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mamajoanI'm sick of this rattling around in my brain, so here it is. If you're not into Smallville, move along now. :)
Martha dreams of being pregnant. In dreams her belly swells up round and white and softly glistening, like a pearl, and she is terrified. She knows, in that way you know things in dreams, that the thing inside her is evil, a monster, a freak. When Jonathan smiles and bends his ear to her belly, she wants to scream and shove him away; she can feel the atrocity inside writhing and clawing, eager to tear its way out through her navel and attack its father. Her breasts grow heavy with milk that burns her nipples like acid, preparing to nourish and sustain this evil thing that she, God help her, still wants to birth.
She used to have this dream frequently, in the months after Clark first found them, after the adoption was final. She would awaken sweating and wide-eyed and be down the hall before her head had fully cleared, standing by the little boy's crib with a pillow in her hand, poised. She would stop then, still gripped in the nightmare's desperate horror, her vision blurring and sparkling momentarily from the head-rush of getting out of bed too quickly. Her breathing would slow, then speed up again as she realized what she had almost done. She would tiptoe out backwards, watching the slow peaceful rise and fall of little Clark's chest; tiptoe back down the hall and slide back between the sheets, shivering with more than cold. Jonathan never awoke, and she never told him.
One night this ritual was repeating itself when a twist appeared. She blinked away the starry field of dizziness to find Clark's eyes open, watching her quietly, calmly. She gasped, almost a shriek. The pillow dropped from her fingers as if in denial. Then the boy -- the little boy -- her little boy -- her son said one of the new English words he had just learned: "Mommy." And smiled, a quiet contented smile, not the huge dazzling grin she knew he was capable of.
Martha didn't cry, because she doesn't cry ... much ... but she felt finally safe to step closer and run her hand gently across his forehead. "Back to sleep, sweetheart," she crooned at him, and he obediently closed his eyes. She stroked his velvety forehead and cheeks for a long time, and then stood just watching him sleep.
In the morning she told Jonathan the whole story, and after that the dreams stopped.
But now they have started up again. She traces it back to last year, when Clark started high school, when Clark started growing up ... when Lex Luthor entered their lives. Clark's life, really. Martha dreams again of being pregnant, and again she feels that fear, but different; she's not scared any more of the thing inside her, she's scared now of something outside. And in these dreams, nowadays, it's Lex who bends over and croons softly to her belly, laying his bizarre bald head against it to listen. And now when the creature, the child inside her moves in response, it makes her smile. She puts her hand gently on Lex's head and says, "I made doughnuts." And his face lights up, and she laughs fondly at him. "But don't look," she says teasingly, "it's bad luck!"
But despite the cheer she displays in the dreams, they are still suffused with fear, with the same dreadful anticipation of something bad looming. She still wakes up sweating and breathless, and she still doesn't tell Jonathan.
I never said it was coherent. Or even complete. Isn't that the definition of a snippet?
Martha dreams of being pregnant. In dreams her belly swells up round and white and softly glistening, like a pearl, and she is terrified. She knows, in that way you know things in dreams, that the thing inside her is evil, a monster, a freak. When Jonathan smiles and bends his ear to her belly, she wants to scream and shove him away; she can feel the atrocity inside writhing and clawing, eager to tear its way out through her navel and attack its father. Her breasts grow heavy with milk that burns her nipples like acid, preparing to nourish and sustain this evil thing that she, God help her, still wants to birth.
She used to have this dream frequently, in the months after Clark first found them, after the adoption was final. She would awaken sweating and wide-eyed and be down the hall before her head had fully cleared, standing by the little boy's crib with a pillow in her hand, poised. She would stop then, still gripped in the nightmare's desperate horror, her vision blurring and sparkling momentarily from the head-rush of getting out of bed too quickly. Her breathing would slow, then speed up again as she realized what she had almost done. She would tiptoe out backwards, watching the slow peaceful rise and fall of little Clark's chest; tiptoe back down the hall and slide back between the sheets, shivering with more than cold. Jonathan never awoke, and she never told him.
One night this ritual was repeating itself when a twist appeared. She blinked away the starry field of dizziness to find Clark's eyes open, watching her quietly, calmly. She gasped, almost a shriek. The pillow dropped from her fingers as if in denial. Then the boy -- the little boy -- her little boy -- her son said one of the new English words he had just learned: "Mommy." And smiled, a quiet contented smile, not the huge dazzling grin she knew he was capable of.
Martha didn't cry, because she doesn't cry ... much ... but she felt finally safe to step closer and run her hand gently across his forehead. "Back to sleep, sweetheart," she crooned at him, and he obediently closed his eyes. She stroked his velvety forehead and cheeks for a long time, and then stood just watching him sleep.
In the morning she told Jonathan the whole story, and after that the dreams stopped.
But now they have started up again. She traces it back to last year, when Clark started high school, when Clark started growing up ... when Lex Luthor entered their lives. Clark's life, really. Martha dreams again of being pregnant, and again she feels that fear, but different; she's not scared any more of the thing inside her, she's scared now of something outside. And in these dreams, nowadays, it's Lex who bends over and croons softly to her belly, laying his bizarre bald head against it to listen. And now when the creature, the child inside her moves in response, it makes her smile. She puts her hand gently on Lex's head and says, "I made doughnuts." And his face lights up, and she laughs fondly at him. "But don't look," she says teasingly, "it's bad luck!"
But despite the cheer she displays in the dreams, they are still suffused with fear, with the same dreadful anticipation of something bad looming. She still wakes up sweating and breathless, and she still doesn't tell Jonathan.
I never said it was coherent. Or even complete. Isn't that the definition of a snippet?
