Visitation
After speaking unsuccessfully with Alexander on Wednesday, I decided to take the advice of my physician. He had been rather perturbed at my refusal of twenty-four hour care, and was now relieved that I had "come to my senses" and would "stop running all over God's green acre."
In silence, I watched the hospital staff prepare a room for me. Once they finished, and I had secured my luggage under the bed, I curled up on my side and wept.
He wanted me to believe that he had become Lex Luthor, his father's son, cold and full of bitterness. But I couldn't. Through the facade he tried to present to me, I could see Alexander seeping through in the way he clenched his jaw, found something to hold in his hands, looked away from me to muster his defenses.
My Alexander was there, and he was in pain.
Lex wouldn't let me comfort him. He didn't want it, despite all the telltale signs that he wanted nothing more than to be held. He kept me at arm's length, and then told me to leave.
A man in Alexander's employ escorted me to the gate. Pity hung like a tangible presence between us.
Thursday night, Alexander came to my hospital room. He stepped in quietly, and if not for my difficulty sleeping, I might not have known of his visit until after the fact.
He took my hand when I reached out for him. We spoke of Lilly, of time wasted, of the man he had become. He had shed his Luthor exterior and was our Alexander once more, strong, but unafraid, aware and validating his emotions.
It was a relief to see him like this. Alexander had the strength to weather any storm; he would bend, but not break. Lex was fragile inside his shell. He would consume his sorrow and turn it into recklessness, anger, and resentment.
Lex was his father's son.
Alexander was Lillian's.
In silence, I watched the hospital staff prepare a room for me. Once they finished, and I had secured my luggage under the bed, I curled up on my side and wept.
He wanted me to believe that he had become Lex Luthor, his father's son, cold and full of bitterness. But I couldn't. Through the facade he tried to present to me, I could see Alexander seeping through in the way he clenched his jaw, found something to hold in his hands, looked away from me to muster his defenses.
My Alexander was there, and he was in pain.
Lex wouldn't let me comfort him. He didn't want it, despite all the telltale signs that he wanted nothing more than to be held. He kept me at arm's length, and then told me to leave.
A man in Alexander's employ escorted me to the gate. Pity hung like a tangible presence between us.
Thursday night, Alexander came to my hospital room. He stepped in quietly, and if not for my difficulty sleeping, I might not have known of his visit until after the fact.
He took my hand when I reached out for him. We spoke of Lilly, of time wasted, of the man he had become. He had shed his Luthor exterior and was our Alexander once more, strong, but unafraid, aware and validating his emotions.
It was a relief to see him like this. Alexander had the strength to weather any storm; he would bend, but not break. Lex was fragile inside his shell. He would consume his sorrow and turn it into recklessness, anger, and resentment.
Lex was his father's son.
Alexander was Lillian's.