I am so sorry about having not been able to post! As I'm sure most of you have heard me grumble incoherently whenever I've had a chance about my less-than cooperative computer, you'll be hopefully happy to know that I've gotten the old thing back!
Therefore, I am posting the first parts of my story for those of you who were reading it before and have completely forgotten what happened, or if you haven't had a chance to read it. Or weren't interested the first time around, whatever!
I'll be posting the last three parts as one large part afterwards, and then it'll be done.
*****
I Feel Like Letting Go
Jocelyn Brant <jocelynbrant@hotmail.com>
Rating: PG
Summary: Lois has witnessed a kiss between Clark and Mayson, and is shaken quite a bit by it. Clark is her best friend, so she knows what she has to do, but will Clark be able to stop her once he realizes her plans? Will he even want to?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, as they are the sole product of either DC Comics Inc. or Warner Brothers Inc. No copyright infringement has been intended with the trifle of a fictional story, nor is any money being made off the publication of this piece to the internet.
***
I Feel Like Letting Go
***
I feel just like I’m sinking
And I claw for solid ground
Pulled down by the undertow
Never thought I could feel so low
But oh, Darkness, I feel like letting go
***
There was a time I was a very secure person, confident; perhaps even cocky. Now, that may be still very true, admittedly, when it comes to my work, but where relationships are concerned... I’m not, so much.
I thought I was turning into the worst kind of person: obsessed with my work, I had no friends or confidantes outside of my sister; I was acrimonious, and I had no desire to change. I was swimming further and further away from the surface and it had gotten to the point where I was being referred to as “Mad Dog Lane”; I had never had a nickname so laced with bitterness before.
I suppose the change happened gradually, for there wasn’t a direct moment I can recall when it might have happened. I do, however, recall when I first noticed the change. It was just one of those moments you might mark off as insignificant, but later remember it as a truly inspiring epiphany. The Prankster, a vile cretin and a bane to my existence, had just escaped from prison where a story of mine had rightfully placed him five years ago, and Clark and I had worked tirelessly in trying to find him and stop him. He had gone to great lengths to get to me, and I had denied my fear easily, not allowing anyone to see that I was afraid for my life.
Clark, the stronghold in my life, the anchor to my irrationality had been there for me. He had never said he knew what was up, but I knew that he knew. I hadn’t exactly been candid when I walked to his place with pizza and the Lethal Weapon trilogy. He had allowed me to enter his apartment without any crass remark, something Clark was never particularly partial to anyway, or a single question as to my visit.
As we watched, I wrestled against exhaustion, refusing to give in when the final round was called. I collapsed into sleep, falling soundlessly against his shoulder, cuddling closer to him capturing his warmth, security, and breathing in his clean scent. I had awakened to the same scent, but he was not to be found. I lay in his bed, the covers pulled up to my chin, and my arms wrapped around his pillow.
I suppose my stirring had brought him from sleep as well, as he was soon by my side, clad only in black silk boxers. I stared at his state of relative undress, and watched as a blush crept up from his chest to his cheeks, darkening them with a crimson red.
“I’ll make you breakfast,” he muttered, turning towards the archway of his bedroom.
“You’re still tired; you’ve got circles under your eyes,” I cautioned. He turned to me with a small, appreciative smile.
“I’ll be fine. When breakfast is ready, you can eat and I’ll catch a few winks.”
“Nonsense,” I protested. “There is plenty enough room in this bed; come sleep beside me.” He hesitated, the urge to flee shining brightly in his eyes, and it was with a shaky voice that I spoke, “Clark, it isn’t as though we’ve never slept beside each other.”
He walked slowly to the bed, and I moved over to give him room, allowing him to slide underneath the bed cover and into the warmth of the previously occupied section. When I lay on the cool side of the bed, I shivered, the friction working to warm me again. Clark turned on his side beside me, and pulled me against his chest. I would have voiced a protest, but the connection of our bodies succeeded in warming me, where my shivering had not. It was pleasant, and as I drifted off to sleep once again, a smile conveyed my sentiments. A steady flow of rightness settled over me and I snuggled further into his welcoming embrace.
We slept for several hours, the day flowing into night, our solitary day off finished uneventfully.
I knew then that I had changed. I would have denied him a position beside me in that bed, for certain, had this occurred right after we met. I don’t know what it was that he had done to loosen me in such a way, but I know with great certainty that it was him who had done it. He was a gentle, beautiful soul in an ugly, untrusting world.
And as I now walk, pounding the pavement with my sorrowful steps, I deeply regret having never revealed this to him. While I walk now, he kisses and caresses her. I am filled with hatred as I think about the two of them, no doubt in his apartment engaging in something lovers do.
Clark and I were never lovers, but I had thought about it. More frequently since my recent federal disaster: My so-called wedding. I would find myself absent-mindedly thinking about his lips kissing mine tenderly, with a familiarity borne of love and companionship. His hands cradling my head as we continued exploring the inner sanctum of each other’s mouths, and my fingers sifting through his hair at the nape of his neck.
But I have a position in his life that she will never have; I am irreplaceable where this is concerned, just as his position in my life is irreplaceable too. We are best friends in every extent of the word, and the friendship we share can never be destroyed by some floozy with blond hair.
That floozy, I must admit, is his girlfriend. She has that of him, the part I desire most; a romantic love could grow between them, as it never could with us. He could never love me as I have come to love him, and even though he had confessed such yearnings previously, he amended them, claiming to have only said them to keep me from Lex Luthor. Whether that is true or not is no longer an issue. He has clearly moved on, just as I should. Concede defeat, and leave him to his new life.
I unlock the many barriers of my front door, and enter my apartment without switching on a lamp or overhead light. The darkness is a comfort I so rarely allow these days, but tonight it seems completely necessary.
***
With all of the strength
And all of the courage
Come and lift me from this place
I know I can love you
Much better than this
***
I guess I shouldn’t be angry, or hurt; Clark made his decision without ever knowing how I felt. But I am angry! I’m angry because he chose her, a relative crook working for the leading crime boss of Metropolis, Bill Church, over me, someone who cares about him, and doesn’t want to see... him... get hurt.
I did the same thing to him.
I chose Lex, a murderer as the very least of his crimes, over kind hearted, sweet Clark. I even chose Superman over him, someone I couldn’t possibly hope to live a normal life with. The difficulties would be too great to elaborate on, but it would be almost impossible to be comfortable. Not to mention the danger I might be placed in, a target known only as “Superman’s girlfriend”. That’s no way to live, not even for love.
But that’s just it; it was never love, and I realize that now. After all, who had been at the forefront of my mind as I reluctantly walked down the aisle towards Lex? Clark had been, and even since then had never strayed too far away from there.
While I know my responsibility to Clark as his best friend is to be there for him, give him advice he may deem unsolicited, and allow him to seek comfort in the friendship that I offer, there is a responsibility more important at this point. As his friend, and someone who loves him very deeply, I must leave him to his new life with her. While I want nothing more than to replace her as his girlfriend in his life, I must accept that he did not choose me, and move on as he seems to have done so well.
Is it supposed to hurt, the decision to help a friend? My heart pounds an unsteady rhythm as I consider the possibilities of leaving his life, of him leaving mine. I don’t know what it is I will do. Should I leave the Planet, the only newspaper in the world I could ever work for? Should I simply just remove myself from his personal life, leave our relationship to a purely professional capacity? A resonating ‘no’ fills my chest, as I imagine working beside him day by day and lusting after him all the while, loving him, while he remains completely oblivious.
A fate worse than death, I’m sure.
I sigh deeply and consider the softly shining light from the moon outside my window, casting an ethereal glow on the furniture and flooring of my apartment.
If I stayed, I’d see them together, no doubt. I don’t think I’d be prepared for an encounter with that image, no matter how many times I psyche myself up for it. Each new observation would be a newly-sharpened blade to my heart, and a deeper laceration would be left in its wake.
If I left, Perry and Jimmy would be hurt, for sure: A father figure, where one had been absent for so long, and a brother, where I never had one. It would hurt to not see them everyday, but the pain would lessen over time. I could call them; catch up on the week’s events. It would be workable.
If I stayed, the man I love would be dangled in front of me, figurative bait to my emotions. I could never put myself through that, and I would be ruthlessly hard on him as a result.
If I left, I would be leaving the only place in the world I’ve called home. Never mind that my parents live near by, as I rarely spend “quality time” with them anyway, and distance would never change that, but the city that a person like me thrives on. Clark was able to live in the country, and in the city, but he was always better at adapting to difficult situations than I was. He would always playfully tease me about my distastes when they came to country-living, but as gentle as his humor was, it rings true even now.
If I stayed...
I won’t be staying.
***
Its better this way, I’d say
Haven’t seen this place before
With everything we say and do
Hurts us all the more
***
It’s rather comical; I find that we go through life wondering what big event will happen that will define us, and ideally everyone thinks it will be love, but many of us don’t truly believe it.
If I had once believed it, any romantic notions were dashed by that cretin Claude Rochert. Soon my life-defining moment would be reserved for that Pulitzer I’d hoped to win from journalistic day-one. Perhaps this is why I had never quite noticed the change of my affections for Clark.
Love is such a vile emotion, isn’t it? I mean, one goes through life endlessly striving for some status of perfection, a perfection that is unique for them and well... perfect. Love is seen as one facet of that perfection, but it’s so imperfect it’s disgusting. My love for Claude was of the very disgusting nature, and perhaps it was my association with the grotesque that made me overlook the nature of my love for Clark: a sweet haven, full of blossoming roses, and beautiful scents, and a warmth so familiar I might have sworn I had known it all my life if it had not been for the blistering cold I’ve felt previously.
But the haven has an interloper, now. She lurks just beyond the peripheral boundaries, yet I can solidly feel her. Even now, as I slowly adjust my résumé to accommodate the changes I have made, I can feel her as heavy as any burden I’ve known.
I consider the changes on my laptop, edit a superfluous line in my Daily Planet job description, and hit the ‘print’ icon several times. I’m going to need more than one copy. I wonder if they accept unsolicited résumés at the “New York Post”.
I wondered briefly about staying in Metropolis, but truthfully, there isn’t a single newspaper worthy of the paper it’s printed on in Metropolis that I would even consider working for. Nothing like the Daily Planet in all of Metropolis – hell, the world!
But, repeating it like a mantra, this is for the best. It is; I honestly believe that. Clark deserves to be happy, and I can’t guarantee that with me here, he’d ever wholly achieve this. I don’t trust Mayson Drake as far as I can throw her, but if Clark believes that she will make him happy, than I give them my blessing. I just wish that with my blessing, my love would leave too.
It will disappear, eventually, I’m sure. I just have to give it time.
Holding several copies of my résumé, and a recently typed letter-of-resignation, I head towards the phone. Perhaps Perry is putting the paper to bed.
***
TBC...right away
