Part II of Tempest.

He was lying there, bleeding, trapped, completely helpless. His hand was outstretched towards me, and he kept repeating my name like some pathetic beaten animal, pleading for the butcher to spare his miserable existence.

He screwed me over time and time again. Fucked with my head since the day I was born. He sent me back to live in the town I almost died in, the one town in all the world where the Luthor name doesn't open doors, but instead gets them slammed in my face. All for a lesson. A lesson in how to be a man, a Luthor. I can't count the number of times I've been told what a disappoint I am to his precious fucking Luthor name. With him dead, I would be free.

He stopped calling my name, and instead called me son.

I don't think I've ever gone from such complete all consuming rage to such overwhelming guilt.

I moved as fast as I could, but it was already too late. Not two seconds after I'd freed him, the roof caved in on us both. I tried to protect him, I have the bruises on my back to prove it, but it wasn't enough.

It never is.

The Smallville doctor was a royal asshole when I first got there. He dismissed my desire to have my father transferred. I tried to get him to see he wasn't dealing with just another patient and he told me just because my father was Lionel Luthor didn't mean he'd be receiving special treatment.

That wasn't what I meant.

I think he realized that, however, as he did seem apologetic. Whether or not it was genuine, I'll never know, because my father chose that moment to wake up and call my name.

He said he knew what I'd been thinking in those moments before the roof caved in.

Then he passed out again.

I ran into Clark's mother at the hospital, and she told me her husband was missing.

I drove out to the farm to see Clark, consciously thinking that I'd lend him some support. I shouldn't have been driving at all feeling the way I was. I almost crashed the car eight times on the way. Then I went inside to see Clark, and barely managed a minute of conversation about his father before I began talking about mine.

I don't know why Clark allowed it, except that I guess he must have sensed that I wasn't trying to be selfish. I just needed to talk to someone. Needed to, or else I didn't think I'd be able to make it through life another second.

I told him what happened.

I told him I hesitated.

I think I expected him to hate me for it. After hearing what I had to say, I thought he'd wake up and realize just what kind of person I am. Instead he said it didn't matter, that the only thing which mattered was I did save my father.

My father would call it weakness.

Clark only saw it as mercy.

He asked me what I was going to do, and I told him I'd help him search for his dad. It's not like I'd be able to do any good at the hospital anyway.

Clark practically beamed at me.

We wandered in the woods for an hour before I saw it. Up above, in a tree, was Nixon's car.

I told Clark I didn't know who's it was, and suggested that we split up. Then I called Nixon's cell phone. I heard him for a second, I know I did. Then the line went dead.

But not before Clark heard me.

I didn't hear him, though. I told him I'd been trying to contact the fire department. Clark demanded to know if I was involved in what was happening to his family. With everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, I couldn't come up with anything to say. Not even the truth. I just couldn't.

Clark said it was the second time I'd hesitated that day.

And he was right.

He accused me of being out there to try and find Nixon, and even though it wasn't true, I couldn't manage to convince him of it. I couldn't say a word other then his name.

I wonder if that's how my father felt, pinned underneath that debris, begging me to save him by calling out my name.

Clark stormed off.

I couldn't bring myself to follow him.

I spent about an hour in the woods after Clark left. I wasn't lost, but� well, maybe I was lost. But not physically.

Then I realized I had to make it right. There's very few things in my life that truly matter, and Clark Kent is at the top of the list. If I lost his friendship, I'd lose a part of myself.

The better part.

The streets were a mess of debris, and I spotted at least four robberies in progress on my way back to the remnants of the mansion. I'm sure the Smallville police have their hands full lately� disasters always bring out the worst in people.

I should know.

I stopped by what was left of the mansion and retrieved my weapon, as I didn't feel particularly safe driving around town, a known billionaire, in these kinds of conditions. Then I made a few phone calls, and arranged for a satellite picture to be taken from above the woods. I was hoping to be able to gain a lead on where Clark's father and Nixon could be found.

And I did.

I arrived back at the farm and waited outside for several hours until Clark got back. To Clark's credit, he heard me out as I explained everything with regards to Nixon.

He wasn't thrilled, but he did forgive me.

I didn't deserve it.

I went back to the hospital, where the Metropolis specialist and the Smallville doctor were arguing over whether or not to operate. They both explained their reasoning to me, the local felt it would be best if we waited until my father's condition was more stabile, while the specialist felt waiting could be just as dangerous.

I decided to trust the specialist's judgement.

Then I went back to the woods to help Clark.

I don't know how to write about this. I don't know what to think� I don't know what to feel. I pulled myself back from the brink of murder only two days ago. And for what happened to� I just don't know.

The police said it was totally justified, defense of another counts the same as self-defense in a court of law. Does that make it heroic?

Because if there's one thing I don't feel like, it's a hero.

Roger Nixon (I don't think I've ever used his full name until now) was standing over Jonathan Kent, his arm raised, some kind of spike thing in his hand.

The gun was in my hand before I was even conscious of what was happening. I never even realized when I pulled the trigger.

Nixon fell over, on top of Mr. Kent.

I think I asked Mr.Kent if he was okay. I'm not really sure, though.

I was too busy staring at the man I'd just killed.

I made it through the cops questions. I made it through a conversation with Mr. Kent, that I believe actually involved him thanking me and us shaking hands. Again.

It didn't mean anything to me. Not like it had before. Not like it would have if it'd happened even an hour before.

Luthors don't show weakness. And I made certain not to show any.

But inside it was all I could feel.

I thought killing a man made people feel powerful.

I went to the hospital, to sit with my father. The doctors wouldn't tell me what was going on, said they'd been instructed by my father not to. That he wanted to tell me myself.

So I waited.

He woke up and called out to me, said my name as if it meant something to him. And he thanked me for saving his life.

Then he told me that by having the doctors go ahead with the surgery, I'd blinded him and that I should have just let him die.

In the space of less than a week, I've killed one man and blinded another. Blinded my father, after almost murdering him, as well.

Is not saving someone still considered murder?

Does it matter?

I don't know.

I don't know anything anymore.

I wonder if I ever did.

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