A/N: Okay, I don't usually write author's notes for my stories, but his time I felt a little bad for not giving you guys an update in a while and I thought I should explain why. For a while I was on vacation and wrote an update right before I left. I added to a couple other websites and for some reason I thought I did it to this one, too. However, I just got a review in my e-mail just now and I realized that I hadn't, and I almost blew a gasket. So now I feel horrible and ask for forgiveness. I PROMISE I will not have a blonde moment for the next update, which should be up soon since I'm more than halfway done. Work has not been kind to me so updates are not coming fast, but I'm trying my best. Thank you so much for reading and I apologize that you have such a spacey writer behind this story.
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Jonathan and Martha were thrown into their small cells feeling colder than they ever have before. Not because of the temperature, but because of the horrible feeling that they felt inside. Their son was being taken and tortured by these strange and heartless cult members, and they did nothing to stop it. They felt like they were the worst parents in the world because something strange was keeping them from moving or speaking while the minister was calling Clark an unholy demon. Nothing could take away the discomfort they felt as they sat in the bare concrete room that looked a lot like the one they were before, only smaller and with beds.
Being thrown in a painful enough experience without having to look into each other's sad eyes. As the large iron door shut and they sat on the floor, they crawled into separate corners by the small, bare cots that were standing on opposite sides of the room. They started to rub the wounds that were inflicted on them by their handlers. The ten-year-old- twins were strong enough before they handed the couple over to even bigger goons that reminded them of ex-cops, mostly because they felt that they were part of a nasty arrest before they were shoved into this icy prison. The biggest cause of their physical woe came from that, but there emotional woe made their wounds pale in comparison. It was nearly fifteen minutes before Martha finally spoke up.
"How could I just sit there while they did that to Clark?" the woman said on the brink of tears.
"Martha, it wasn't just you," Jonathan said in monotone. "There was something there. Something holding us back. I don't know what it was, but it was strong."
"Stronger than the love for our son?" Martha cried. "I think not. Whatever that reverend is doing to us, we have to fight…"
Jonathan then heard a pound as he quickly turned and saw his unconscious wife hit the floor, with Rev. Jim standing over her shaking his head.
"What did you do to her!" Jonathan shouted as he got up and ran over to this man he despised. However, right before he was about to throw a punch to his face, one of the men that brought the two in tackled the farmer to the ground and attempted to restrain him. Rev. Jim then looked into Jonathan's eyes, and watched as he slowly started to end his resistance.
"You'll learn quickly that I don't appreciate being called 'that reverend'," he said in a stern voice.
Jonathan nodded and rested his aching head on the floor. His mind was becoming frustrated with his constant giving in, but something inside him told him that there was no other choice.
"Now that that's over," Rev. Jim laughed. "I think that I need to have a talk with you and your wife."
Clark's heavy eyes finally opened after being asleep for what seemed like hours. The pain that the kryptonite had caused was subsiding, but he could feel it still making him weak. It was most likely the cause of the mounting pain from his injuries that were brought about by the members of the church. His stomach felt the worst of all from the sensation that it had been ripped open, followed closely by his pounding head and cramping muscles. The people who handled him didn't make this situation any better. Even though Clark was asleep during his trip to this new room, he could feel the effects of being thrown in.
The position in which he had been thrown into was not very effective in allowing Clark to see the world around him. In defiance of the people who held him hostage, Clark tried with all of his might to push himself off of the cold cement floor and finally have a chance to get warm and see where exactly he was. However, a sore stomach, bruised arms, and a splitting headache made this task difficult.
"C'mon Clark," he whispered to himself. "You can do this."
After many falls and uttered curses, he did eventually sit up on the floor so that he could see around. After rubbing his eyes to relieve the burning caused by the light mixed with stray perfume, he began to realize that the basement they had fallen into was more of a prison than anything else. If the concrete walls and thin cot in the corner didn't give it away, then the large iron door that kept him from the outside world was the convincing factor. The freezing cold temperature that streamed in from the vent on the ceiling right above Clark's head also gave the feeling of loneliness and fear, although Clark wasn't sure why, at least before his brain lapse went away.
He then began to think of a random subject from his now completed high school days. A psych paper he had written not too long ago about the effect of touch on the body. He wrote that if someone was regularly touched as a child, then it made them more likely to grow into a stable adult. Loving touch has been shown to make sick preemies well as well as troubled children more softened to the people around them. In the process of writing that paper, Clark had begun to think about what he was feeling during those 3+ years in the ship without a living parent to touch him and love on him. Did that somehow affect him psychologically? Clark wondered if that was the reason he was so afraid of being away from his parents when it was cold outside during his youth. Even at the age of fourteen, he felt a longing to be near them during the winter time. It might have been because of the fact that cold signified a lack of something to keep you warm, which was what touch often acted to do. Back then, Clark thought that it was normal to feel a little lonely when the cold was around you, but he began to realize that it was not as common for the other kids. Even now he began to feel like he wanted his mommy. He hadn't thought that specific thought since he was in preschool. It embarrassed him a little bit, even though he was pretty sure that there was no one else in the room. Clark wanted very much to leave this cold place and at least imagine that his parents were not as far away as they seemed they were, but after trying to move, he decided that sitting and shivering would require less of his strength then moving out from under the cold vent. Even though his thinking was flawed, he put it into action and stopped looking around the cell, in fear that it would make him lonelier than he already felt. As Clark's shivering became louder and tears became more inevitable, the feeling that Clark was by himself shattered.
"A little cold are we?" said a scratchy voice from behind Clark.
This voice made the boy's heart jump, which prompted him to quickly turn around, and feel a quick jab of pain in his middle. Before he squeezed his eyes shut, grabbed his side, and let out a small scream, he could have sworn that he saw a man with his face toward the wall on another small cot.
"Aw, my friend," the strange man said. "Are you in pain?"
"Is it that obvious?" Clark growled. He was a little miffed at this guy for sounding like a hippie and just sitting there while he was in obvious torment.
Clark then heard this guy start humming a song that he was not familiar with, even though it sounded like a hymn. This made Clark mad, but more curious. When his mind finally cleared as the pain began to ease, Clark wondered why this man was in the same cell as he was. The boy began to think that he wasn't the only one blacklisted by this bloodthirsty congregation.
Clark's burly hand finally fell from his torso as his heavy eyes opened to look at the man. Since this strange cellmate's back was turned, the first thing that Clark noticed was the long, dirty hair that reached to the middle of his back. There was also a dingy blue cloak that looked like it had been dug up from the shepherds' wardrobe in an old Christmas pageant. When Clark lowered his eyes, he saw that underneath the man was a rusty cot that was covered with faded and dusty sheets. Clark quickly lifted his head when he noticed the man's contorted feet, and saw that the wall in front of him seemed to be covered with writings and drawings of all different types, none of which were very neat. The funny thing was that the etchings were literally covering the entire wall. From where it started to where the man was sitting, there was a ten-foot span in which the writings were wallpapering the grey concrete, but it stopped at where the man's cot was, so Clark figured it was a work in progress. The boy couldn't really read the specific writings considering his headache, but he could see that the drawings on the beginning of the wall seemed to be very neat and well drawn, while it started to become sloppy after a couple feet. From all this, Clark knew for a fact that this man had been here a long time. However, he would love to know why, as well as what happened to his to make the writing bad like that. Asking him seemed like the best option, especially considering a good report with this man might be able to get Clark and his parents out of here.
"Excuse me," Clark said after gathering his energy.
The man slowly turned his head around to reveal his pale, bearded face. The thing that most caught Clark's attention, though, was his eyes. They did not point right at Clark, and they were faded, as if they were damaged. Clark then saw a glimpse of his hands. They were curled as if they were crippled, and they seemed contorted into the position to hold the coal pencil he was using to draw. That certainly explained the sloppiness of the drawings.
"What is it, friend? Forgive me, but my eyes, my feet and my hands are not the best. I most likely won't be able to help you with what you need." The man's voice sounded like that of a wise Buddhist monk, even though he looked no older than twenty five.
At this point, Clark knew that this man was blind and unable to walk. Even though they were obscured by the shadow of the bed, he could tell that they man's feet were just as crippled as his hands, if not more.
"What's your name?" Clark asked, trying to save the hard questions for a little later.
"My name's Steven," the man said as he smiled and massaged the wrist with his writing hand on it. "Yours?"
"Clark. Clark Kent."
"That's a…nice name." Steven said softly. "You sound like a strong young lad. You're at least twenty-eight, am I correct?"
"No," Clark said. "I'm eighteen."
"Oh my," Steven laughed. "I guess when you're blind, your perceptions are a little off."
"I see," Clark said, hanging his head, knowing that even men that could see have made that mistake. He then decided to be brave with his new cellmate.
"How did…you become…blind?"
"Ah," Steven said with a slight smile on his face. "I know what you're thinking, but I did deserve it."
Clark's stomach dropped at his worst fears being realized. "The reverend did this to you?"
"It was God doing this through the reverend, Clark. I was a criminal. I needed to be shown the way that the world really is. You see, I was what you would call a rebel. I grew up in this church and I still decided to stray away and do what I wanted. I dated strange women, held their hands, kissed them once or twice. I even had the nerve join one of their churches and become a Presbyterian. Ha! What a fool I was. Anyway, I was taken here and told that I needed to change my ways and immediately repent. Like the silly boy I was, I refused. They then…"
"…made you blind?" Clark interrupted, all while trembling.
"They did put hot irons to my eyes, yes. But I needed more motivation. I was practically spitting on the sacrifice our Lord made on the cross when I went the way I did. I guess the best way for me to appreciate it again was to actually go through it myself."
Clark could feel his heart pumping a mile a minute as Steven rolled up his sleeves, revealing what looked like nail scars on his wrists. This certainly explained the crippled hands and feet, but Clark was beginning to wish that he hadn't seen these things. Was this what would happen to him? He'd read about Roman crucifixions. They were the most painful way to die that anyone could imagine. Clark, despite the circumstances, couldn't really think of himself as he thought about what hell Steven must have gone through. All of that torment just because he wanted to change churches. And after all of it, this boy was still down in this cell, and thinking he deserved all of what came to him. Clark was just now beginning to see what these horrid people were capable of.
"I can feel your sorrow for me, young man," Steven said.
How do you know what sorrow feels like, Clark thought. You certainly got none here.
"I assure you," he continued. "The reverend was simply fulfilling the parental duties that God gave him in doing…"
"Rev. Jim's your father!" Clark shouted as he fell back onto the floor in exhaustion of all that he had just heard. "How could he do that to his own son?"
"Oh, he was kind to me. You, on the other hand, will not be so lucky, considering you're the one he's been looking for all these years."
"Years?" Clark said after lifting himself up again. "What do you mean he's been looking for me for years?"
"You're Clark Kent, correct?"
"Steven, stop it! Can't you see he's been through enough?" shouted a voice from the other side of the room.
Clark was frightened at this new voice that had now joined them. It sounded like a woman this time, and a young one at that. Clark was afraid that this one would be missing an ear or a hand or something horrible like that. Clark didn't want to think about what else was in store for him as he waited under this cold and lonely vent. Clark just closed his eyes and slid into the fetal position trying to get the horrible images that Steven gave him out of his head. That was difficult, though, considering he could hear the conversation that his cellmate and the strange woman were having.
"You know as well as I do that this boy should be warned of what's coming to him so that he can repent. He should not be a fool like I was."
"How many times do I have to tell you, Steven? You did nothing to deserve what happened to you. This boy didn't either. I suggest you stop talking until I tell you to."
"You're not our father. You can't influence me."
"Oh, draw on your wall, Steven! You've ignored all of Father's crimes for this long. You can do it for a few more hours."
Clark began to soften to this new voice after hearing this conversation, and his sore body became more relaxed. It was just now that he began to notice how the stress was taking a toll on his already battered body. As he started to shiver from the air again, he felt a soft hand on his shoulder that made the cold air feel more like the breeze on his farm that he missed so much. This feeling gave him the peace of mind to finally go to sleep.