The house loomed in front of him, as hollow and foreboding as a grave. The roof was sagging and rotted out. Only a few shingles spotted haphazardly on it even suggested that it had once been properly looked after. The windows were all blown out, letting tattered, faded curtains tumble in and out with the wind. One of his mother’s shutters hung wildly by a single hinge. The paint had run on it, leaving an ugly stain, like an old scar, down the side of the wall. He could hear the rusty hinge screech as the wind moved the shutter slightly. Behind him, the morning sun was just starting to peak over the edge of the forest, behind the weed-choked fields. He shivered in spite of the warmth it brought with it.
He’d run all through the night to get here. Sick with worry and confusion, half-blinded by tears, and overwhelmed by everything around him, he’d stumbled through the darkness, barely conscious of where he was sometimes. It was a small miracle that he had made it without alerting half of Luthorcorp. He’d gotten lost now and then, turned around on a road that went somewhere different than where he remembered, but eventually he’d found his way here. He was home.
Clark turned around and stumbled down the driveway. Seeing something in the tall weeds, he diverted from his path. Bending down, he picked up a wooden post, half rotted through. He noticed something else by it, and picked up a rusted out mailbox. Turning it over, he saw that only the first letter of the name, “Kent”, remained on its side. He tossed it aside sadly and looked back at his parent’s house.
There was hardly anything left of it now. He’d grown up in this house. He could see the old tree where his father had started to build him a tree house. That was, of course, until he had discovered just how much higher the fort was than when you were looking at it from the ground. But there was no fort in the branches now, not even much of a tree left at that. It was leaning wildly away from the house, its roots half exposed by erosion. Not even the planks his father had nailed into the truck as a ladder remained.
He turned away and glanced at the house. There was the porch that had collapsed on them three years ago. His father and mother had made a project out of it, measuring out beams, thinking up new designs, discarding old ones, until finally they’d just repaired the first one, the same as before. But here it was, ruined again, or for the first time here, he thought. He gently traced the broken edges with his fingers. No one had been around to ever fix it this time.
Steeling himself, he stepped over the remains of the porch and front stoop and pulled himself up into the doorway. He took a moment to test the floor, hearing it snap and groan under his feet. It seemed sturdy enough though, and so he ventured a little further in.
He was a little surprised and saddened to see that a lot was like he remembered. It might have been easier, he realized, if everything was different. It would have seemed less real, less personal. But everything was painfully familiar. There was the same couch his parents had had forever it seemed, musty smelling and water-damaged, but still recognizable. There were no pictures on the mantle, but it didn’t take much to imagine them there. Or to see a log burning in the fireplace, and his father sitting in his chair, happily listening to it pop and crackle. He stepped into the kitchen and stared around. One of the cabinets that hung on the wall had broken open and spilled out his mother’s dishes everywhere. He picked up one of the pieces and brushed it off with his hand, noting the familiar design. He’d eaten off them just yesterday morning, or so it seemed. He set it back on the counter and shifted his way through the rubble aimlessly. There was nothing else however, and he stood up slowly, swaying slightly.
How long had it been since he’d slept, he wondered. Yesterday, the night before that? He felt drained, mentally and physically exhausted. He needed to rest. Maybe he could go to sleep and this would all be gone when he woke up. Like a bad dream.
Glancing through the kitchen window, he stared out at the northwest corner of the lawn, adjacent to the overgrown fields. It was the one place that he’d never been near much growing up. The farm had been in the Kent family for generations, and many of them had chosen to be buried on the same land where they’d lived and worked. That spot had been the Kent family cemetery, and for all his powers and strength, he had not been able to go near it. Not then, and not now. Certainly not now.
There were two new grave stones in that small plot of land. He could see them clearly through the window. They stood side by side in the back of the plot. Behind them, he could see the fields ripple slightly in the wind. “This isn’t any bad dream,” he muttered to himself. Then he turned his back on them and went back to inspecting the house.
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There wasn’t much left to see though. The floorboards in the front room creaked dangerously as soon as he put one foot down on them. He prodded another with his toe and it broke into pieces. He stared into the room fruitlessly and then went back. The stairway had collapsed years ago by the look of it and there was no going upstairs. Not that there would have been anything for him to find, he thought to himself. Not his room, that was for certain. His parent’s hadn’t lived to see him. They’d been in the wrong time and the wrong place in the meteor crash, like so many others. He stopped in the front hall and stared at a picture of his parents on the wall. It was old, probably taken just a few weeks after they’d been married. They both were smiling and looked so happy. Touching it gently, he traced his mother’s smile. Or maybe it hadn’t been them who’d been in the wrong place, a small voice spoke up in his mind. Maybe it had been him. Maybe he’d been in the wrong place or at the wrong time, that voice went on. It could have been that, or any countless other things. There might be no way to ever know what had gone wrong. What had changed so many things here. He snarled and smashed his fist out against the wall, smashing through the weak boards beside the picture frame. He held it there for a moment and then pulled it back, his fist covered with white dust.
Maybe there was no way of knowing. Anything could have gone wrong that day. Maybe his parent’s had taken a detour and gone on another road. Maybe his ship had been off course. Maybe the meteor rocks had fallen in a different pattern. Or maybe it was something else, some little thing that he’d never think about. It could be anything, anything. His parents could be dead because they were going a little faster than they should’ve been. Or their car had been running slow. Or the winds had shifted a bit that day. His parents could be dead because there had been a thunderstorm that day instead of clear skies. Any stupid, pointless thing could have been the cause for all of this. Clark felt something tighten up in his chest and then he screamed, letting it tear out of him. He smashed his fists into the wall, hitting it with reckless abandon, crying, screaming, all the while. Loose timber and plaster exploded out with every hit, leaving gaping holes behind. The picture danced wildly as he punched around it, until it finally fell with a crash, the glass frame shattering. Then the wall, and part of the ceiling above Clark, gave out, collapsing around and on top of him. Timber, brick, and plaster bounced off his body as he screamed, smashing through the last of the wall. Then he collapsed to his knees, his anger spent.
Clark knelt there in the rubble, his chest heaving. He was covered in dust and fine, white plaster, but he hardly noticed. He stared at his fists and then eased them open, forcing his fingers too unclench. This wasn’t helping anyone, he thought. Breathing deeply, he stood up, the larger pieces of rubble falling off of him. He stepped through the pile of debris and forced the front door open, the lock breaking as it swung outward. For a moment, he was frozen there as he remembered doing the same thing years ago, when he was still learning to control his strength. He could still hear his father’s warnings echo back to him. He glanced down at it for a moment and then looked back at the wreckage inside. You can’t put things back when they’re broken; his father had told him then. He was right.
Turning his back on the house, he stepped over the rotten front porch and into the yard. A little unsteady on his feet, he stood there aimlessly in the morning sun. There was nothing left for him here. He should get back to Chloe and the others, he told himself. But there was one last thing he needed to do just yet.
His feet led him slowly to the edge of the farm, away from the house and towards the fields. He kept going past the rusted out wreck of their tractor until he came to the tiny plot of land by the fence. Clark stood there silently, in front of the tiny gate. The wind blew past him for a moment, making the gate creak and shudder on its hinges. Unlatching it, he stepped inside, passing the older graves to the two newest ones in the back. The lettering was a bit weathered, but he knew who was buried there.
Kneeling, he touched his parent’s graves; first one then the other. He wanted to say something, anything to them, but the words wouldn’t come. He sniffed suddenly, choking back tears. This couldn’t be real, he told himself, lamely. This world, all of it was just some nightmare; that was all. It wasn’t real. He touched the stones again, wishing they’d just dissolve underneath his fingers and he could wake up, but they remained firm and solid. “NO!” he screamed and clutching it desperately. The stone he was holding broke in two from his grip, hitting the ground. Clark backed up in shock, staring at the broken headstone. “No,” he whispered again. He could read part of his father’s name on it. He shut his eyes tightly and turned away, then looked back fiercely. He had to know. Clark focused his x-ray vision into the ground and waited, watching the earth melt away as he saw deeper.
A moment ticked by as he stood there, staring down. Then he slowly closed his eyes and turned away. He walked back slowly to the gate and leaned down on it, his head hung low. Then he couldn’t control himself any longer and he threw up over the side.
When he was done he stood there, leaning against the fence, his arms quivering. He blinked away the sweat and tears in his eyes, trying to clear his vision without much success. His parents were dead, he thought to himself. They were gone and he was all alone here. For a moment, he wondered if he was stuck here for good. He hadn’t been able to even say goodbye. The last time he’d seen them, they’d been arguing. Was that it?
“No,” he told himself firmly. His voice shook, but he repeated himself, spitting to clear his mouth. “No. You will find a way home and you won’t give up.” He pushed himself off of the gate and stumbled towards the house again. His vision blurred over, but he kept going. “You won’t give up. You’ll find a way. There’s always a way.” His voice died out and he stood there, swaying on his feet. Dimly, he remembered a platitude his father used to say.
“Just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other,” he wheezed. He brought one foot forwards, but his whole body seemed to come with it. He collapsed in a heap and lay there in the morning sunlight, completely unconscious.