MADE TO BE BROKEN
By Sara <sara_farneygal@eircom.net>
Rated PG13
Submitted 2005
Authors Note; I have many people to thank here, and much roundabout explaining to do, so for any impatient souls - I'd skip down to where you see the warnings <g>
First and foremost - the largest amount of gratitude and appreciation goes to my fantastic beta/best-readers, sounding boards, psychiatrists, lexicons and punch-bags; Lynn, Saskia, Pel, Erica, Rachel, Sara K and Julie. Dr. Friskin ain't got nothing on these guys
Some have been with me from the very beginning, some came in near the very end - I'll never be able to thank any of them enough for their help, patience, nags, encouragement, nitpicks, US/UK spelling/phrase issues, thwaps [RL thwaps - thanks, Sas] pats-on-the-back and for sending me chocolate that one time. Heck, all the times <g> They stood so much trauma and heartbreak, on bad days they almost had to wash and dress me - this story is dedicated to them, because it wouldn't have happened without them
but your help was *invaluable*.
This is a what-if story, inspired by the song Iris, performed by the Goo Goo Dolls, and also by the fantastic Near Wild Heaven I by Kaethel - still more thanks to her for letting me off a few months ago when I mentioned it
I've twiddled with the timeline in a few parts, edited the BatP/HoL arc drastically, and long before this, I let Lois 'stay home and watch for Superman' in tGGGOH, so in short, she never went to Smallville, but met the Kents while they were on a spur-of-the-moment visit to Metropolis in Season One [which we never actually saw]. Yes, I can twiddle with destiny like that. Behold my power, har har
***WARNING***; seriously high ick factor. WHAMs, angst and evilness galore. Let me put it this way - Sara actually made me worry about her the first time I saw her beta comments - and the later ones were even worse <g>. The only other thing I'll say is that, abiding by the precedent set by some of my very favourite authors, I've done my best to put my toys back in the same condition - bar a few scratches
Disclaimer; most characters and some dialogue are the property of Warner Bros, DC comics and whoever else has the right to claim them.
FDK; addicted to, begging for, constructive criticism only, please
~&~
And I'd give up forever to touch you
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I've ever been
And I don't want to go home right now
And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
And sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight
And I don't want the world to see me
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
~Iris, by the Goo Goo Dolls
~&~
Part OneShe gripped the ceramic sides of the toilet, her sticky hair clinging damply to the back of her neck, her breathing irregular. She choked, her throat constricting - and emptied the contents of her stomach into the bowl.
After the sea of nausea had ebbed, she rocked back on her heels, one hand clasped to her forehead.
She couldn't believe it. She'd thought this sickness had passed. It had been weeks... well, no, not weeks, but days, certainly, since he'd laid a finger on her... why, oh *why* was she still...
Staggering to her feet, she washed her face, pausing only once to stare in the mirror.
It reflected a twenty-seven year old woman, it reflected someone she didn't know, someone wearing her face but with a different soul entirely.
Rubbing her aching stomach, she padded back into the cold glow of the room, pausing and leaning against the doorjamb to survey the bed. The king-sized bed. The luxurious bed, Egyptian-cotton sheets and a down mattress.
He wasn't there, had never been there. His side had been stone cold when she'd woken up, the pristine blankets unsullied and the under-sheet smooth. He wasn't there.
She sighed, wondering wearily what earth-shattering disaster had called him away this time. Night after night she woke up to find his side of the bed empty, his nightclothes thrown over the chair, the hanger on which his suit hung empty and the door swinging wide open. She'd never thought she could play the role of a forgotten wife, but night after night, she did it in her sleep, not even realising it. He never woke her up, he never left a note.
She had gotten used to it, but still, the odd time her heart would twang, and she'd be left feeling desolate, reminded of how important he was and how much time he needed to spend away from her. Away from the house. Away from their life.
Away from their life together.
She laughed sharply into the empty room.
Their life together. What a joke.
A life that she would not have chosen except on pain of death.
She choked, the bile rushing up her throat and filling her mouth with a sour taste. Swallowing deeply, she forced it back down, groaning as the bubbling waves of acid resided in her stomach.
Not from any form of sickness this time. From the memory of him, of what he had... what he had...
She grasped the handle of the door as the world spun around her. Praying that she wouldn't black out, she managed to stumble her way over to the bed and collapse upon it, gathering her nightgown up around her and huddling into a tight ball.
She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't stand it. The knowledge was too much. The worthlessness she felt in knowing that she hadn't been enough for him. That he had needed more.
Other women. He had needed other women.
Every time, she had known. Instinctively. She had *smelt* them on him. Watching him undress and slip into the bed beside her, leaning to turn off the light and settle down, turning away from her, she had been reminded of the fact that she wasn't enough.
He had needed more. And of course he could get any woman he wanted. No trouble to a man as famous and attractive as himself.
<...don't you dare accuse me of being unfaithful, you heartless bitch. If you would just be home for once when I get here...>Back then... oh, short period of time, but it felt like years... she'd been so *angry*. She couldn't understand her logic now - she knew now that affairs were something to be expected, unfortunate but typical. Men were like that, even untouchable, perfect men...
She'd been furious, though, that first time. She'd had to ball her fingers into the palm of her hand to keep from reaching out and wrapping them around his throat. Watching his back rise and fall with the gentle rhythm of his breathing, she had wanted to kill him. She had even begun to plan how she would do it.
Oh, she'd been a coward. It would have been so easy to banish his existence, both physically and mentally, from her life... so easy to win back her former life. Even if he appeared invulnerable, she knew him by now - knew the chinks in his armour, imperceptible, minute cracks. Cracks that were there, nonetheless, flourishing and ugly.
A window of opportunity had opened briefly...
...and she hadn't taken it.
She had wanted to. She had steeled her muscles in readiness. She'd known what to do, how to, what she'd need. She was one of the only people on the planet who knew exactly how to kill him.
Time and time again, she had told herself to do it. Told herself that it was fair, it was right. Reminded herself what he had become. Repeated the word over and over again.
<Adultereradultereradultereradultereradultereradulterer...>It would have been so easy.
But she hadn't.
<You're worthless. Can't even cook a decent meal...>As the night went on, she had figured a few things out. It made sense, this betrayal. Nobody had ever been truly satisfied with her, when all facades were gone. Nobody had ever loved her for who she was... nobody had ever *loved* her, period. Why should her husband be any different? She couldn't keep him happy, she was wrong, flawed in some way. That was why he needed others.
Nobody had ever accepted her for who she was. Nobody except... except...
<...I've been in love with you for a long time...>Her stomach plunged as she remembered that unconditional acceptance. How different her life would have been if she had only made the right choices. If she had walked away, run, sprinted away from him as if her life depended on it... because in the end, it did and it had, and she'd thrown it away, and it was *her* fault after all, wasn't it?
It was. Her life wasn't meant to be like this, had never been meant to turn out like this. If she'd followed the warning signals, it would have been so different... she would have been...
<...you belong to me...>She had given it away. She had *thrown* it away, preferring to bind herself to a cruel world in which everything twisted and distorted and turned itself into a warped image of perfection.
She had given her love to that world - a world which didn't want it.
<...where will you go? Who wants you now? Idiot...>Sixteen months ago, in front of hundreds of people - it had seemed like the whole of Metropolis was in attendance - they had promised to love, honour and cherish each other. His eyes had been soft as they looked into hers - brown orbs filled with... with...
<...I love you... love you... love... love... love...><I love you so much... please, if there's anything wrong, you *have* to tell me...>...with some shadowy emotion.
She had been scared. She remembered the endless hours she had spent agonising about her wedding. She had still not been absolutely sure that she loved him, one hundred percent, forever, when she had walked down that petal-strewn aisle.
<...this is forever... only you... you're all I need...>She had been pushed into it - pressured by her mother, him, her own insecurities. Every single thing she'd thought permanent had turned to shale and crumbled beneath her feet. She'd been rejected, scorned. Acceptance of the fact that he was the best she would get - the best she could ever get - had come easily.
So she had married him.
Her lip curled as she thought about how short their honeymoon period had lasted. Not even a year and a half married and he was already occupying other women's beds.
<Nobody loves you. Not me, not your family, not your friends...>He had broken her. She didn't know him - had never truly known him - and he had taken her over. Her naturally rebellious spirit was almost non-existent now; the mind games he played taunting her, making her head spin. He was cleverer than she, stronger - obviously stronger - and much more cunning. He had bent her, broken her, until she was nothing like the woman he had married.
She drifted through life in a sort of bubble these days, barely aware of who was around her, who she was communicating with. Living, but not alive. She was buried so deeply inside herself that every word that came out of her mouth seemed to reach the surface five minutes after she had said it. The fire, the intensity that had defined her as a person was long since quenched. Gone. Blown out, completely.
She smiled bitterly. There was no need for fire or passion in his house. She made no decisions. She helped nobody. She did nothing. She sat around all day and decided what colour to redecorate the front room, what she was going to wear to that charity gig next week.
<You're not wearing that rag. I wouldn't be caught dead in public with you... and do something about your hair...>He had done that.
She wondered vaguely if that had been the reason why he had married her. To break her. If she had been a prize only so long as she was independent.
Independence, liberty. She craved it, an everlasting thirst that would never be fulfilled. She'd never wanted to be a housewife. She'd thrilled with the adrenaline of knowing that the people of Metropolis *knew* her, were familiar with her work... she'd been a public figure. She'd sacrificed so much in the name of marital harmony...
A harmony that meant an end to the long silences, cold shoulders, blazing rows and heated exchanges - exchanges in which *he* had had the upper hand. A harmony - though unsteady, at best - that had proved essential for her very safety.
Now she had a minder to monitor her activities. She had a spending limit. She had a 'bodyguard'. Everywhere she went, people watched. Waiting to pounce. To accuse. Gleefully relating her misdeeds to her husband.
And he was only too happy to distribute punishment as he saw fit for her supposed crimes.
She touched her cheek, remembering the first time he had hit her. Four months a newlywed, she had been out working, doing what she did best, and hadn't come home till the wee hours. Walking into the house, she had noted that the bedroom light was on and had assumed that he was up reading.
She had been vaguely surprised to enter the room and find him sitting, fully clothed, in the armchair by the window, his fingers steepled and his gaze steely.
He'd been angry.
<...where the hell were you? Don't lie to me, I know all about your work... another man, perhaps?>She had been strong back then, infuriated by his domineering, possessive attitude. She had argued back ferociously, insisting that she had been needed, that she had the right to stay out for as long as she wanted. That she was an individual. A person. Not a possession.
Her rejoinders had quickly ceased when he had backhanded her onto the bed.
<I'll teach you the meaning of wife...>Oh, she'd fought him. She *had*. No matter how many times her mind taunted her with how
//weak//
inadequate her strength was next to his, she knew she'd tried. Because - she was trembling, she noticed belatedly, trying to make herself stop - because if she hadn't tried, it would have made it all right, and it wasn't all right. Right?
She shook her head, images spinning before her. She *had* tried, dammit, she did try! She did! She tried to get out of there, so many times -
//not good enough//
- but it hadn't worked, and eventually she'd just given up, because it was easier and safer and because she'd -
//weak little woman//
- been scared of what he could do to the people she loved... that was why she'd stopped...
Afterwards, while he slept, she had taken a shower. Under the jets of near-boiling water, she had scrubbed and scrubbed at her body until it was red and raw. Intent on wiping his touch away. Desperate to get him off her, she had near-clawed at her skin in an attempt to wash the memory into oblivion.
See? That was a small rebellion, right there. She hadn't gone back into bed beside him either, had she? No, she'd huddled in a high-backed chair till dawn... and then, well, she'd *needed* to. She'd been forced to... if she was caught avoiding his touch so blatantly... it would be her fault again, just as it was her fault for coming home late... if she'd just forgotten about the stupid story, none of this would have happened... he wouldn't have... it was her fault...
She had been terrified that day -- terrified of the stares, scornful dismissals, of the coolly knowing eyes of his minions. Now that she knew his character was as evil as the stretch to the unthinkable, she had become paranoid, seeing and hearing things where they had not been before.
Still, she had not thought that he would have her followed.
<You belong to ME...>She had been wrong.
She would get him on the rape laws, she had thought. She would nail the bastard now - there was no excuse, no excuse at all. She would go to the nearest police station and report him, immediately. She would show him that she would not -*could* not - be crushed.
Dammit, she had been *stupid*. She'd assumed... thought... believed... she'd been wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. She had had blind faith in the justice system - in good cops like Henderson. She hadn't begun to imagine how far his influence had stretched.
At least, not until she had attempted to file the complaint. Not until she had been told to reconsider. Not until she had been reassured that a man like her husband would never do a thing like that. Until she had been warned not to stick her neck in any gratuitous noose. Until she had walked out, fuming, unaware of the watchful eyes of the rookie cop behind the desk, dialling a well-known and often-used number.
Until she had met him that evening.
<I own you. The clothes on your back. The house you live in. The very air you breathe. I own it all.>She choked, pressing her lips together to form a thin line, her eyes welling with tears. He was right - he was always right. She had nothing - nothing to call her own. She *was* nothing. She couldn't satisfy him - that was why he had to... to do that, because she wasn't... she wasn't good, in some way, she wasn't right... had never been right...
<...get the message...>She had gotten the message, all right. All too clearly. There were worse things than death.
The pain had been bad, that first time. She had fallen down the stairs, he'd explained to everybody who asked, with a careless wave and a shrug. Turning himself into a caricature of every man she'd ever despised. Turning *her* into a caricature of every woman she'd ever pitied.
<You know how they are...>After that, he had gotten smarter. Hurt her in places that couldn't be shown. The bruises on her stomach, back, thighs, legs. Legs. Places that couldn't be shown. Trousers. All she wore was trousers. Tailored. Exquisitely cut. Prisons of the best material.
Bruises. Not on her arms, though, or her face. He never touched her face any more. Faces were for the kind of drunken idiots his cops arrested every day. Even if the woman kept her mouth shut, too many bruises or broken bones where people could see them and they stopped believing the fell-down-the-stairs excuses and started asking questions, and sooner or later the loving husband ended up on parole... because people didn't know how to mind their own damned business anymore.
<But you'll never spill, will you, my love? Because you know what'll happen if you do... you're not the only person who'll regret it...>But the pain wasn't the worst thing. Knowledge was. Knowledge was undoubtedly worse than pain. The realisation that her family, her friends, the man she... the people she was closest to, could be in danger just because of one toe out of line, one mutinous action, was worse than her own demise could ever be.
*That* was why she'd stopped trying. Their lives depended on her.
<Do you have any idea what I can do with a simple phone call? How easy it is to arrange "accidents"?>She had stayed. For their health. For their safety. For their happiness. For *her* health and safety as well, admittedly, because if she left, he would follow, and he would inevitably find her.
And she had quit her job after six months. Just because she had no energy. He'd probably have let her keep it - reports were good on that score, she hadn't been poking her nose into anything that didn't concern her - but she'd quit anyway. Extremely weak of her, but she had done it. Chained herself to the house well and truly. She'd been afraid that maybe one day she'd overstep the line, make him angry...
And if she thought she had had it hard before... it would be *nothing*. Compared to what he could do if he... what he would do if she ever...
<...if you ever think of leaving me...>Her bruises would seem like child's play. That she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
<... think they're going to notice if you suddenly "disappear"? I just have to click my fingers... I own you...>She'd never realised - before - that there was a difference between living and being alive, but she knew now. She felt so unreal, as if she was a ghost or a shadow, a lost wraith, a balloon with too much air, tugging to escape from Earth. She'd stopped caring about her appearance, she'd stopped caring about her weight, she'd just... stopped.
He'd wanted her like that. That was what he liked, his creation as his wife, somebody who was so terrified of him that she couldn't think for herself, couldn't escape when the going got rough...
She held her hands over her ears, whimpering. She didn't want to think. She didn't want to feel. She didn't want to breathe. She didn't want to live.
Numbness. Wasn't that what death was all about? Being numb. Not living. Not thinking. And definitely not feeling.
It would have been a blessed release. Such a relief, to cease to exist. To cease to remember. To cease to think. To just... float.
<...till death do us part...>It would have been.
But she was a coward. Just like always. She hadn't been able to do it, because some stupid... stupid optimist in her wouldn't let her.
Though with the way things were going, she wouldn't even have to *try*... just a few more nights of sickness like this one, and she was sure she'd die... she felt so lousy when she had to get up in the night to vomit, but strangely enough, she always felt fine by morning. She hadn't ever heard of any sickness that did anything like this, she assumed it was a direct result of what he'd done to her. It dragged on for so long, made her so sick and made her...
Her blood froze in her veins.
Made her...
...long for things. She did long for things, didn't she? Grapefruit and oranges and lemons, citrus fruits, sour things... things she'd never liked before... she was longing for things... she could even say that she...
...craved for them.
Holy *mother* of...
Was she...?
Her heart started to thump, the blood pounding in her ears as she tried to think rationally. She creased her brow, doing some quick calculations in her head. How... hold on... why... what?
//You haven't been eating much,// a quiet voice inside her whispered, //and you've been under a hell of a lot of pressure... remember what you assumed, he messed more than *that* up... wasn't that unusual, happened to other women...//
She swallowed. God, she'd been stupid... why the hell hadn't she figured it out?
She pinched the bridge of her nose, suddenly desperately tired. She couldn't deal with this. Not now.
She'd have to make a doctor's appointment, wouldn't she? She'd have to verify it. How was she going to explain that one to him? If *she* didn't tell him, one of her watchers would, and then she'd be in trouble...
And that would be dangerous, wouldn't it? Extremely dangerous, now.
But... maybe she should... after all, how bad could it possibly...
She didn't even *know* that she was p... pregnant. Wasn't that right? She wasn't certain. She couldn't make any decision, about anything, until she knew for sure.
And to know, she'd need to see a doctor, wouldn't she? And not Dr Mitchell, either - the specialist hired by her husband would doubtless send a report back. She couldn't let him know. Not yet.
Because she had to tell him carefully. In such a way to make it seem as though a baby would be a great thing, an heir to the throne, as it were... a little son or daughter to carry on the family name... she had to make it sound appealing...
But... hold on a minute.
She sat up straighter in the bed.
She *didn't* have to tell him. Did she? Not really. It was... not really necessary...
She laughed bitterly, a knife in the quiet room. How was she going to explain herself when she turned up with a baby in nine months? *If* she turned up with a baby in nine months?
But... but...
What if... what if he kept on doing this? Kept on... hurting her? Kept with this existence, stuck to the precedent? What would that do? Wasn't that... bad? Couldn't she lose a baby, if she was carrying one?
She had to leave him.
Didn't she?
She shuddered, placing her hand in her mouth and biting her knuckles hard. So much effort required, so much energy she didn't have, a sharpness that she'd blunted, now the only thing that would save her life.
Maybe a baby would bring the... the spark back into her marriage. Maybe it would change him, so he'd be as kind and gentle and solicitous as he'd been when they were dating. Maybe he'd be happy about it - a son or daughter to carry his name would surely appeal to him. Maybe...
...was she *crazy*? What was she thinking? This man had... had lied and betrayed and deceived and... he'd driven someone to his death... because he knew she loved that someone... because of *her*, he'd driven someone to his death... a man... much, much more than a man... her friend...
And she was thinking about staying in his house and having his baby, with him? Trying to act like the Waltons of Walton's Mansion? Her at the head of the table, eating a meal she'd cooked, in her grandmother's pearls, her adoring children and husband beaming happily at her? She was seriously contemplating it? What was *wrong* with her?
She had to leave him. She had to somehow... screw up her reserves of strength and... and...
...just *do* it.
//But hey, you don't necessarily have to... there's another option you're not thinking about...//
With a start, she placed both hands on her stomach. Where her baby possibly lay. Her baby. *Hers*.
//It's not a baby right now, just a bundle of cells...//
She shook her head with a small sigh. This child was a part of her. A very tiny part at the present time, but within her nonetheless. It would be her son or daughter. Not his. Hers. Hers to care for, hers to protect - hers to love. And she couldn't hate it, or want it gone, just because of the method of conception. It wasn't the child's fault. She was all for the right to choose, but... she could never live with herself.
She would have it. She was going to have a baby.
Or... she cautioned herself. She might *not* be having a baby. She didn't know. She wasn't sure.
But... if she *was* pregnant... she would have to leave him. There was just... no choice in the matter.
<...there's no place on this Earth you can hide... I'll find you, and I'll bring you back...>She would flee. Somehow, someway, she would manage it. If she had to claw her way out of his citadel with her bare hands, she would do it.
Lois Lane was back, and she was not going down without a fight this time.
~&~
~*When all the world is a hopeless jumble, and the raindrops tumble all around, heaven opens a magic lane...*~
He groaned.
"Wake *up*, you great lump..."
The voice came calling dimly, reaching the deepest recesses of his mind and stirring his un-co-operative brain into a bleary place between waking and sleeping.
"What are you, comatose?"
It became more insistent now, more impatient, and he had the absurd urge to reach a hand out and swat it away.
"Mr... *yeouch*!"
Kenneth's head shot up off the desk. Now fully awake, he looked around for the source of the disturbance, perturbed. The hazy, golden glow from the lamp on his desk was the only immediate source of light. The Independent was almost deserted.
Almost... because there was one other occupant in the room. Daniel Hayes, cub reporter, go-fer, copy boy, and all-round pain in the neck was standing close beside him, rubbing his overly large head in pain and annoyance.
"Thanks, *sir*," he spat, his voice thick with scorn and annoyance. "Didn't really need my head, anyway."
Kenneth stared at the kid incredulously. What was he *talking* about?
Unless... he hadn't... had he?
"Oh, Daniel, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..." he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat to push the copy boy down onto it. "Can I get you anything? A glass of water? Some aspirin, maybe? I'm sure I have some lying around..." Already he was rummaging in his desk.
Daniel looked at him derisively and returned to his feet. "I think I'll survive, sir. Strong and all as you are, I don't think I'll need an ambulance this time."
"Are you sure? Because I'm..."
//...you're what? Faster than a speeding bullet? Invulnerable? Impervious to scorching heat, blistering cold, pressure, puncture...?//
"...I'm... I was Weightlifting Champ for ten years running back home."
The attempt at a recovery was rather weak, but still he felt a flicker of irritation when the young assistant rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Mmm. Your mother must have been so proud." Daniel snorted. "Anyway, I was just trying to help. You fell asleep at your desk. Again. Don't you have a home to go to? It's past twelve."
Kenneth followed Daniel's gaze to the large, domed clock hanging above the elevator. Another day passed without a single glimpse of the sun. How long had it been since he'd seen the sun? Did it *ever* shine in this wretched, wretched city?
His irritation blossomed into full-blown anger. It wasn't any of this kid's business how long he stayed at work. If he wanted to work through the night, then who was this copy boy to interfere? Or anyone else, for that matter? It was *his* life.
~*Someday I'll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me...*~
Kenneth glanced at the kid's shirt. Out of his breast pocket a rather large bulge loomed, and a snaky wire was twisting its way round his neck, leading to a set of headphones out of which the annoyingly chirpy song was blaring. He felt his lip curl. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
He folded his arms across his chest and nodded in the direction of the Discman. "Judy Garland? Dan, you surprise me. I would have thought rock music would have been more your type. Like that group I heard you blundering on to Emma about the other day. What's their name again... Red Hot... Red Hot Turnips... Red Hot Radishes..."
"Red Hot Chilli Peppers," Daniel hissed, his face scarlet. "And my taste in music is -"
"-cultured and widespread, yeah, I know. So what else you got on that CD?" Kenneth eyed the kid in interest, wondering how much the blood vessels in his face could take before they exploded. "'Tomorrow' from Annie? 'Hopelessly Devoted' from Grease? 'Show Me' from My Fair Lady?"
"You need to hurry," Daniel snarled, "if you don't want to miss the tube. I would hate for you to have to walk; Camden is dodgy around this time of the night. Wouldn't want the Weightlifting Champ getting roughed up."
"Well, thanks for your concern," Kenneth hissed back, "but that's probably why your first article is still a long-distant dream - you're not observant enough to be a reporter. I drive a *car*."
With a hard tap on his computer's "save" key - not that there was anything in that article worth saving, or even worth glancing over - he shoved his chair away from his desk. Preparing to go home.
Home. Where the nightmares waited. And the emptiness.
Collecting his coat, he felt a mild twinge of guilt at how he'd treated the kid. It wasn't his fault he was a pompous, ignorant idiot. He clearly didn't know any better. And it wasn't his fault that Kenneth's patience for idiots was a little shorter these days.
"Hey, thanks, buddy. For waking me up," he called out to Daniel's departing back.
"Buddy?" Daniel turned and rolled his eyes again. "Another one of those quaint American endearments, I suppose."
His sarcasm exaggerated the plummy English accent colouring his own speech, and Kenneth felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up his face. As hard as he tried, he could not erase the telltale American twang from his voice - even more telling, the bits of slang that were so ingrained in him that only fierce conscientiousness kept them at bay. All of it, his speech, his lack of formality, made him stand out.
And these days, he was uncomfortable with anything that made him stand out.
Suddenly, the embarrassment was replaced with a hot twist of anger. He was tired. Tired of it all. Tired of watching his speech, watching what he said about himself. Tired of dodging questions about where he was from and what he had done before arriving at the Independent. And now this punk kid had the nerve to give him a hard time.
~*If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow... why, oh why, can't I?"*~
"Yeah, we Yanks have quite a few choice endearments," he bit out through gritted teeth, staring directly at the insolent copy boy. "Maybe I could teach you some of them."
"Maybe *I* could give you a crash course on how much crap the British are prepared to put up with. Because clearly the Americans have a much higher tolerance for complete gits," Daniel replied, his face etched with an undisguised challenge. He took a deep breath and inflated his thin chest.
At this, Kenneth sighed, the anger hissing weakly from his lungs. He should simply report Daniel to his editor, for treating a senior member of the staff so disrespectfully. But his head was pounding, and he just didn't have the energy to deal with anything. This kid wasn't worth it. Nothing was worth this headache.
He turned his back. "Goodnight, Daniel," he called over his shoulder.
"Goodnight, you son of a..."
"Right," he muttered tetchily as he headed for the bank of elevators, cutting out the hissed remark before it was finished. He hadn't been meant to hear it anyway, he was sure - or maybe he had. Either way, another five minutes in the same building with the copy boy and he would have likely strangled him with his bare hands, weightlifter or no weightlifter.
He nodded to Craig, the security guard, on his way out of the door. The Independent was a good place to work - a secure, high-quality newspaper - and yet he still felt somehow alienated from the staffers, as if there was some sort of impenetrable barrier between them. One that blocked out everything but the stiff smiles and empty words of distant acquaintances.
He sighed in irritation as he reached the small green Vauxhall Astra that was his preferred choice of transport nowadays, fiddling with the keys and finally sliding his tall frame into the tiny car. Another evening of fighting London's unbelievable congestion - a job nearly impossible for even...
... the weatherman had predicted that it would be starry out, that night. Kenneth craned his neck inside the small hatchback, looking for them in vain. As in every big city, the glaring lamps from nearby buildings and offices hid the twinkling balls of light that had brought him such comfort and inspiration for so long. He would never forget what it felt like, to be up there, above the feathery clouds, floating on a tiny pocket of air to gaze at the sparkling orbs that hung above him...
... and it was late. Very, very late. He would have to rise with the chickens in the morning, as per usual, and doubtless he would be exhausted, and would need a strong helping of caffeine before he could start his normal morning activities. How he missed not having to...
<...guess you're not so special any more...>... he blew his horn angrily as car swerved out in front of him. Idiots! He had right of way! Not only did everybody drive down the wrong side of the road in this godforsaken country, but *nobody* could actually *drive*!
<...no future for you here... leave town... better yet, the country...>
He stalled at a red light, sighing as he pushed a hand through his hair. He was desperately tired. He needed to think more - to remember that he now needed more sleep than he had been accustomed to before. An ordinary...
<...think you're better than me, huh? Not so superior now, are you?>//Dammit!!//
He pounded his forehead against the steering wheel, as if he could forcibly remove the troubling thoughts from his over-taxed brain. Why did he have to keep torturing himself like this, images of foolish dreams and a life that was long gone dancing behind his tightly-shut eyes? Why did every thought that ran through his brain eventually lead to...
<...if you even so much as whisper to her... she'll take your beating. You know what I'm willing to do when I feel that my interests are being threatened... >He shuddered, the memories running through his mind like a sinister train, circling the tortured track of his brain.
<...mine... she's mine... >He shut his eyes tight.
<You'll never see her again...>"No!"
The force of his yell shook the windows of the small car, and he pulled over onto the curb abruptly, shaking his head. Fighting a strange sense of claustrophobia, he opened the door and bolted out of the vehicle, barely remembering to lock it behind him as he made an open break for his apartment, where there would be plenty of distractions to take his mind off...
His apartment. Not his home.
Never his home. Never home.
Not any more.
~&~
to be continued...PS - if all goes to plan, I'll be posting twice a week
PPS - thanks to the gang on IRC who finally convinced me to post this... you guys are great!
