Smallville Merry Sue Fic: Kaleidoscope
Title: Kaleidoscope
Author: Blandine
Rating: PG
Notes: Missing Scene for "Spell"
Kaleidoscope
This is how the little mermaid must have felt when she danced in her red shoes ... no, no, he was mixing things up again. He was so confused, so tired. He'd been playing for countless hours now and the frenzied, mesmerizing tempo of the endlessly repeated piece had reduced his mind to a kaleidoscope of fractured and ever changing thoughts. With growing despair, Lex faced the reality he had refused to accept for months: his father had been right all along. He was mad, insane, mentally ill, loony. For a second he remembered how Nuala had told him, in Belle Reve, while praising his painting that his returning ability to focus was a sure sign that he was getting better. Nuala. She was the occupational therapist and she had been one of the very few people who had been kind to him there. With her short hair and long plaid skirts she had been familiar somehow, comforting, and reassuring too.
Where was Clark? Clark always came when he hurt. No, not always. But this time, surely, he would come? Oh God, it hurt so much. His fingers, which had been dancing on the keyboard of the Bosendorfer for hours, were raw and each touch drove sharp needles into the pads, under the nails. Sheer exhaustion made his head drop, the instant agony that traveled the length of his spine made him gasp. His aching fingers had almost made him forget the red-hot pain between his shoulder blades. He had felt so compelled to start playing again that he had neglected to adjust the distance between the bench and the piano, and the muscles in his back had started protesting a couple of hours into the practice session.
His father would have been appalled by his posture and his lack of self-possession. He would certainly have disparaged his rendition of Schubert's Impromptu too. Lionel possessed a perfect technique but he lacked the sensitivity, the "soul" required by the German Romantics. Lex had always loved the latter; they reminded him of his mother who had adored them. When her own strength had vanished during her illness, she'd often asked Lex to play them for her.
He remembered how hard he had practiced this particular piece in the weeks before her death. He had planned to surprise her and play it when he next went home for a vacation. This was a difficult piece, especially for a thirteen-year-old boy. For weeks on end, the Music Room at Excelsior had been filled with Schubert's Impromptu and Lex's frustration. After one particularly harrowing practice, where he'd kept stumbling on the same couple of notes every time, he had returned to his room and startled Bruce by slamming the door with all his might. After a moment, Bruce had felt compelled to ask Lex why he had "smoke coming out of ears?" The only words that had managed to pass the barrier of clenched teeth had been: "Bloody Schubert!"
Bloody Schubert, now that was funny! He should phone Bruce to let him in on the joke. Yes, he would do that. As soon as he finished his practice.
God, where was Clark? It had certainly seemed as if he was able to sense when Lex was in trouble up to now. But then, maybe he deserved this, like the protagonist of Andersen's "Red Shoes" had deserved to be shunned until she repented and begged the executioner to cut her feet off. For a second, Lex wondered dispassionately whether they would have to cut his hands off to break the spell.
His mother had read Andersen's Fairy Tales to him so often that they came naturally to mind. She had hated Disney's light and syrupy version of the "Little Mermaid", arguing that the cruel beauty of the original was a thousand times better than any singing crab, talking fish, or body-builder king of the sea. Lex himself had been fascinated by the Danish author's morbid tales of pain, retribution, atonement, and death. Maybe his literary taste came from being a Luthor? The tales had certainly served their traditional cautionary purpose anyway, and Lex had learned from a young age that disobedience, desires, and the gratification of one's ego came at a high price. Wasn't it revealing then that he had chosen, for most of his life, to indulge in one or the other of these sinful behaviours? And how strange was it that he'd had even more brushes with death and pain since he had arrived in Smallville and decided to clean up his act.
Maybe he was inherently evil? Hadn't Clark accused him of hiding nefarious purposes behind his "twisted" sense of friendship? He had probably deserved Lana turning on him then, though he had really meant to act in her best interest or so he'd been sure of at the time. However, as Clark would be quick to point out, Lex was a champion at finding excuses for himself. Clark was right as usual, and Lex was doing it right now: blaming the thick, slippery wetness that coated the keys for the increasing sloppiness of his interpretation of Schubert's brilliant piece. Hadn't Lionel drilled it into him that failure could not be excused by blaming exterior factors? People had to bear the consequences of their actions, and Lionel had certainly made sure that Lex felt the full weight of all his screw-ups; and when Julian had died ... Lex closed his eyes.
Since her death, Lex had never felt so close to his mother as when he played the piano, caressing the very keys that she had touched every single day for most of her life. He remembered how they would play duets together. Even though he was a good pianist Lionel had never played with her. Lex, only Lex had that privilege. Nowadays he sometimes almost felt her presence next to him when he sat on the bench. On such days Lex played as if in a trance and no one, not even Lionel, could find faults with his interpretation. Yet, Lillian's spirit deserted him today.
If even the dead abandoned him, Clark would certainly not come. Lex didn't know any longer why he'd thought that Clark would come in the first place. Their relationship had been tense enough since the summer, and Clark's visits only held demands for favours at best, self-righteous sermons or bitter accusations at worst.
All of a sudden the burning agony in his back and the torturing needles in his fingers did not feel so bad compared to the ache in his heart and the emptiness of his soul. Yet, however much he tried to focus on the physical pain, he could not make the all-encompassing sorrow disappear, and the tears that he denied himself for so long started to flow silently. Yet, even the deepest sorrow can only yield so many tears and after a while emotional and physical exhaustion slowed them to a stop.
And still his fingers kept moving of their own volition.
It was ironic that he should wish for someone to interrupt his practice when he usually resented such occurrences. He'd always chosen to play in solitude since his mother's death. Bruce alone had heard him when he invited Lex to Wayne Manor on the numerous occasions when Lionel had been out of the country or simply too busy to welcome his son home for long week-ends or vacations. Bruce knew and understood darkness better than anyone could, and knew how to soothe the raw despair that surfaced now and again in his friend. But, then again, Bruce was like a second self, a soul mate and Lex sometimes wondered playfully if he should not surprise his personal assistant by bursting out passionately, a la Catherine Earnshaw: "Lorraine, I am Bruce! - he's always, always in my mind". Yet, though Heathcliff was certainly as good a fictional counterpart as any for Bruce, Lex didn't feel a particular affinity with Emily Bronte's temperamental heroine, other than her matter of fact exposition of feelings that transcended explanation.
Clark was different and, though Lex hated spewing platitudes, he could not find a better reason for the instant fascination that had possessed him than the hackneyed "opposites attract". Yet, he and Clark were similar too. More than anything else they were like the positive and negative of a same picture. This probably explained why Clark was intuitively aware of Lex's situation, why he always turned up in time to rescue him.
But not this time.
Lex had finally exhausted Clark's good will and, in spite of all his efforts, had obviously failed to make him understand the real fear that the shadow lurking at the edge of his soul inspired in him. Neither had he managed to convey his conviction that Clark, and Clark alone, could keep the terrifying feeling at bay.
And Lex kept playing as loneliness, fear, pain, and despair filled his mind, whirling in time with the rapid tempo of the Impromptu.
Read Nuala's Sequel: Kaleidoscope, Part Deux
Author: Blandine
Rating: PG
Notes: Missing Scene for "Spell"
Kaleidoscope
This is how the little mermaid must have felt when she danced in her red shoes ... no, no, he was mixing things up again. He was so confused, so tired. He'd been playing for countless hours now and the frenzied, mesmerizing tempo of the endlessly repeated piece had reduced his mind to a kaleidoscope of fractured and ever changing thoughts. With growing despair, Lex faced the reality he had refused to accept for months: his father had been right all along. He was mad, insane, mentally ill, loony. For a second he remembered how Nuala had told him, in Belle Reve, while praising his painting that his returning ability to focus was a sure sign that he was getting better. Nuala. She was the occupational therapist and she had been one of the very few people who had been kind to him there. With her short hair and long plaid skirts she had been familiar somehow, comforting, and reassuring too.
Where was Clark? Clark always came when he hurt. No, not always. But this time, surely, he would come? Oh God, it hurt so much. His fingers, which had been dancing on the keyboard of the Bosendorfer for hours, were raw and each touch drove sharp needles into the pads, under the nails. Sheer exhaustion made his head drop, the instant agony that traveled the length of his spine made him gasp. His aching fingers had almost made him forget the red-hot pain between his shoulder blades. He had felt so compelled to start playing again that he had neglected to adjust the distance between the bench and the piano, and the muscles in his back had started protesting a couple of hours into the practice session.
His father would have been appalled by his posture and his lack of self-possession. He would certainly have disparaged his rendition of Schubert's Impromptu too. Lionel possessed a perfect technique but he lacked the sensitivity, the "soul" required by the German Romantics. Lex had always loved the latter; they reminded him of his mother who had adored them. When her own strength had vanished during her illness, she'd often asked Lex to play them for her.
He remembered how hard he had practiced this particular piece in the weeks before her death. He had planned to surprise her and play it when he next went home for a vacation. This was a difficult piece, especially for a thirteen-year-old boy. For weeks on end, the Music Room at Excelsior had been filled with Schubert's Impromptu and Lex's frustration. After one particularly harrowing practice, where he'd kept stumbling on the same couple of notes every time, he had returned to his room and startled Bruce by slamming the door with all his might. After a moment, Bruce had felt compelled to ask Lex why he had "smoke coming out of ears?" The only words that had managed to pass the barrier of clenched teeth had been: "Bloody Schubert!"
Bloody Schubert, now that was funny! He should phone Bruce to let him in on the joke. Yes, he would do that. As soon as he finished his practice.
God, where was Clark? It had certainly seemed as if he was able to sense when Lex was in trouble up to now. But then, maybe he deserved this, like the protagonist of Andersen's "Red Shoes" had deserved to be shunned until she repented and begged the executioner to cut her feet off. For a second, Lex wondered dispassionately whether they would have to cut his hands off to break the spell.
His mother had read Andersen's Fairy Tales to him so often that they came naturally to mind. She had hated Disney's light and syrupy version of the "Little Mermaid", arguing that the cruel beauty of the original was a thousand times better than any singing crab, talking fish, or body-builder king of the sea. Lex himself had been fascinated by the Danish author's morbid tales of pain, retribution, atonement, and death. Maybe his literary taste came from being a Luthor? The tales had certainly served their traditional cautionary purpose anyway, and Lex had learned from a young age that disobedience, desires, and the gratification of one's ego came at a high price. Wasn't it revealing then that he had chosen, for most of his life, to indulge in one or the other of these sinful behaviours? And how strange was it that he'd had even more brushes with death and pain since he had arrived in Smallville and decided to clean up his act.
Maybe he was inherently evil? Hadn't Clark accused him of hiding nefarious purposes behind his "twisted" sense of friendship? He had probably deserved Lana turning on him then, though he had really meant to act in her best interest or so he'd been sure of at the time. However, as Clark would be quick to point out, Lex was a champion at finding excuses for himself. Clark was right as usual, and Lex was doing it right now: blaming the thick, slippery wetness that coated the keys for the increasing sloppiness of his interpretation of Schubert's brilliant piece. Hadn't Lionel drilled it into him that failure could not be excused by blaming exterior factors? People had to bear the consequences of their actions, and Lionel had certainly made sure that Lex felt the full weight of all his screw-ups; and when Julian had died ... Lex closed his eyes.
Since her death, Lex had never felt so close to his mother as when he played the piano, caressing the very keys that she had touched every single day for most of her life. He remembered how they would play duets together. Even though he was a good pianist Lionel had never played with her. Lex, only Lex had that privilege. Nowadays he sometimes almost felt her presence next to him when he sat on the bench. On such days Lex played as if in a trance and no one, not even Lionel, could find faults with his interpretation. Yet, Lillian's spirit deserted him today.
If even the dead abandoned him, Clark would certainly not come. Lex didn't know any longer why he'd thought that Clark would come in the first place. Their relationship had been tense enough since the summer, and Clark's visits only held demands for favours at best, self-righteous sermons or bitter accusations at worst.
All of a sudden the burning agony in his back and the torturing needles in his fingers did not feel so bad compared to the ache in his heart and the emptiness of his soul. Yet, however much he tried to focus on the physical pain, he could not make the all-encompassing sorrow disappear, and the tears that he denied himself for so long started to flow silently. Yet, even the deepest sorrow can only yield so many tears and after a while emotional and physical exhaustion slowed them to a stop.
And still his fingers kept moving of their own volition.
It was ironic that he should wish for someone to interrupt his practice when he usually resented such occurrences. He'd always chosen to play in solitude since his mother's death. Bruce alone had heard him when he invited Lex to Wayne Manor on the numerous occasions when Lionel had been out of the country or simply too busy to welcome his son home for long week-ends or vacations. Bruce knew and understood darkness better than anyone could, and knew how to soothe the raw despair that surfaced now and again in his friend. But, then again, Bruce was like a second self, a soul mate and Lex sometimes wondered playfully if he should not surprise his personal assistant by bursting out passionately, a la Catherine Earnshaw: "Lorraine, I am Bruce! - he's always, always in my mind". Yet, though Heathcliff was certainly as good a fictional counterpart as any for Bruce, Lex didn't feel a particular affinity with Emily Bronte's temperamental heroine, other than her matter of fact exposition of feelings that transcended explanation.
Clark was different and, though Lex hated spewing platitudes, he could not find a better reason for the instant fascination that had possessed him than the hackneyed "opposites attract". Yet, he and Clark were similar too. More than anything else they were like the positive and negative of a same picture. This probably explained why Clark was intuitively aware of Lex's situation, why he always turned up in time to rescue him.
But not this time.
Lex had finally exhausted Clark's good will and, in spite of all his efforts, had obviously failed to make him understand the real fear that the shadow lurking at the edge of his soul inspired in him. Neither had he managed to convey his conviction that Clark, and Clark alone, could keep the terrifying feeling at bay.
And Lex kept playing as loneliness, fear, pain, and despair filled his mind, whirling in time with the rapid tempo of the Impromptu.
Read Nuala's Sequel: Kaleidoscope, Part Deux