Clark stares directly into the setting sun. The light makes his eyes burn, but it feels good. It feels like penance.
He is slumped forward; elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched, an air of defeat surrouding him. After all, why shouldn't his outsides mirror his insides?
It's a cold and painful thing when a boy thinks he's sunk down as far as possible, and then the hole he's dug himself collapses out from under him. Clark can't see any way to free himself, and he hardly even wants to try.
Sitting at the harbour, Clark turns his gaze to the black water stretched out as far as the eye can see. Many men better than him have been sucked away with the current; out into the ocean where there's nothing but water and sky, and no one survives. If he thought he could drown, Clark would be in that water like a man who truly wished to die.
Smiley. Smiley. Smiley. Smiley. Smiley.
Who was he, she had asked him. Who the fuck was he? He'd had no answer, or at least not one that she would have accepted.
If he asks himself that question, he gets an entirely different answer.
"Spare a dollar?" An old man, battered by time and pain and poverty, hobbles by. Clark stares at him for a moment and then pulls out his wallet. There are three fifty-dollar bills inside, and he thrusts them at the man. "Is this a joke?" The old man becomes suspicious. "What do you want for it?"
Clark grimaces. "Nothing." As the man shuffles away, Clark notices the quality of the coat he's wearing, and wonders if someone else gave him a similar gift some time ago. Maybe they were guilty too.
With nothing else to do, Clark stands, brushing off his legs with a feeling of finality.
There are people around, so rather than super-speedinghe strides purposefully down the street toward the city centre. He steps inside Gotham's First National Bank and walks up to the teller.
"Hello, how may I help you?" She asks with a perfunctory smile.
"I need to set up an account."
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"What can I get you?"
"A club sandwich please." Clark leans against the counter, smiling at the sub girl. The smile is hollow. He's passed through what seems like a thousand little towns exactly like the one he's in, and they're all the same. It's always the same girl working at the same fast food joint on the same street in the same town. Somerset is no different.
"You're not from around here, are you?" She asks, while her partner is busy cutting bread and piling meat onto it.
"Nope." His eyes flick away from her face, to the window. To Gotham. He's so far away now that even if he squints he still won't be able to see it. "Just passing through."
"Well it's gettin' late, and there's a storm brewin', so you might wanna think about getting a room for the night."
His eyes catch on the dark clouds on the horizon, and he asks himself once again why he decided to drive home rather than run.
But than answer is so obvious. If he were normal, he wouldn't be able to put about a thousand miles between them in the space of a few minutes. There's no reason to rush, anyway. Not with two people waiting for him to return to a home he helped destroy.
He still debates with the idea of calling his parents. Not since that dark night in Gotham has he called home, though he's dreamed of it so many times. In his best case scenario, the minute his mother picks up the phone she begins telling him how much she loves and needs him. Clark doesn't want to even think about worst case.
"Hey." The girl says, handing him his sandwich. "That comes to four-fifty-five." Clark pulls out a five and drops it on the counter. The place is crowded with curious, searching faces, so he decides to eat in his car. He's almost to the door when he hears the sub girl call out; "Hey, if you end up stickin' around town for the night, you should come down to The Whisky Barrel!"
"Sure." He throws back carelessly. He won't go. Even if he does get a room in this god-forsaken place he won't-can't share himself with anybody. Not tonight, and maybe not ever again. He can't even imagine it.
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The next morning finds him awake and humming with anxiety. Apart from an old floor lamp and a rickety nightstand, the bed is the only furniture in the room, and he's been sitting on the edge of the stained andlumpy mattress since the clock read four-forty-five.
There's somethingso overtlypathetic about the fact that it's currently ten o-clock and he hasn't moved once. He wants to feel bad. He wants to feel guilty, and depressed, and lonely and everything he's been blocking out. He wants the emptiness to overtake him so he can just lie down and give up and finally just get on with his life, always knowing that he failed.
He wants that. So. Badly.
The morning floats by and with it the realisation that he is almost exactly halfway to Kansas. Clark knows now that no matter where he goes, there is no safe haven for him. He can either go back or go forward, and each option has its drawbacks, just as each option has its appeal. However, he's already set out on this journey, and he might as well finish it.
"God." He groans, as a splitting pain pierces his brain. It only takes a moment to realise that pain is a scream, and his super hearing is acting up. He can also hear panting, and it sounds distressed. He's out of his room before he even realises it, following his ears to the desperate sound. He's up two flights of stairs and down a long corridor before he finds the room. His x-ray vision comes in handy as his cheeks flush bright red. He's justglad he didn't knock the door down in his haste.
He leaves the couple and heads back to his room, disgusted and kicking himself. He can never do anything right. Angry and humiliated, Clark stuffs what little he had taken with him from Gotham further into his duffel bag and pulls the zipper shut.
Within minutes, the town is but a fading memory to him, and the map on the passenger seat tells him he has about fourteen hours of travel left until he reaches Smallville. The one thing Clark knows for sure is that once he gets back home, nothing will ever be the same again.
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A/N
Again, I'm not too happy with this chapter. It feels too rushed, and I might go back and rewrite it before I post the next chapter, but then again, maybe not...
Just for clarification, the story is being told in three arcs, and with only one chapter left, I'm almost at the end of it. Each arc represents a different part of Clark, and the journey he has to make to become the same man who is capable of being Superman. Right now Clark is in a state of extreme depression, trying to deal with the guilt of all the crimes he committed and coerced Smiley into committing, including murder. He can't forgive himself for what he did, but his return to Smallville represents what it always has: healing.
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Thanks toKatie: Don't worry! Smiley's not dead! Unfortunately, she's going to be out of the picture probably until the middle of arc two, so you won't see her again until then.
LotornoMiko: Yay! A new reader! I'm so glad you like the story, please, keep reading! There's a lot more coming!
south manger 04: He hasn't called his parents yet, but he's on his way home, and he'll be getting there in the next chapter or so.
valerie and company: I'm sorry it took so long to get that last chapter out! It was tough, but it was really encouraging, having faithful reviewers like you to keep me going! The rest of the story is pretty much planned out now; I just have to figure out a way to write it so it sounds good!
Thanks everybody, and keep on reviewing!