Wow, so this is chapter 4...it's funny how I never considered having this many chapters when I first wrote the inpirational piece of this story (which has yet to make an appearance). I'm glad chapter 3 went over so well though, I noticed a couple of repeat posters from my first story, which I thought was very cool. I wasn't kidding when I said I wrote the last chapter while dead tired. When I woke up a couple hours later (I don't fully wake up and function untilat least an hour after I get out of bed) and checked my stats and saw I had another post I was like, "Sweet!" Then I was like, "Cookies /frowns/ I...what cookies? I don't remember any cookies..." I had to reread what I had wrote and then I was like, "Oooooh, those cookies." LOL I know...it's sad. But hey, I figure if that went so well then maybe I should strive to write up a whole different story while that tired and see how it goes.
On a different note, I'm not sure why but it would seem that my stories sometimes lose spaces between words in some of my chapters when I import them here. I do try and catch them all but a couple slip past. Here's a question that has been niggling at me from the corner of my mind: Does it seem like my stories suffer from the lack of a beta? Not that it needs to be answered one way or another, just something that pops into my mind while I write. Anyways, enjoy reading this, I'll be writing the next segment. :D
The world looked funny to Clark from this point of view, sprawled out on his back and feet propped against a nearby boulder. He could almost believe, with a bit of imagination and a blatant disregard of the ground at his back, that the clouds overhead was really underfoot and that he was peering downwards into a blue abyss. If he focused hard and long enough he could feel the odd little flip in his stomach that signaled that his body believed what his mind wanted and with that he could begin his ritual of self-venting.
See, some folks felt better when they talked to other people about their problems. He could hear his father's voice telling him that a problem shared was a problem halved, and if you really thought about it, it's true. When you shared something that was bothering you with someone else, you often found a solution on your own just by hearing it out loud. Just knowing that there was someone else who could help you with that problem made it not feel so big, so ominous. Other folks felt better writing it out in a journal or diary, giving them opportunity to sort out the issues as they were forced to slow down and think about it as they wrote. But for him, he couldn't really talk to anyone about what was bothering him. No one else could say, "Hey, it'll be fine, I've been there," because they haven't, not really. Not unless they too had the super strength, super speed, and all other super assorted powers that were at his beck and call.
If he tried to write it down he'd have to go through more troubles hiding what he really felt about what he could do under so many layers that it just wouldn't be worth it. Not to mention having to find the time to write, make up a system of code words for certain aspects of his life, and finding a very secure location to hide the journal that no one would be able to reach without a lot of problems…like at the bottom of this lake in a waterproof bag. Which would make retrieval and replacement a bit tricky should anyone catch him in the act…uh, hiiiii /goofy grin/…no, there's nothing wrong, I…ah…was practicing. /nods/ Yeah, practicing holding my breath, cause dad says you never know when something like that may come in handy. He snorted and rolled his eyes at himself, imagining the skeptical looks he'd receive at that…especially during the winter.
Which brought him to where he was now, pretending that nothing else existed but the cloud he was standing on over the cerulean sky. He liked to think it were a bottomless hole where he'd drop his problems in like the stones that they were, their weight no longer in his heart to cause him grief. He found that talking about it did help somewhat; kept the smiles he gave people light and frequent. Though, just hearing his own voice saying some of the things that bothered him didn't quite have that sting that hearing it from those close to him did. So, he imitated them.
It started innocently enough, teachers that unfairly singled him out because of one thing or another. Other students that bullied him in school at recess because they knew he wouldn't do anything back. He tried mimicking them in his room, but an unfortunate incident where his mom overheard him repeating what his dad said during one of his lectures ended up teaching him to take it to the barn or he'd taste the Ivory soap. Not that the barn was any safer, it was open enough that anyone could walk in and catch him mouthing off and making a mockery of his issues. Then he found the fishing hole on Mr. Tucker's property, and that sufficed as a sanctuary until a very persistent Chloe stumbled across him in one of her early days of meteor madness hunting.
He now only went there when he wanted more privacy than his loft provided but didn't feel like running too far out for it. Thanks to his more sensitive hearing he could still vent there and stop early enough should he hear anyone approaching to be able to pass off his venting as lounging. As for this spot, it was great, his 'I'm surprised you actually survived getting out here, must be important' spot. A slow grin crept across his face as he reached out with his hearing and only heard the gentle wind pushing the water softly at the rocks behind him and rustling in the patches of grass that grew in the crevices.
Another benefit of developing the more sensitive ears was that he was better able to imitate people's voices. Well, male voices at the very least. It made venting easier, he could play everyone's part from the beginning to the end. Say the things that he really wanted to at the time but didn't because he didn't want to let something slip that he shouldn't. He thought he did pretty well himself, his ear not able to tell much difference between his imitation and their true voice, though sometimes he had a hard time getting the tones of voice down pat when he didn't feel into it.
With a steadying breath Clark focused on controlling his voice so that it held the perfect pitch, perfect tremor, the perfect cadences of Pete's voice, his warm up voice. "Come on Clark," Pete's voice echoed slightly as it fell into the blue abyss, never to bother him again. "You know Luthor is only being your friend so he can find out your secrets."
"Of course Pete, how stupidly naive of me," the exaggerated eye roll he had wanted to give Pete last week joined the sarcastic tones. "Of course that's all Lex wants from me, what anyone wants from me. The truth to all the secrets that a farm boy like me is stupidly hiding because there's nothing else that I have that could possibly be of value to someone like Lex." Bitterness burned in his throat at the passing of the words that hinted at the slight insecurity hidden deep in his heart.
"Naw, man!" Pete's voice fell from his mouth, slightly pleading, mostly self-assured of their validity. "You know that isn't true! It's just," frustration taints the pleading with its venom, "you know how they cheated my family out of the cream corn factory. Practically stole it from us."
Clark folds his hands behind his head, eyes closing as he settles into the half-memory, half-fantasy, "It wasn't Lex, Pete, get it through your head that it was Lionel that swindled your dad out of the factory. Lex was just a kid when that happened, just like us. Not like he went up to his dad and said /he lightened his voice, making it sound like a little kid/, "Dad, I want to be the best Luthor I can be, just like you. Let's pay these stupid country folk pennies on the dollar for their prime cream corn factory with the promise that we'll keep it just as it is. Then, when it's in our control, change it into a shit factory to show them how much we think of their traditions here. Can we? Please?" And Lionel, of course, said /deepening his voice in an obvious mockery/, "That's my boy! You make me so proud to see such ruthlessness at your age. Of course we'll do that way. Make it a Father-Son event, a tradition."
Pete's voice persisted, "Man, don't you get it? My family started that factory; it should have stayed a cream corn factory like Luthor promised! They promised and they can't be trusted because they broke their word."
Clark's face shifts into a thoughtful and concerned mien, "So you're telling me that you'd rather have the cream corn factory, being about 90 percentsure that is where you'll end up for the rest of your life, than having your mom be a respected judge? Dude, your family is a lot better off now than they were then."
"That's not the point!" Pete's voice was harsh with emotion.
"Your dad was an adult, he knew who he was selling to. No one forced him to sign those papers, and he should be glad he got rid of the factory before the meteors hit cause they devastated the corn they needed for production. Your family's business would have been crippled for years had they kept with the corn."
The quiet that followed the echo of his last words filled and soothed the ache that arose whenever Pete harped on Lex for things he had no control over. It hurt that his oldest friend couldn't seem to get along with one of his newest. It hurt because it meant that Pete didn't really trust Clark's judgment on people's character. While it was true that Lex wasn't a saint, it didn't mean that Lex hadn't changed or improved since the day that he had crashed into Clark's life. Another deep cleansing sigh resettled his mind for the next conversation.
"Clark, I know how much you want to tell your friends the truth about everything," his father's voice rumbled around him, he could almost feel the heavy weight of his hand upon his shoulder. "But there's just too much risk, son…"
So caught up with his musings and conversations he failed to register the light scuffing noises and occasional cursing that had been slowly drawing closer to where he was laying.