Another
assassination attempt.
When
had horrific alliteration become commonplace?
During
his rebellious Metropolis teen years, the only one trying to kill him was him.
Drugs. Alcohol. Anything he could find to dull the pain – the pain of being
a freak, of being motherless, of being not quite good enough.
In
Smallville he had considered asking the mayor to issue Luthor hunting
licenses; at least, that way the attempts on his life would have been confined
to certain months of the year.
Nietzsche
had said that which does not kill you makes you stronger. Nietzsche was an
existentialistic pussy. He could take his theory of Übermensch and shove it
up his philosophical German ass.
Superman,
indeed.
The
less said on that subject the better.
His
father had sent him to Smallville to test his mettle, to see if he was strong
enough to survive isolation, mutants and ex-wives.
Shifting
into fifth gear, the Spyder screamed down the highway. He wondered with a
flick of amusement if he could break the sound barrier before he hit a cow.
Smallville
had taught him to trust no one. Everyone always wanted something from a
Luthor. In that respect his father had been correct. Whether it be saving an
abandoned movie theater to having the Sharks play for one evening in a high
school stadium for a dying man who would never see his son play
professionally, everyone had a favor to ask. He’d given them what they’d
wanted, only wanting a chance at friendship in return, a chance to be seen as
himself and not his name.
But
in the end, he had been deemed nothing more than a Luthor. Not worthy of trust
or friendship or the simplest of truths.
Yes,
Smallville had made him stronger. It had made him more than ready for his
re-entry into Metropolis society.
Lionel
had wanted his Alexander, but even Phillip had been surprised by the
bloodthirstiness of his son. He had taken the business world by storm,
starting with LuthorCorp.
His
side burned, but he refused to look down, refused to acknowledge the growing
stain on his jacket.
After
all, it was nothing more than the wine of life, right?
He
had sweated blood for years. What would it hurt to spill it a little quicker?
How
did a person occupy their time when there was nothing left to conquer? He was
untouchable in the business world. He ruled Metropolis to the point where a
frown could ruin a lifetime of work and a smile could elevate sycophants to
masters in their own right.
There
was pressure for him to consider the White House, but he knew the temptation
would be too great. Not that he couldn’t rule, but Cassandra Carver’s
death still haunted him.
Which
left him where?
Bleeding
to death and racing down the highway, feeling freer than he had in years,
building up the courage to halt what should have ended ten years before. He
wondered if anyone other than Clark would find his going back to the beginning
of the end and the end of the beginning poetic.
Clark,
with his brilliant green eyes and intoxicating innocence, making him believe
that he was salvageable, then refusing to save him.
His
Brutus.
His
Judas.
His
savior and crucifier.
While
Caesar had March, he would contend himself with the Ides of October.
Poetic.
That
all of his beginnings and endings should happen during Smallville Octobers.
Giddiness
surged through his veins, almost like being drunk.
He
looked forward to the cool water of relief, knowing he wouldn’t need to be
strong any longer, knowing he would be free from the shackles of his destiny,
liberated from desiring what he couldn’t have and pretending not to hear the
song his heart sang.
Releasing
the wheel to take flight, he was startled by a pair of green eyes staring at
him in shock. Déjà vu washed over him as cold and bitter as the river
flooding into his car. But like before, he embraced the darkness and sought
his peace.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
When
he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find that he was bathed in arctic white
light and furs. His mind refused to contemplate the thought of heaven, but he
doubted, even with all his dealings, that he rated luxury in hell.
Eyes,
still as innocent as they had been so many years before, appeared in his line
of sight and he was struck by how his heart still cried out for the beauty
which cut him deeper than any razor.
“I
could have sworn I hit you.”
Soft
hands cupped his face as warm lips breathed life back into his body. “You
did, Lex. You did.”
--End--