Categories > TV > Smallville > Despair's Edge0 Reviews
When Clark finally wakes up, they all discover why he tried to commit suicide.
Clark was standing in the loft when he heard the footsteps behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was, but he turned around anyway. He wanted to see her face. "Lana," he whispered breathlessly when he caught sight of her frightened look. It crushed him to see her looking at him like that. "Lana, I'm so sorry."
Tears streamed down her face as she held up her bruised wrist. "You did this, Clark," she said solemnly. "Why did you do it?"
He didn't know what to say, what to do. He wanted to make the tears stop. He wanted to make that frightened, disgusted look on her face go away. He couldn't. "I didn't mean to," he begged, shaking his head. "Please. I'm... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
She didn't seem to hear him. Instead, she just gave him an empty stare. The vast emptiness and blame in the depths of her hazel eyes scared him to no end. "It's all your fault," she whispered emotionlessly, holding out her injured arm to him. He watched in horror as the dark purple bruise split open, forming a deep cut across her wrist. Blood poured from the now-gaping wound at an alarming rate. He wanted to stop the red liquid cascading down, but found himself rooted to the spot, able to do nothing more than watch.
More tears poured from her eyes and fell onto her arm and hand, mixing with the blood and running down to the loft floor. He watched helplessly as it spread across the floor toward him. No, it was crawling across the floor toward him. He wished he could move, could go to her and tell her he was sorry one more time, that he never meant to hurt her. He could not will his feet to move an inch. His throat had closed up.
The sticky red substance was now running up his legs, up his chest, down his arms. It completely covered him in a thick layer of despair. It stopped up his nose and filled his lungs. He couldn't breathe. Drowning in sorrow and death, the mixture of blood and tears covered him. Only his eyes were left uncovered. He saw her just stand there, arm outstretched by her side, wrist still dripping blood, tears still spilling from her sad eyes.
"Why would you do this, Clark?" she asked him again. "Why? Why'd you do it?"
With the thick mixture covering his mouth, he couldn't find the breath or words to answer.
Just as blackness was overtaking him, he heard the tone in her voice change. She still sounded sad, but no longer accusatory. She sounded desperate. And she wasn't alone. "You know we love you, Clark. Please. Please, don't give up! You can't leave us. Please. Please, just wake up..."
"Come on, Clark. Don't give up now."
He had stopped breathing again, just as his parents made it to the top of the stairs. First, he had started coughing like he was choking, or like someone had grabbed him around the throat. He'd thrashed around, tearing up chunks of wood from the floor with his bare hands, clawing at his face and his throat. Then, with a stuttering sigh, he lay still.
"Come on, Clark," Jonathan muttered again, pumping on his son's chest. "Don't you give up on me now." Martha's heart clenched in fear at the sight of her son's near-lifeless body. She felt like his life was slipping through her fingers. If only they'd gotten here sooner...
She smoothed the boy's damp black hair out of his eyes and held his pale face in her hands. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Come on, sweetheart, you can pull through this," she whispered urgently, as if the sound of her voice could bring him back. "Please, honey. Please just wake up."
Without warning, Clark's eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright and gasped in a huge lungful of air, then doubled over and began to cough, struggling for oxygen. She placed a hand on his back to support him as the coughing fit racked his body. When it had ended, and he could at last breathe again, he leaned back and propped himself up on his elbows, wiping blood from his mouth with one hand. "Wha... What happened?" he asked with a puzzled expression on his face, still a little out of breath.
"We were hoping you could tell us." Jonathan placed a hand on his son's shoulder to steady him. The girls gathered around him with varied expressions of worry on their faces, but they made sure to give him some space to breathe. Martha placed an arm around him almost protectively as his father continued to question him. "Do you have any idea how you ended up anywhere near that meteor rock, son?"
Clark glanced at Lana and Chloe, then dropped his gaze to the ground and mumbled incoherently under his breath. Mr. Kent briefly exchanged a knowing look with his wife before turning back to his son. "You want to say that again for us?"
Clark sat up and rested his arms on his knees, keeping his head down. "I opened the box." He kept his eyes trained on the floor. Martha's eyes widened with shock as she stared in disbelief at his bowed head.
She watched her husband sigh and shake his head. It was becoming difficult for him to keep his calm. "Why would you do that, Clark?" he asked at last, his voice raised slightly from... From what? Concern? Disappointment? Anger? Maybe a mixture of the three? She couldn't tell. Clark glanced at Lana again, as if there was something he wanted to tell her, but instead he shifted his gaze back to the floor.
Tears spilled silently from Martha's eyes as she placed a hand gently on her son's back. She hadn't missed the look in his eyes when he glanced up. In that brief moment, she had seen into his thoughts. They say that the eyes are a window to the soul, but his were a window to his heart. Time and again, when he was younger, she had gazed into those green mirrors and wondered at their depth. Now she was saddened by what she saw there. She saw his heart, and it was strained to the breaking point. "Oh, Clark," she whispered, wishing she could take away some of the pain, but knowing that she could not. Nothing could ease the pain her son was feeling. "Clark, please tell us why you did that."
He shook his head and blinked away the tears, but not before she saw them. "I... I just... just wanted to make her happy." His voice was low, nearly inaudible, thick and raspy with emotion. "I... I didn't mean to hurt... hurt her. It's all... all my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He shook his head again, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears and curling into himself, rocking slightly a couple of times. "Make it stop," he begged, his voice becoming a little louder, as if something he had seen had frightened him. His tone cut her to the heart. "Please don't look at me like that. Can't make it stop. I can't make it stop bleeding. So much blood. It's everywhere. Blood and tears. Please don't cry anymore. I can't make her stop crying. Mom, make her stop! Make it stop!" He was yelling now, pressing his hands to his eyes in agony.
Terror. She hadn't known such fear in a long time, especially not for her son. She was terrified of him, of what he was going through, of what it was doing to him. But she couldn't let it show. Not if it would risk her son more pain. Clark hadn't acted like this since he was eight years old, waking up with nightmares. But he needed her right now, and he needed her to be calm. "Make what stop?" she asked in her soothing, motherly tone, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "Who won't stop crying?"
Again he glanced up, face streaked with tears, and locked eyes with Lana. And then Martha knew exactly why he had done it. He gazed searchingly at his mother, his breathing shallow. "She asked if I was a freak," he said. She just placed a warm hand on his cheek. For the first time in her life, it seemed, words failed her. "She looked at me like I was a monster. And she was right. I am a freak, and I hurt her just like all the others. I'm better off..."
"No, Clark!" Jonathan interrupted sternly, turning the boy's face to him. "You are not a freak. Don't ever say that!" Clark nodded sullenly and returned his gaze to the floor once again. Jonathan sighed and clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Now, let's... Let's all go inside and get this all sorted out."
Clark reluctantly got to his feet and followed the others down the stairs. Martha stayed with him, keeping an arm around him in an attempt to comfort and protect him from more pain. But she knew that she could no longer do either. It was a thought that terrified her more than anything, the thought that she could no longer help him, that all she could do was stand by and watch him suffer. No one could pull him out of this depression he had fallen into, not even her, his mother.
But her maternal instincts told her she needed to do more.