Chloe's father peers into the mirror, unable to recognize the reflection staring back at him. The tears trickling down from his blood shot eyes are the only sliver of the once tender man that resided within him.
Knowing he is not worthy of such delicacy after doing what he did to his vulnerable and innocent daughter, he quickly splashes frigid water on his face, hoping it might also be able to wash away his sins. Unfortunately, the water in Smallville does not spring from a holy well, and the cold water on his flesh only serves to wake him enough to realize how far he has fallen.
Stone sober, but woefully somber, a distressed Gabe Sullivan walks the few steps down the hall in the apartment towards his daughter's room. He gently turns the knob, revealing the empty bed where Chloe should be.
Chloe's room seems neat and tidy compared to the chaos rampant throughout the dark apartment. The dresser is heaped with scads of awards, medals, and trophies, all her journalistic achievements, dating back to second grade when she wrote that paper about broccoli being drowned by cheese in the school cafeteria.
Instead of a typical night stand there are stacks of books, secret refuge to be found over and over again between the pages. Her small typewriter sits as though time has stopped, a half written article still in the roller. The red nail polish margin line her mom made back in the day when she pecked those same keys still remains, oddly giving Chloe comfort that her mom still can guide her to stay between the lines.
The floor is dotted with balled up pieces of white paper; words that although her own failed to meet her high standards.
The only real sign that a teenager inhabits this room are the multiple snapshots she has of her friends; Lana, Lois, but mostly Clark, which she has turned into a collage; preserved beneath the cheap glass of a dime store frame.
Although she seeks to submerse herself in the things that will secure her future, it's evident that the thing her heart desires most comes second to nothing.
Gabe allows his fingers to touch the wall, straightening a crinkled news clipping that Chloe has tacked up to her bedroom wall; a small branch to whose roots lead to the original 'wall of weird'.
He slowly moves through the room, taking a seat on the tattered gingham bedding neatly spread across the bed. The lumpy heart shaped pillows crafted with her own two hands softly cradle the worn little sock monkey that once slept with her in her crib. Even though he only has one eye now, he has seen her through some very hard times.
With one of his rough, callused fingers Gabe gently attempts to push the stuffing back into the ragged monkey's tummy, lovingly tending to his daughter's toy, unable to repair the wounds he's caused her.
x X x X x
Chloe had never been late getting an edition of The Torch out before, let alone not at all. Clark allowed his brain to jump to the conclusion that perhaps Chloe had written the article on the Sex assembly that he didn't. And perhaps she had put enough of her acerbic spin on it that it enflamed the entire campus into reading it and The Torch was actually sold out.
But, then he realized he didn't see any students reading it, which meant that the paper was indeed late. However, he was sure that if Chloe didn't have his article she would have improvised, thrown in a substitute, widened the columns -- nothing would keep her from publishing The Torch.
Unless, he had upset her more than he realized. That had to be it. As if he didn't have enough to apologize to Chloe for, now he has to add his lack of responsible journalism to the stack of reasons why he owes her an apology.
Yes, that article she threw at him yesterday, the one which he could hardly think about, much less write, had gone no further than his ears. Now here he stands, dreadfully past deadline, sealing his fate in Chloe's doghouse.
Defeated, he looks down at the simple flower in his hand. "Know
where I can find eleven of your friends?"
x X x X x
Not nearly as excited to enter The Torch office as he was earlier, Clark rounds the doorway, keeping his head low. He knows all too well that Chloe's wide doe eyes have a poison streak, and when those green flecks are aimed right at him, they might as well be kryptonite.
Five steps into the room, and a whole two breaths taken, but not a peep from Chloe. It's worse than he thought. He is now facing the wrath of Chloe's dreaded silent treatment.
Swallowing hard, he musters the courage to raise his head, almost flinching for fear of the daggers her eyes will shoot him. Unconsciously his eyelids squeezed close, a half ditch effort to avoid facing his punishment. He slowly opens his eyes, as his arms springs out in reflex to extend the petaled peace offering.
The room is eerily quiet, only the gently hum of Chloe's computer can be heard. There is no panic or fury for the lack of paper going to print. There is no one to ignore him. No one to punish, or forgive him. Without the heart of the office to be found, it remains still and lifeless. The Torch seems to have burned out because the one who carried it has laid it down.
Clark moves towards Chloe's desk, taking a seat in her chair. He places his hand down, accidentally bumping the mouse to her computer, bringing the screen to life. His eyes widen, unable to truly believe what he's seeing. Not since the spring formal had he seen Chloe looking so beautiful. He remembers how her eyes sparkled and her smile beamed as she looked into his eyes, and now his were returning the favor as he gazed upon the pictures of she and him on the computer screen.
As he admires the photo she has secretly saved, but obviously revisited recently, he gets lost in the possibility of being more than Chloe's friend. Without realizing his large fingers had gently plucked each petal from the delicate daisy, leaving only one. He looks down at the remaining petal and wonders where he had stopped; does he or does he not?
