Self-Help
I tried to hurt myself today. I knew I couldn't, but I tried. For Lex.
Maybe it would work if I got a meteor rock and sharpened it. Maybe then I could bleed.
See, I know he's not crazy. I mean, not really. I could've taken him away, somewhere safe, cleaned out the drugs and uncovered the man beneath. If I'd worked hard enough, everything could've turned out okay.
Instead I let them fry his brains. And--how convenient--he doesn't even remember my betrayal. Last week he got transferred to the county mental health center, just out of town. I've seen him twice since then. He thinks we're best friends.
His memories are scrambled like eggs, and it's my fault, and it's too late to make things right.
Nothing can ever make me forget what I've done. Maybe if I just went away--ran and ran until I had to stop. Built myself an ice palace and stayed there until I was too numb to care.
But running away was what caused all this in the first place. If I'd just grabbed him before the white suits came...
Lana once told me how good it felt to break the skin. She showed me the razor scars on her legs, the pale marks lined up in rows; ritual marks on her inner thighs. "They're like siphons for the pain, Clark."
I wish I had that luxury: to take a piece of metal and let the blood flow, let all the hurt and guilt flow with it. I wish I didn't feel like I was being shredded from the inside out.
I wish Lex was still the man I knew. Most of all, I wish I'd let him know who I am--how I feel--a long time ago.
But if my wishes were fishes the oceans would be overflowing. And I still wouldn't be able to hurt myself.
On the outside, anyway.