up for twenty four hours now and he was irate with his son. Jonathan could not understand why his son had let them down. It was the third time this month he hadn't bothered with curfew. 'Granted, he always has a good reason,' he thought. Wearily, he thought back to two weeks ago, the last time-
His thoughts and his breathe were interrupted though, as Clark lumbered around and plopped down at the kitchen table, head cradled delicately in his hands, massaging his temples, the corners of his face left showing red and raw. Any anger either parent had was instantly vaporized; it became obvious Clark was late for a reason. They sat down opposite him, falling into a well-known and terrible routine. Neither pushed the boy across the table, they just sat, waiting for him to collect his thoughts enough to tell them. Neither dare venture a guess at what as to come; they'd seen too much to suppose they'd even get close. With Clark's problems, at least there was always variety.
Eventually, Clark raised his head and looked straight into his father's eyes. And in that instant, Jonathan knew. This was worse than they had ever dealt with before. Clark was torn up by whatever had taken place, his face a picture of every awful feeling in the book, grief, sorrow, pain, and anger all evident before Jonathan's eyes. 'I'll bet that's not the half of it,' he realized.
And so Clark told them, word after word spilling from him mouth like some terrible, bitter poison he wanted nothing better than to be done with. He was numb with exhaustion. The whole time he stared straight down at the table top as though fascinated by the patterns in the grain of the dark wood and could find not only the answers to his problems but salvation there as well. Soon, his eyes softened, and he was no longer in the kitchen. He was reliving every horrid revelation that the night had brought and all of the feelings that those revelations had stirred in him, some of which he had never known before. Their depth was startling, as though he was falling through a bottomless pit and all he wanted was the merciful impact that would never come.
There was no slant to events of the night in the simplistic explanation he gave. It was just words, just facts, letting his parents make up their own mind as he was much too tired for the semantics of things; he knew his parents would agree with him on this one. And when the whole story, complete was sorid details, had been finished, he looked up silently once more. His eyes telling his take on the evening. Just as he had expected. There he read his own feelings in every line of his parents face, reflected there with sympathy. 'Good enough for tonight,' he thought. Without a word more, Clark rose from the table and carried himself up the stairs. Within minutes, he was lost in a fitful, dream ridden sleep.
The next morning, he awoke some what refreshed. The dreams that had haunted him were a distant memory filed away in the back of his mind. As vivid as they had been, he knew that they were just products of his imagination, not real enough to bother with. He drifted in and out of conciousness for a while, the events of the prior night filtering back to him slowly. Clark dealt with each as they were drawn to the forefront of his mind as though they were his nightmares. He didn't feel quite so overwhelmed as before, coming to terms with the memories, sorting through them. Not to say that he wasn't upset and horrified by them, he felt every feeling that he had the night before. They just seemed unreal. It was comforting for a while, to pretend his life was just a bad dream that he could look at subjectively, knowing that the mosters and problems weren't really his. In his heart, he knew they weren't going to be solved by laying in bed and imagining them false. The detatchment gave him some clarity though. Clark could see the problems and the feelings associated with them for what they were and examine the motives behind them and how to deal with them. This peace though, ended quite abruptly as he glanced lazily at the clock. The dial pulverized his day dream and pulled him kicking and screaming back to reality. This wasn't a dream, Chloe had betrayed him so radically he was in real danger, and on top of it all, he was late.
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on.
His mother's face was painted with worry and fatigue. As if her day working mind and body on the farm wasn't enough, she'd stayed up all night waiting for him. Now, her worry faded faster than the color drained out of the sky after a sunset. Now, she saw he was in one full piece, trying to sneak in, and her mother bear instincts took over. She stood sternly next to her husband, who was already taking a deep breathe in to start the lecture of the century. The worry lines on his weather-worn face stood out in the dim lighting of the kitchen, his sunstained hair drooping slighting from a long day of physical labor and a wearing night of keeping his frantic wife from running out the door to locate her son. He'd nearly been up for twenty four hours now and he was irate with his son. Jonathan could not understand why his son had let them down. It was the third time this month he hadn't bothered with curfew. 'Granted, he always has a good reason,' he thought. Wearily, he thought back to two weeks ago, the last time-
His thoughts and his breathe were interrupted though, as Clark lumbered around and plopped down at the kitchen table, head cradled delicately in his hands, massaging his temples, the corners of his face left showing red and raw. Any anger either parent had was instantly vaporized; it became obvious Clark was late for a reason. They sat down opposite him, falling into a well-known and terrible routine. Neither pushed the boy across the table, they just sat, waiting for him to collect his thoughts enough to tell them. Neither dare venture a guess at what as to come; they'd seen too much to suppose they'd even get close. With Clark's problems, at least there was always variety.
Eventually, Clark raised his head and looked straight into his father's eyes. And in that instant, Jonathan knew. This was worse than they had ever dealt with before. Clark was torn up by whatever had taken place, his face a picture of every awful feeling in the book, grief, sorrow, pain, and anger all evident before Jonathan's eyes. 'I'll bet that's not the half of it,' he realized.
And so Clark told them, word after word spilling from him mouth like some terrible, bitter poison he wanted nothing better than to be done with. He was numb with exhaustion. The whole time he stared straight down at the table top as though fascinated by the patterns in the grain of the dark wood and could find not only the answers to his problems but salvation there as well. Soon, his eyes softened, and he was no longer in the kitchen. He was reliving every horrid revelation that the night had brought and all of the feelings that those revelations had stirred in him, some of which he had never known before. Their depth was startling, as though he was falling through a bottomless pit and all he wanted was the merciful impact that would never come.
There was no slant to events of the night in the simplistic explanation he gave. It was just words, just facts, letting his parents make up their own mind as he was much too tired for the semantics of things; he knew his parents would agree with him on this one. And when the whole story, complete was sorid details, had been finished, he looked up silently once more. His eyes telling his take on the evening. Just as he had expected. There he read his own feelings in every line of his parents face, reflected there with sympathy. 'Good enough for tonight,' he thought. Without a word more, Clark rose from the table and carried himself up the stairs. Within minutes, he was lost in a fitful, dream ridden sleep.
The next morning, he awoke some what refreshed. The dreams that had haunted him were a distant memory filed away in the back of his mind. As vivid as they had been, he knew that they were just products of his imagination, not real enough to bother with. He drifted in and out of conciousness for a while, the events of the prior night filtering back to him slowly. Clark dealt with each as they were drawn to the forefront of his mind as though they were his nightmares. He didn't feel quite so overwhelmed as before, coming to terms with the memories, sorting through them. Not to say that he wasn't upset and horrified by them, he felt every feeling that he had the night before. They just seemed unreal. It was comforting for a while, to pretend his life was just a bad dream that he could look at subjectively, knowing that the mosters and problems weren't really his. In his heart, he knew they weren't going to be solved by laying in bed and imagining them false. The detatchment gave him some clarity though. Clark could see the problems and the feelings associated with them for what they were and examine the motives behind them and how to deal with them. This peace though, ended quite abruptly as he glanced lazily at the clock. The dial pulverized his day dream and pulled him kicking and screaming back to reality. This wasn't a dream, Chloe had betrayed him so radically he was in real danger, and on top of it all, he was late.
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on.