Disclaimer: I own nothing! if I did, Lana's character would either be
written better or left to die in some god forsaken hell hole. Clark would
suddenly not have any shirts and neither would lex. So obviously, not mine.
A/N: hi. Its my first Smallville fic in a long time. I used to write under the name of Poor-Ophelia, and it's been a while. Tell me what you think, I adore feed back, even if it is to tell me I should do something useful and kill myself because I'm such a bad writer...although I do hope no one says that. I do my best to answer any questions!
Synopsis: Chloe discovers the truth about her mother. (short I know, but this is all my stupid muse would give me. So if anything, blame it! :::Muse glares, and looks menacing::: I mean...)
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So that was it. It hurt a little, the knowing. I'd always known it was going to, just maybe not this much. That was the truth for you; a bitch and a pain, but my unyielding master nonetheless.
Sometimes I wish I never needed to know. But only sometimes. This was one of those times. I love to question; it's my nature, as much as it is my burden. I'm a reporter, but sometimes I hate the truth.
There she was, happy. Smiling. I reached up and wiped my nose with my mitten, as I gazed through the frosted window. Her hair was longer than I remembered, and she must have had a perm because it was curly now, and it was never curly before. She wore a thick woolen sweater colored a peat brown over black slacks. Mom. Mother. What did I call her now? What was she to me now? Or a better question, what was I to her? A mistake, something unwanted and forgettable, a time of her life she'd rather not remember.
She was playing Barbies with a little girl who had auburn hair, and the same mouth as me, and my mother. "My sister," I murmured. She had big hazel eyes wreathed in dark eyelashes, and rosy cheeks. She was the one that was wanted. Funny. I never would have known, never guessed. Least of all not another daughter. I raised my hand to the cold pane of glass and felt a short stab of jealousy. I didn't even know her name, or how old she was, or if she even knew about me. Probably not, I decided.
I sniffled, and I could feel my throat constricting. That horrible sensation that you know means the tears aren't far off. My vision grew blurry and liquid, and I turned away, accidentally bumping into a tree. The bare branches raked the window, and I ran through the snow towards the side walk, trying to hold back the sobs that fought for control. Down the road was my car. I pulled my green toque down further over my ears, trying to arm myself against the bitter chill that seeped through my coat.
The truth was a bitch.
* * * * *
* * *
The tree branch slapped against the window pane, alerting the two who sat on the rug.
"Mommy?" her daughter's small piping voice questioned. She dropped her Barbie and walked over to the window, not afraid one bit, fearless. "Who's that?"
Rachel stood, following her daughter, and gazing out at the direction she pointed. A young woman, with short blond hair poking out of her green toque was running down the sidewalk, turning the corner. "I don't know honey. I'm going to make some hot chocolate though, it's chilly. Do you want some?" She questioned, brushing off the strange feeling of familiarity that sparked when she saw the girl.
Her daughter stayed mute, continuing to stare out the window, vigilant.
"Lucy?" She repeated, "Do you want a hot chocolate?"
Her auburn head turned, and she nodded. "Yes please. Thank you Mommy." She walked back to her dolls, leaving her mother to make the hot chocolate.
* * * * *
* * *
A/N: hi. Its my first Smallville fic in a long time. I used to write under the name of Poor-Ophelia, and it's been a while. Tell me what you think, I adore feed back, even if it is to tell me I should do something useful and kill myself because I'm such a bad writer...although I do hope no one says that. I do my best to answer any questions!
Synopsis: Chloe discovers the truth about her mother. (short I know, but this is all my stupid muse would give me. So if anything, blame it! :::Muse glares, and looks menacing::: I mean...)
***************************************************************
So that was it. It hurt a little, the knowing. I'd always known it was going to, just maybe not this much. That was the truth for you; a bitch and a pain, but my unyielding master nonetheless.
Sometimes I wish I never needed to know. But only sometimes. This was one of those times. I love to question; it's my nature, as much as it is my burden. I'm a reporter, but sometimes I hate the truth.
There she was, happy. Smiling. I reached up and wiped my nose with my mitten, as I gazed through the frosted window. Her hair was longer than I remembered, and she must have had a perm because it was curly now, and it was never curly before. She wore a thick woolen sweater colored a peat brown over black slacks. Mom. Mother. What did I call her now? What was she to me now? Or a better question, what was I to her? A mistake, something unwanted and forgettable, a time of her life she'd rather not remember.
She was playing Barbies with a little girl who had auburn hair, and the same mouth as me, and my mother. "My sister," I murmured. She had big hazel eyes wreathed in dark eyelashes, and rosy cheeks. She was the one that was wanted. Funny. I never would have known, never guessed. Least of all not another daughter. I raised my hand to the cold pane of glass and felt a short stab of jealousy. I didn't even know her name, or how old she was, or if she even knew about me. Probably not, I decided.
I sniffled, and I could feel my throat constricting. That horrible sensation that you know means the tears aren't far off. My vision grew blurry and liquid, and I turned away, accidentally bumping into a tree. The bare branches raked the window, and I ran through the snow towards the side walk, trying to hold back the sobs that fought for control. Down the road was my car. I pulled my green toque down further over my ears, trying to arm myself against the bitter chill that seeped through my coat.
The truth was a bitch.
* * * * *
* * *
The tree branch slapped against the window pane, alerting the two who sat on the rug.
"Mommy?" her daughter's small piping voice questioned. She dropped her Barbie and walked over to the window, not afraid one bit, fearless. "Who's that?"
Rachel stood, following her daughter, and gazing out at the direction she pointed. A young woman, with short blond hair poking out of her green toque was running down the sidewalk, turning the corner. "I don't know honey. I'm going to make some hot chocolate though, it's chilly. Do you want some?" She questioned, brushing off the strange feeling of familiarity that sparked when she saw the girl.
Her daughter stayed mute, continuing to stare out the window, vigilant.
"Lucy?" She repeated, "Do you want a hot chocolate?"
Her auburn head turned, and she nodded. "Yes please. Thank you Mommy." She walked back to her dolls, leaving her mother to make the hot chocolate.
* * * * *
* * *