Warning: None for this chapter
A/N: I realize this is another short chapter, but I'm building toward something. Also, things are heading down a dark path, which will get pretty damn dark. However, things will turn around eventually. I ask that you hang in there and enjoy the ride, as bumpy as it's gonna be.
Feedback is welcome. Enjoy.
I slowly awaken to find myself back in my room.
My room.
I don't know why I think of it as my room, because it's not. It's my prison cell.
It may not fit the description of a stereotypical prison cell, with gray concrete walls and metal bars, but a prison cell with white walls, a decent bed and an actual door is still a prison cell.
Without really thinking about it, my hand moves to my forehead. I can't feel any trace of the wound I know was there. It's silly, but I'm oddly disappointed. I guess it's just a testament to what my life's become that I was actually hoping the wound from the bullet that killed me would still be there.
...the bullet that killed me...
God, that sounds strange, even to me.
Of course, I've died, been killed actually, more times than I can remember. I've gotten used to it, if such a thing is possible.
I'm a lab rat, of sorts. Turns out, I'm a meteor freak with the power to heal, others and myself.
This latest test of my healing power was a .45 caliber bullet to the head. I'm actually surprised it took them this long to try that one. Then again, I don't know how long I've been here. Time is pretty meaningless when there are no clocks and you haven't seen the sun or the moon for...I don't know how long.
The sun and the moon...
My mind drifts to thoughts of the outside world, of a time when I was young and innocent, when hope wasn't just a four letter word.
Soon enough, I feel the pull of sleep tugging at me, beckoning me. Sleep, my only escape from this hell, the one place where I'm free to do as I please, the only place I'm able to see him, to talk to him, to laugh with him, to cry with him, to be held by him, to be kissed by him, to be loved by him.
Dreams are all I have left, and I'm not talking about the kinds of dreams where I'm the youngest reporter the Daily Planet has ever had. No, those kinds of dreams are gone, extinct. The kinds of dreams I'm talking about are the ones made of pure fantasy, where anything is possible. Of course, I also have nightmares, horrible, debilitating, depressing nightmares. But, for some reason I can't explain, I always dream of a certain flannel-wearing farmboy before I awaken. It's almost like he's saving me.
Maybe tonight I'll thank him, several times.
A small smile curves my lips as I slip into slumber.