TOC found hereContent note: This chapter contains a major WHAM and some more graphic depictions of violence. If you’re not familiar with the
WHAM Warnings thread and believe you would benefit from knowing what happens before you read, please click the link and read the spoiler tag for Chapter 11.
Chapter 11: What Good Could Come From Embracing the Dark?~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Mid-March 19979 months, 25 Days Since Clark Left Home"Not on your lifeI'm not abandoningI have survivedSomehow still standing through death and through timeI need your love like a drug keeping me alive..."Part of Me by Evanescence ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
His mom and Lois still weren't back from their trip to Wichita yet, but they should be soon. His dad was watching TV in the living room, relaxing after their day of hard work. Part of Clark wanted to go back out and work more on the fence at his own speed, but he knew that would upset his dad. Besides, the dishes still needed doing, and staying meant he could get a start on dinner to help out his mom.
So Clark started washing the dishes—at normal speed because his mother always took him to task about ruining the pattern on her plates when he used super speed. At least she had a good reason for making him go slowly. His dad, on the other hand, had no excuse.
For three days now, they'd been working on repairing the fence for the north property line, and his father kept insisting that they do everything at normal speed. The fencing would take weeks at this rate, almost a month, and he was beyond frustrated that he couldn't just do it himself at super speed. He wanted to save his dad the grueling labor and the risk of injuring himself on the barbed wire, and Clark knew there were other jobs that needed to be done around the farm. Why couldn't his dad let him help out? Clark could get so much more done, help him so much more if he could use his powers. Using his strength to pull out the old posts and drive in the new ones hardly counted.
When he'd pressed his dad about it, he'd told him, "It takes as long as it takes." And that had only served to make Clark think of Lois and the very first time she'd been to Smallville—a time she'd told him last year was one of the moments that helped her realize she cared about him, maybe even loved him if she would have let herself.
Lois in Smallville was supposed to be a happy thing. A fly in for Sunday dinner thing. A celebrate holidays thing. A cherish the memories and make new ones thing.
Happy. Not painful. Not a reminder of all the things he'd missed and all the ways he'd let down everyone who mattered most to him in his life.
Sure, country living was supposed to be slow. But it was also supposed to be simpler.
He couldn't handle the slow right now, not with all its pain and complications. He needed to be moving. Fixing things. Taking a day to install the fence on his own instead of weeks. He knew his dad could use the rest.
Instead, his dad insisted on working alongside him, and his dad had spent their time talking about all the things he had to do coming up, prepping the fields, getting the soil composition just right. And when he wasn't talking about that, he was silent. For long stretches. And now, unlike during the uncomfortably quiet ride to Emporia the other day, Clark was certain his mother was responsible for the silence.
Well, as much as Clark yearned for his dad to ask him what was wrong, Clark couldn't share anyway. So nor had Jonathan's strategic silence yielded any results. It wasn't like the time his dad had wheedled out of him the unfortunate consequences of raging teenage hormones and yet-to-be-mastered x-ray vision. That had been mortifying, yet had resulted in a heart-to-heart with his dad about life and giving yourself some grace and patience, plus a few choice strategies on how to hide said consequences.
No, if only his problems now were that simple. He didn't want to see the horrified look on his father's face if he ever learned about the unspeakable things he'd done, things that went against all the morals and beliefs his parents had worked so hard to instill in him.
As Clark put the last dish in the drying rack, he heard the creak of the screen door and two familiar female voices talking and laughing. Lois mentioned something about going to put Kallie down in their room and putting away the things she'd bought. His mom greeted his father with a quick kiss on the cheek from behind him on the couch and then joined Clark in the kitchen.
He tried not to dwell on the fact that Lois had only thrown a quick greeting over her shoulder on her way through the kitchen and into their bedroom. He was starting to wonder if she disliked who he'd become, if he was too different now. He certainly felt different.
"How was your day, honey?" his mom asked as she opened the fridge and poked her head in.
"Fine," he said. Quiet and long thanks to her, he wanted to say, but he had a hard time begrudging his mother for anything. "I was thinking about stir fry for dinner." He motioned to the vegetable drawer.
"Perfect! That's what I was thinking too," she said, a bit too cheerfully as she started gathering all the different vegetables and handing them to him. "Here, you start washing, then we'll chop together."
"Mom, I was going to make it. You should sit and rest."
"Nonsense." She waved him off. "I've been sitting in the car half the day."
"It's just faster if I cut all the vegetables. I'll be done in two minutes."
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> There was no reason to get mad. Not at his mother.
"We don't need to do it fast, Clark." She took the carrots from him after he'd washed them and grabbed a knife from the block.
His jaw ticked as he finished washing the rest of the vegetables and set them on the counter. He said nothing.
"Besides, don't you want to cook with your mother like old times?" she said in a slightly teasing tone.
Clark swallowed and reached past the sink for the second cutting board. He took a deep breath and grabbed another knife from the block. "Of course, Mom. Let's cook together," he said, his voice softening a touch at his mom's insistence. This shouldn't be hard. Why was this hard? He used to love cooking with his mom.
They settled into a rhythm, the cabbage making a quiet crunching sound as his knife sliced through and the carrots snapping just half a second before the whack of the knife hitting the wooden cutting board. For a moment, Clark could even pretend that everything was normal.
Lois came back in the room then, and he felt a small measure of relief when she came up behind him for a quick hug, standing up on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek. She seemed to hesitate before pulling away again and settling herself at the table to peruse the paper. A burning regret flashed through his chest; he hated that things were hard and uncomfortable here, in the place that had always been his safe haven.
His mom finished with the carrots and grabbed the zucchini next. He gathered the mushrooms on his cutting board and set to work slicing. He tried to focus on the sounds of chopping again, but then he heard Lois' stomach growl.
And sure enough, she asked, "Is dinner going to be ready soon?"
"Twenty minutes, dear," Martha said.
"That long?!" Lois said, her voice teasing. "You guys are starving me!"
Clark startled, his arm jerking and his knife glancing off his thumb before clattering to the floor. His heart was racing and all he could hear was Lois' voice replaying in his head—telling him he was starving her—until his mind caught up to reality and he realized his mom had yelped.
His head jerked over and he saw her clutching her finger, blood flowing and dripping down on the blade of her knife. His breath caught and his chest tightened. Blood. Knife. He snatched at the wrist, grabbing it as his breath started coming in fast pants.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>>"Look at me. Look at us," a younger female voice said.
He needed to keep it together. He would keep it together. They were all watching.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working?
"He's just standing there, not moving," another voice said.
*#*#*#*
Early September 19963 months, 24 days Since Clark Left HomeHe didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to...but deep down he knew he had to. Though it had been Ching’s idea to visit the mobile field hospital outside Kir-Tahn, Clark knew he couldn’t say no. Not after he’d ordered the strike on the medical supply truck less than 24 hours ago. Not after he’d found himself personally responsible for the deaths of eleven people.
Eleven New Kryptonians. The number swam before him, whenever he closed his eyes.
How could numbers cause so much pain? So many nightmares? Jen Mai and Trey threw out numbers like this all the time during their war council meetings. He’d been listening to them, signing off on them, until it had almost become routine. Almost. His heart still hurt every time he saw a casualty report, but he’d always managed to convince himself that it was the cost of war and he wasn’t responsible for what happened during the battle.
But meeting the enemy in battle was different from a targeted strike. A targeted strike Clark had ordered right on the outskirts of a tiny village whose only crime was that Nor had decided to make them the base of their operations. He was having second thoughts today, having a hard time believing a whole village could be complicit in commiting what amounted to treason, despite what Jen Mai and Trey had told him about Nor being from Kir-Tan.
Eleven people. Four enemy soldiers. Three doctors. The driver of the truck. Three innocent villagers. As well as some who were injured by the debris from the truck when it exploded. He didn’t know the exact number of injuries, but they had to have been extensive enough to warrant a mobile field hospital—a hospital Jen Mai had argued vehemently against, claiming that the injured were all residents of the enemy village, and they should be given no quarter.
That was a bridge too far, and Clark had insisted a heavily guarded field hospital be deployed and set up just outside the village. But Ching had been the one to suggest Clark visit it personally—a suggestion that had drawn great opposition from Trey and Jen Mai, who insisted that it was far too dangerous.
Eventually, a compromise was reached, and so Clark found himself standing at the entrance to the field hospital under heavy guard, wondering just how he was going to be able to look any of the villagers in the eye.
“Are you planning to go in, or just stand there?” Ching asked him, appearing by his side as if Clark had summoned him in his mind through sheer force of will.
“I don’t see the purpose,” Clark replied, setting his jaw tightly and hardening his voice. “What possible good can I do here? My presence will only serve as a distraction for the people who are working to heal the injured.”
They were feeble excuses—attempts to buy himself some time. A cold sort of terror had gripped him, and he struggled to move his feet—to propel himself forward.
“You know why you’re here,” Ching said quietly and Clark felt a surge of anger shoot through him. “Your people need to see you. They need to know that you are both unyielding and merciful. We will need them to know that if we are ever to unite our people under the House of El when this is over.”
“That’s not the only reason you want me here,” Clark replied, his voice soft but as hard as steel. “You want to see what I’ll do. How I’ll behave.
Kao-zha-aovem-u. You want to see if I can control it.”
“Yes,” Ching admitted. “This is the best opportunity to test your training. After all, you ordered the strike. These are the things a leader must do...the choices they must make. Are you ready?”
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> “Yes,” Clark said, his stomach lurching as his foot took a step forward. “Let’s get this over with.”
Despite his resolution to do what needed to be done—to pass Ching’s test—Clark was not at all prepared for the sight that awaited him inside the medical tent. Beds were set up on the grounds, and bodies not only rested on the beds but also lined the sides of the tent being triaged. People. Not bodies. People. <<
Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> The people along the side mostly had minor injuries, cuts, scrapes, and flesh wounds that bled a lot, but were mainly tended to by spare medics as they walked around.
The bodies on the beds, however, were far worse. Blood stained the ground next to the beds, and Clark watched as the doctors worked to clean and re-dress the gaping wounds inflicted by the shrapnel. How had this happened? He’d thought he was just attacking a supply vehicle...and if he hadn’t waited so long, it might only have been the vehicle.
But he had waited. He’d second guessed himself and argued with Jen Mai and Trey until it had been too late. The strike had taken out the truck and everyone in it on the outskirts of the village, the explosion of the gravity repulsors instantly killing three more people and injuring anyone within the massive blast radius.
Not wanting to disturb the doctors while they worked on the most critically injured, he found himself visiting those who had suffered milder injuries and fighting the urge to be sick every time one of the villagers looked up at him with eyes so piercing they went right through to his soul. He wanted to get down on his knees and beg their forgiveness, but he knew it would never be enough.
It wasn’t just the strike. Weeks ago, he’d banned any and all supplies from entering the village in the first place. Many of the injured looked tired and malnourished. Some had sought out help in the medical tent, hoping to be fed or find some water.
Some were children.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> He wouldn’t be sick, couldn’t be sick. He would keep it together. Ching was watching. They were all watching.
“Lord Kal-El?” a quiet but composed voice spoke from behind. He turned to see a young woman who couldn’t have been older than Jimmy standing behind him. Behind her were four other villagers of similar age. Clark got the feeling that they had chosen this woman to speak for them. She did so again, having not been given a response the first time. “You are Lord Kal-El, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice rusty and raw. “I am Lord Kal-El.”
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>>“My name is Dene-Ra. I am the head of the village council of Kir-Tahn. I...I’ve been asked to speak for the village...to plead our case.”
She looked around furtively, and Clark suddenly wondered if they were in danger, having escaped the borders of the village. If that were true, then it meant further confirmation that these people were in just as much danger from Nor’s tyranny if not more. They weren't loyal supporters or on Nor's side. And he’d not only ordered a strike against a truck carrying medical supplies, he’d been in the process of trying to starve them by not allowing any supplies in. To do what? Force out Lord Nor? As if they were able to do what Clark’s forces could not.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> He cleared his throat and tried to look somewhere, anywhere, but directly into the two piercing green eyes that bore into him.
“A little young to be head of the village council, are you not?” he asked. He was changing the subject and he knew it. He couldn’t bear to have this conversation go where he knew it was going—a plea for food and his inevitable denial.
“A recent appointment after my predecessor's death. But my age is not relevant,” she said coolly, and Clark felt his heart constrict painfully. “I don’t have much time. Any moment now, Nor will realize I’m gone. He’s not stupid enough to send his people out after me, but once I return, he will find a way to hurt me, so I need to make this fast.”
“I know what you want,” Clark said heavily, feeling more weary than he’d ever felt in his entire life. “And I can’t give it to you. While Nor is in there, he is fortified...protected. We need to force him out, and cutting off the food supply is the only way.”
“Is that what you think?” Dene shot back, her eyes blazing with anger. “That you’ve cut off Nor’s food supply? Are you really that naive?”
“I...” He looked at her, feeling suddenly very intimidated by her strength and force of will. She reminded him of Lois—a painful reminder that seemed to stab deep down into his soul.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>>“You have cut off nothing. Lord Nor eats just fine,” she spat. “He takes the meager crops we’ve grown and the food from our homes. He and his men will be well-fed for weeks more. Long after we have all died of starvation, courtesy of your orders.”
Clark tried to speak, but no words came out. He could see the truth of it in her eyes, and he knew that if things went the way she predicted, those deaths would be on his conscience as well.
“Look at me. At us,” she said, this time softer now.
He did and had to swallow back tears. She, along with the four villagers showed all the signs of malnourishment. Their clothing was tattered and their faces streaked with grime. He knew that this hell was of his making.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>>“I don’t know what to say,” he finally admitted. “There is nothing I can do.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumped with sadness, but not surprise. She had expected him to be a coward, and somehow that hurt him all the more.
“I expected as much,” she said. Then, she turned and nodded to the others behind her. “We must get back before we are discovered missing.”
They had begun to turn away when Clark called out to them.
“Wait! Stay here,” he urged. “We can pass you off as wounded. Get you help. Take you with us. You don’t have to go back there.”
“My family is in that village, Kal El,” Dene told him gently, as if explaining something to a small child. “Do you have a family?”
“I...” Clark swallowed tightly, thinking of Lois.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>>“I thought so,” she replied, giving him one last searching look. “I can’t leave them.”
She said no more, and turned to go, disappearing from the tent and no doubt back into the village via whichever means she and the others had come. Suddenly, Clark wanted nothing more than to order an attack—raid the village and find Lord Nor so he could finish it for good and get back to Lois. But he knew that doing so would cause more death and injury, and right now his heart was sick with it.
He didn’t know what to do, but he couldn’t stay where he was. He couldn’t bear to look at the faces of the injured for one more second. He looked around and saw that his guard was distracted for the moment by Trey and decided to use this opportunity to get some air.
He escaped the tent through a side flap and stumbled towards the edge of a small cliff. The village was located in a rocky and mountainous area that offered ideal opportunities to Lord Nor for concealment and fortified defenses. There was only one main road that led into the village, and the rest of the area around it was wild country.
He found himself making his way down the small cliff towards a tiny river, where he gently splashed some water on his face, enjoying the way the cool liquid felt against his skin. Like everything else in New Krypton, the water felt and tasted ever so slightly different. He sat down, taking slow, deep breaths and trying to banish the haunted, hungry look from the face of the young woman he’d just spoken to. Would she be one of his casualties? Was she dead and just didn’t know it yet?
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>>A few more deep breaths and he was able to stuff the emotion down far enough to head back. If Jen Mai, Trey, or Ching noticed he was missing, there was sure to be a panic, and that could cause them to get sloppy. Lord Nor undoubtedly had spies watching the field hospital and was likely waiting for his chance to take out Clark's forces.
He climbed his way up the cliff, trying not to think of Lois and how desperately he missed her. He had just reached the top, when something all of a sudden slammed into him—hard. He had just enough presence of mind to know it was another person who had launched themselves at him as they rolled around on the ground.
Whatever it was knocked the wind out of him and before he knew it, he found himself rolling back down the rocky cliff, his skin scraping and body bruising with every rock and sharp outcropping he hit on the way down.
It took him a few seconds once he reached the bottom to stumble to his feet. His clothing was torn and he was bleeding in various different places. He groaned in pain and looked up just in time to see one of Lord Nor’s men—an assassin, no doubt—carefully reaching the bottom of the cliff Clark had just fallen down. He was unharmed and carried a sharp, gleaming dagger.
Clark's heart was racing. He had no weapons, no powers, and no means of defending himself. The cliff was behind the assassin and there was no way he could climb it faster than him.
“Who are you?”
“My name is of no concern to you,” the assassin said with a sneer. “Especially because you will be dead shortly. I thought this was going to be a lot harder. Thank you for making it so easy for me.”
“Believe me,” Clark said, feeling an overwhelming anger shoot through him. “I don’t plan to go down easily.”
The assassin smiled. “Good.”
He launched himself at Clark once more, but this time Clark was ready. He managed to sidestep the outstretched hand holding the dagger and grabbed onto the assassin’s arm, twisting it back in an attempt to disarm him. He didn’t get far, as the assassin managed to extricate himself from Clark’s grip and punched him in the solar plexus while lunging forward with the dagger once more.
Clark just barely managed to stumble out of the way, gasping for breath and cursing himself for his unpreparedness. What had the point of all those training and sparring sessions with Ching been if he couldn’t use them when the time came?
He let out a cry of anger as the man ran towards him once more, catching the assassin's wrist yet again and delivering a swift punch to his face while applying pressure to his wrist. A fury surged through him that he didn’t even recognize. He had no idea who this man was, beyond the fact that he was loyal to Nor, and yet suddenly he represented everything that he had lost and everything that he had been forced to do.
He tried to block out the emotions—the ones telling him to kill this man rather than disarming him and bringing him to the field hospital. He tried to tell himself the man was more valuable to the cause alive than dead.
But his rage consumed him. It filled him. With a swift movement, he felt the man’s wrist crack and he knew he’d broken it. The man yelled out in surprise but before Clark could grab the dagger and bury it in his chest, the assassin grabbed it with his other hand and kicked Clark in the face, causing blood to spurt from his nose as his jaw snapped back and he reeled backwards.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> The phrase floated in the back of his mind—there, but inaccessible, an imperfect solution. He’d resisted it for so long, fought it. But now he needed it.
Clark needed it to save him from himself.
“Lord Nor said you’d be an easy kill, Kal-El,” the assassin said through gritted teeth. “He said Earth had made you soft.”
“He was wrong,” Clark growled. He was filled with a desire for violence he’d never felt before—the need to take all his anger and pain out on this man was overwhelming.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working?
“Are you ready to kill me then, Kal-El?” the assassin taunted. “Have you ever killed a man with your bare hands? Ever watched the light in their eyes fade and the life drain out of them? Have you ever enjoyed it?”
They were circling each other now, panting, like two animals waiting for their prey to make a mistake. Clark felt lost—a prisoner to the white-hot violence that simmered within him. He knew what he should be doing. Knew he should be reaching for his training, for Lois, for anything that would bring him back to himself. But he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t? He couldn’t be sure which.
“Try me and find out,” Clark said through gritted teeth as the man swiped at him with his good hand. Clark ducked and they kept circling.
“I’ve lost count of how many men I’ve killed, Kal-El,” he said with a gleam in his eye that told Clark he wasn’t lying. He was trying to intimidate him and yet with every word he spoke, it only made Clark’s desire to finish him that much stronger. The world was better off without a man like this in it—be it New Krypton or Earth. Because of men like this, he’d lost everything. He’d lost himself. He could feel Clark Kent dying and the man Ching wanted him to be taking over. Cold. Methodical. Calculating.
He was a murderer in every way but the deed itself. What did it matter at this point?
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> The assassin was more cautious with his movements, which gave Clark time to assess his weaknesses. He was a superior fighter, but now he was wounded. His greatest flaw had been assuming Clark would be an easy kill. He would not underestimate him any more, though, and Clark was unarmed. He had to do something. It was kill or be killed. Clark Kent was not a murderer. And Superman was gone. All that was left was Kal-El of New Krypton.
And Kal-El was ready to kill.
He lunged at the assassin in front of him and swiped his leg out from under him. The man fell to the ground and Kal seized the advantage, kicking the man in the face as hard as he could. He felt the man's nose crack and watched the blood gush. It should have sickened him, but instead it spurred him on. He lifted his foot and kicked the man again. And again. And again. He was like a man possessed.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> He knew what that meant now. He knew how to access it. He knew it meant leaving behind everything he knew—all the hope he’d had that he would be able to return to Lois and resume the life he knew was gone. His parents were gone. The farm in Smallville was gone. The
Daily Planet. Perry.
Jimmy. Lois. All that was left was the man he was born to be.
Kal-El.
He aimed another kick, but the assassin managed to roll out of his way just in time, leaping to his feet and swiping the dagger so close to his cheek that Kal jumped backwards.
The assassin laughed and the blood pouring down his face made him look less than human. Kal didn’t mind. It only made it easier. A calmness descended on him as the man lunged again. Kal stepped backwards, intending to grab the man’s hand, bend it back, and take the dagger. But instead, he stumbled on a rock behind him and fell backwards.
His arms flailed and he felt his body scrape against the rocky terrain as the assassin pounced on him, seizing the advantage.
A hand was around his neck before he could make a sound. The assassin squeezed and Kal could see spots start to form in front of him. As Kal fought to breathe and stay conscious, the assassin lifted his arm and plunged the dagger down, slicing into Kal’s abdomen. He pushed desperately against it, causing the blade to slice a ragged red line across. It was shallow, but the blood gushed forward anyway.
The blade somehow felt hot and ice cold all at once. It burned as it cut through his abdomen, and he felt the warm blood bubble outward, covering his side. His blood. His body slumped from the pain and pressure of the hand on his neck. It must have been enough to convince the assassin he’d been killed, because a few seconds later, he lessened his grip just enough for Kal to grab his arm, and shove it upwards, straight into his still-bleeding nose.
Kal lurched to his feet, and threw himself at the assassin. They rolled around on the rocks as Kal felt his life’s blood leave him. He fought desperately, feverishly, with nothing else on his mind but staying alive.
He was fighting for everything and nothing at all. He was fighting to take his next breath. To keep going. A lifetime ago he fought for her. But she was gone and he was here.
He managed to gain the upper hand and found himself pinning the assassin down. He felt dizzy, and the image of the man swam in front of him. Kal didn’t know if it was because he’d lost so much blood or if the blade had been poisoned. All he knew was that he was growing weaker.
<<Kao-zha-aovem-u.>> He would keep going. He would finish the job. One fewer man of Lord Nor’s. Whatever happened to him, he would accomplish that. The man struggled and fought against him, but both were weak from the fight and the other man’s broken wrist was unable to hold onto Kal’s arm, now slippery with his own blood. Even his blood looked different on New Krypton.
One last burst of strength, and he punched the assassin in the face hard enough for him to loosen his grip on the dagger. Kal gripped it with both hands and with a deep breath, shoved it down into the man’s chest as hard as he could.
The man’s body jerked and convulsed. Blood gurgled up through his mouth and out of his chest and then he was still, his wide eyes staring upwards at nothing at all. Kal went limp and fell down beside the assassin.
He could feel his body growing colder, his arms numb and his body leaden and heavy. His breathing was ragged and shallow and he knew he didn’t have long.
This is how I die, he thought.
And in that moment, he allowed himself to think of her. To hope that somewhere, wherever she was, she knew that he had loved her as best as he knew how. That he had tried. He allowed himself to say goodbye to her and though she wasn’t telepathic and the distance too great, it felt good to try.
A strange sort of peace descended upon him and he knew he was ready. So much so that he was barely able to decipher the voices that sounded like they were right above him and yet thousands of miles away.
“I found him! He’s down there!” a voice yelled just as Kal closed his eyes and everything went black.
*#*#*#*
The voices sounded like they were right next to him and yet thousands of miles away. "Clark, honey, you're okay. You're safe." It sounded like his mother's voice, but that was impossible. Gentle fingers touched the back of his hand. He was clutching something. He looked down and startled, dropping her wrist hotly, his eyes fixating on the blood and the knife on the counter below. He could feel his mouth hanging open, but the words weren't coming. Only the quick breathing, racing in time with his heart.
Oh God, he'd hurt his mother! Immediately, he scanned her wrist and somehow found no injury. But he'd grabbed her. There was blood and a knife.
"You didn't hurt me, Clark," she said as if she'd read his mind. "I'm fine. Just a little cut, already stopped bleeding. See?" She held up her finger, taking away the red-splotched paper towel she'd been holding against it.
He couldn't quite look her in the eye. This was not okay. He was not okay. He was dangerous. He needed to get out of here. In a second, he was in the treehouse, trying to catch his breath and stop the stabbing pain in his gut and painful twisting anguish in his heart.
Comments____
The amazingly talented (and dark and twisted) lovetvfan wrote the flashback for this scene.
