Lex keeps his mother's letters in a rosewood box beside his bed. He's had her St. Jude's medallion sealed into the lid, and the box is empty upon first inspection. Upon second inspection, and a little prodding at a false bottom, the letters are uncovered. From time to time he takes them out and looks at them.
He likes to hold each thin envelope in his hand and smooth his fingers over yellowing edges and soft parchment. Each envelope from his mother is sealed with a wax 'L' in purple. The letter from his father is sealed with black wax. There's only one letter from his father in the bundle.
There are twelve letters total and he's read them all. Memorized the writing and imagined meanings. The words between the lines. Lex keeps the letters tied together with a baby blue ribbon that he liberated from Julian's nursery before it got closed off.
Before it was sealed over like the tomb that it was.
Some of the letters his mother wrote and some she received, but Lex can identify all the names: Lionel, Pamela, Harry, Julian. There are also three letters that she wrote to Lex. To Alexander. One upon his birth, one upon Julian's birth, and one before ... before.
All the letters are different, as distinct in shape and size as its author or intended recipient. Bound together to form an amalgamation of thick and thin, wispy and sturdy, rich and not-so-much-so: yellow legal paper from Sir Hardwick before he was a 'Sir' and delicate floral stationary from Pam. An almost cardboard-like note from his father, and a dried flower taped to a gold-leaf, 3 by 5 card celebrating the birth of Alexander Joseph Luthor.
Lex doesn't actually read the letters that often, instead he rations them out to himself as rewards or salves. Only to be enjoyed when he's done something she would be proud of or when things have gone so badly that he has to be near her. Have some part of her to protect him. When he needs her words of wisdom.
Sometimes he even thinks about writing her letters in return.
The pen feels foreign in Whitney's hand when he sits down to write the letter, but he's tried doing it on his computer and it just doesn't seem right.
His father deserves the personal touch. His father hated computers.
It's hard for the words to come in the beginning and he's not quite sure how to start. What to say, what not to say, and so he stops and crumbles the paper. Even on his fifth attempt, he just can't make his thoughts coherent. They keep tumbling and rolling and getting mixed up like the McDonald's ball crawl that his father took him to when he was five.
It's getting to the point where Whitney can't think straight. He can't think at all. His mind is just this vast void that keeps getting invaded by the memory of his father and all the things Whitney never got to tell him.
His therapist thinks that that may be causing Whitney's problems. That all his unresolved issues could be the reason behind his mood swings and withdrawn behavior. At least that's what he tells his mother at the dinner table, but he doesn't think she's really listening. Whitney suspects that he could tell her that the therapist thinks he's got some sort of Unibomber thing happening and that he should never have to interact with the public again; and his mother would just nod her head and go back to cooking and cleaning.
Whitney can't remember the last time the kitchen was this stocked and the living room so clean. The house is devoid of personality now without his football gear and his father's boots and boxes and random newspaper cluttering the hallways. Whitney thinks that if his father were to walk through the door right now, he would think he had come into the wrong house.
It's a lame joke, but it makes Whitney smile, and he thinks his father would've appreciated the sentiment.
Maybe that's how he'll start his letter.
Lana's parents are dead.
She knows this, but they're always with her. They're always a horseback ride away in the cemetery and in many ways she's probably closer to them in their death then she would be if they were alive. But she doesn't think about them that way, however, she knows that she's emotionally closer to their tombstones than she is to most of living the people that she sees everyday.
Not that she minds.
She doesn't have to talk to other people when she can go and carry on conversations until dusk falls and her legs go numb. Until the time that she thinks they would be getting home from work and looking for her. Only then does she think it's time to leave.
She doesn't need to write letters.
Clark doesn't write letters because he has no one to write to.
Apparently there's no one who wants to write to him either, but he's sure it's not as bad as it sounds. Clark's sure that this realization shouldn't make him as depressed as it does, but he can't help his feelings. Maybe it's his teenage hormones - if he even has things like those to hold responsible.
It's hard though, because the only mail that ever comes for Clark is junk; and Clark still has the postcard that Pete sent him from Edge City the summer he went to visit his Aunt Bernice.
Clark knows that his reactions just have to do with his sphere of influence, with what he's been exposed to. After all, Clark's never even left Smallville, except for the art gala he attended with Lex, and he's never left Kansas at all. But he hopes that some day that will all change. That he'll be able to send his parents postcards and letters and little bits of foreign money from his travels around the world.
Clark thinks that they would like that - his real parents - that they would appreciate the sentiment. That he was thinking of them enough to send them a letter.
It's the least that he can do considering that they actually kept him.
And Clark knows what they would like in the exact same way that he has no idea what his birth parents would want. What they would like. It's not as though he can write them and ask. Of course, it's not as though he actually thinks about it anymore.
Okay, anymore meaning not everyday.
Now he only thinks about his birth parents every other day.
Even if Clark were able to contact them, he has no idea what he would say. What he could say to them. They probably don't even speak the same language, and they're probably dead... which seems to put him in pretty crowded company these days.
And yet, maybe they're not - dead. Because dying is human nature, and Clark is a lot of things but he's not that. Not human. Humans get older and they die. Clark's not really sure if he's going to die. He's not sure of a lot of things. He's definitely not that well informed, and maybe that's something he needs to change.
But it's not like Clark can write a letter to them. Who would he address it to? Parents of the Alien Baby that Landed on Earth in 1989? Yeah, he bets the Smallville post office will know exactly where to send that letter.
But still. There has to be something he can do.
There's always it.
That strange little disc that came with him in his ship. Maybe that's for him. Maybe it's some sort of note. Something to explain who he is, why he's here instead of there. Wherever there is.
Maybe this letter is from someone who wanted to write to him.
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