Heart of Stone

Chapter 2

Author Note: 
Loosely based on DC characters- heavily influenced by Smallville. But NOT a Smallville fic.

I've been a long time Superman fan from day 1 and always longed for a story that would show Clark Kent struggling with his powers, and overtime realizing they're a gift that he can use for the good of humanity.

Heart of Stone does not fall into any canon - though I do borrow snippets from shows or books I like. This is my take on Clark Kent's early years. Please vote and comment. Happy reading!

A sound like bones snapping cuts through the silence and I wince. For a heartbeat I fear I've crippled someone else, but when I look down it's just a broken branch. Blood rushes to my head and I remind myself to breathe.

A sound like bones snapping cuts through the silence and I wince. For a heartbeat, I fear I've crippled someone else, but when I look down it's just a broken branch. Blood rushes to my head and I remind myself to breathe.

There is nothing around for miles except woodland. Nobody got hurt, at least not this time. I force my feet to keep moving, ignoring the chill seeping into my bones. The skeletal trees cast ghostly shadows over the snow-covered ground. The trees grow closer together here. It's as if I'm trapped inside a dungeon, the bars growing ever narrower the longer I walk.

But the truth is, there isn't a prison cell on earth that can hold me.

I look down at my hands and recoil.; five fingers on each hand, like everybody else. I might look like a normal human, but looks can be deceiving. The reflection looking back at me from the brook's surface is a monster, plain and simple, a monster that should be six feet underground, not mingling with civilians.

Somedays I wonder if I'm even human at all.

I blink and take a deep breath, pushing the thought out of my mind. I'm overthinking things as usual. Of course, I'm human. My birth parents are two of the most human people I know.

I shove my fists into my coat pockets and turn down a familiar, worn dirt path. I've walked down this road more times than I care to remember, but now each step is like a punch to the gut.

There's the overturned old trunk Pete and I used to play 'Pirates' in, a mile away from his house. Over there, across the rolling cornfields, past the swamp, and through a tangle of weeds and gnarled branches, is the treehouse Pete and I built. Pete dubbed it our 'Fortress of Solitude,' a safe haven away from girls with Cooties. Despite my dread, I can't help but chuckle.

That never stopped Jill Kent, though. She's always been about as subtle as a runaway locomotive. My amusement is short-lived.

Because of me, Pete will never climb the ladder to our fortress ever again. I should have listened to Dad. It was a mistake to join the football team. I had been so careful, running slow as molasses, even tripping over the ball on numerous occasions to the point I was nicknamed King Klutz by our teammates. It only took one second of lapse of judgment to ruin everything.

Freaks don't get to play football with normal people.

Freaks don't get to have friends.

Freaks don't get the girl.

Freaks like me deserve to be buried alive and lost to the idles of time.

I comb my unsteady fingers through my hair and let out a frustrated sigh. To continue, or not to continue? Now that is the question. My heart is beating a mile a minute. Down that hill is nothing but misery, a reminder of why I can't be around other people. Pete Ross would have been better off if he'd never met me.