Letters to No One	 Letters to No One

 by zahra

 For Kassie. 

 

  

 * 

 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. 

 -finis-   
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