Notes/Disclaimer: Thoughts from a sandy shore...none of this 'Smallville' related material belongs to me. It is all property of WB/DC/Millar-Gough and associated parties. Please read and review this story if you can.
Once, as a child, my father took me to Jamaica. Somewhere outside Kingston, down a long, dusty path. He had an option to purchase some land there. Investment property, of course.
I remember how lush and green everything was; the powerful sun making me sweat just a bit...my hand scratching at my neck to ward off gnats and their brethren.
We arrived at the tract to find thousands of dead tree trunks as far as the eye could see. Dead coconut palms, killed by lethal yellowing. These 'panama tall' varieties were the most susceptible. My father cursed and promised to enact revenge on the British acquaintance that had set up the deal. I remember I couldn't take my eyes off the death all around me, the stark brown fingers reaching hopelessly towards the sky.
I've seen the effects of lethal yellowing all over the Caribbean, Mexico, even South Florida.
Right now, though, I am sitting under vibrant, healthy coconut fronds, on a crystalline shore, thirsty and hot.
Must not be in Jamaica. The palms are healthy. Don't know where I am.
"Where are we off to, my beautiful bride?"
This is the twentieth day. I think. I've been trying to keep up with the sun and the moon but it is getting harder. I don't know how long I was knocked out.
"Don't ruin the surprise, Lex."
Don't care where I am.
"What a lovely compass, Lex. May I see it?"
One moment I am on the plane and it smells like clean dust and Helen is smiling at me and I actually think everything will be alright this time; this time I will at least get some semblance of happiness, some echo of contentment. This time, I won't be rejected or left behind. So she's smiling and I close my eyes, feeling the delicate pull of her hand and then...then, she's gone and everything is shaking and I know then, as I have always known, that there are no rewards in this life for me, no rewards...only punishments.
The fall took forever or maybe it was just three seconds and I must have hit my head on something because the next thing I knew I was lying in some brush, near this beach, pieces of the Lear around me.
I guess I should be grateful to be alive but obviously that's not the case.
When I found nothing to be broken, I kind of just dragged around to see what my new home was like. Obviously tropical, obviously isolated. Decent shade trees, palms and what appeared to be eucalypts...abundant flora and luckily, a tiny but seemingly permanent freshwater spring. Upon finding this, I drank and drank and drank and then cried.
On the third, maybe fourth day, I thought of ways to escape. These were foolish ideas-building a raft, making a radio out of coconut shells, starting a fire to create a smoke signal. Foolish.
I soon realized I didn't want to go back, didn't want to be there, with her, with him, with anyone.
I'm meant to be here.
After that reckoning I just drank water and ate coconuts and slept. Dreamed of that one person, that one thing, that one impossibility that I had successfully suppressed back in Smallville. Clark.
I wondered where he was. Probably licking ice cream off Ms. Lang's face. Probably smiling. Laughing. Hiding, as he does so well. Probably getting a big bear hug from his father while Martha bakes a magnificent apple pie.
"Clark, please tell me I'm not delirious."
I'm speaking aloud to no one and everyone.
I don't want to start crying because there's no point. Often in life, it's better to accept that you will never be happy than it is to question said point.
Clark come to me in dreams, like he came to me that day in the castle I was so sure he was on coke...all flushed and aggressive yet tender and charismatic and he always says...
"Take my hand, Lex...take it and I'll be strong for you...we can ride it out together..."
What this means I cannot say. I always wake up happy because even if it's only a dream and even if I can see my ribs and can't shake this nausea...still, the dream is enough.
Is it the fifteenth day, or the fortieth? Time is slipping now.
"I won't let you go."
I realize, with a chuckle, that my father could have found me if he pleased. He is a warrior, a King...if he liked, he would have sent all the troops into action to reclaim the missing Prince. I wonder if Lucas is enjoying his newfound nobility. Probably not. Father will skin him alive.
The irony is, Lionel didn't destroy me. I might not get off this place but at least now, here, under the open, ebony sky strewn with light and the blue/orange of day...at least now I realize it was never about Helen or power or money or ego. It was all about Clark. It was ever since the day at the bridge. It would have never worked of course. He's too good for me.
The dreams get more intense and my head hurts. Funny that I don't seem to miss luxuries now...all I think about is Clark's face and the way this sand feels better than silk. The sky is tortured every afternoon now...huge, towering clouds seem to surround my little home. The trees seem frightened, cowering under the stiff breeze. I want to soothe them, tell them there's nothing to be afraid of...that everything happens as it is supposed to.
"Sometimes I see you Clark...I see you in the skyline of Metropolis, ablaze and resplendent..."
I'm shivering in the rain. It's falling like bullets from the sky. It stings but I don't care. I'm naked anyway and must be down to one hundred thirty or so. Slow starvation or malnutrition, can't say. It's cold and burning hot all at once.
"Who are you?"
Clark is in the rain and he's floating or something and he's got his hand out and I want to take it but I am not sure. He hovers like some kind of angel but I know I am not dead. I want so badly for him, the dream, the Clark of my fondest hopes, to be here, with me. I feel a sharp pain in my stomach and black out.
I'm not dead and I know this because a little crab bites the hell out of my arm and wakes me. It is brilliantly yellow out, the color of lemonade and daisies, and if I close my eyes, I could almost think of a Kansas farm.
I think I'm forgetting my name now but I still know Clark's. Are my eyes blue?
The palms are putting out new fruit but I don't have the energy to climb up anymore. Way offshore there are heaving, ominous clouds. There is a bird-of-paradise to my left in bloom and a tiny ant parading on the leaf and in that flower, I see Clark.
In the sky, I see Clark. I have forgotten who I am, but I still see this dark-haired God smiling at me, making me feel better.
"Your eyes are blue and they are wonderful."
I don't know my name and the sun is hot and I am thirsty but the spring is too far inland and I see him.
He's there and it's comforting and the sun is bright and the clouds are getting closer. I feel my throat close up and let out a tremendous hacking cough.
"Come with me."
His eyes are glowing red.
Not gone yet.
He's not gone yet.
Maybe I/He can hold on through this storm. Perhaps things do change. Perhaps predestination is bullshit.
"Let me go...please...I am so tired..."
Time. Change. The sun is gone and the wind is howling but He/I am not afraid. I am someplace warm and beautiful, alone but not, in a world where everything swirls and shifts and waves around me.
He's there smiling and now he's closer. He strokes my face gently.
"Sometimes if you look behind the storm, you find the rainbow."
It is pitch black.
This isn't an ordinary storm...that's for sure. But it may be just what I need. Everything's spinning. Is this a dream? Is it death?
"I won't let you go."
All I know, or knew, or will know, is that in hurricane country, anything's possible.
You never know what might come your way.
Of 'Hurricane Country'
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