Clouds Up - Six (6/15)
Disclaimer: ‘Smallville’ and certain characters belong to Miller-Gough et. al. No profit is gained from this writing. Only, hopefully, enjoyment.
I'll die.
Every second was darkened by that knowledge, by that certainty. Not the 'someday' of years down the road, not anymore. Now it was immediate and within sight. . . in a manner of speaking.
It wasn't until eight days later that Lucas thought to question it at all, and when he did. . .
If this dream were true, were to come to be true, did that mean the others wouldn't? For if he died next year -- summer, hot, windy, too bright -- how could he marry Lois later? How could he possibly go up into space sometime within the next eight months? That dream had felt much further away, not as close as it. . . had to be now to still be. . . valid.
Were some of them wrong? The dreams? Did they show him the truth or just the likeliest of outcomes?
And then one night nearly a month after 'seeing' his own fatal wounding, Lucas was again invited over to the Kents' for dinner. He stayed afterward to finish watching a television program with them. It was interesting, and centered around police officers and lawyers carrying out their duties. Lucas was always interested in how the law worked, how people ordered and contained and managed themselves and others.
In the end, the culprit of the crime confessed, doing so hysterically and very emotionally. Lucas thought it a very well done show. The actors were very convincing, especially the one performing the perpetrator. His guilt at the end was almost real.
"Well," Jonathan said, once the program's cast and crew credits began rolling up the screen, "score another one for the 'Twinkie Defense.'"
The Lady chuckled from her chair, flipping a page of the magazine she'd been reading. Next to Lucas, Jesse shrugged, picking up the television's remote and pushing the correct button that brought up a program guide.
Lucas just sat there. 'Twinkie Defense?'
"Excuse me, sir," he started, and Jonathan turned to meet his eyes, looking surprised. "You said the 'Twinkie Defense?' If I may. . . what is that, precisely?"
He didn't immediately receive an answer, as all three Kents went about exchanging looks and nonverbal communication. Soon, though, it appeared Jesse was the victor of whatever silent battle had been waged. Or perhaps he'd been the loser, as his face when he turned it to Lucas wasn't pleased or joyous. He appeared very serious, and perhaps. . . worried over something?
Lucas wasn't very good at deciphering facial expressions.
"It's from a famous case," Jesse told him. "Basically, the defense attorney claimed his client shouldn’t be held accountable for the lives he'd taken because of, uh," and here Jesse looked over at the Lady uncertainly, "temporary insanity?"
She shook her head. "Diminished capacity, Jess," she corrected. She broke eye contact with Jesse, moving it onto Lucas. "It wasn't an argument over whether the accused had committed the crime, in this case double homicide, but if it could justly be called murder."
"Intent?" Lucas asked hesitantly.
The Lady smiled, nodding. She looked pleased. "Exactly, Lucas. The defense posed that it wasn't a premeditated killing, saying that the night before the murders, the accused had eaten a massive amount of junk food and that that, combined with depression, was what prevented White from being capable of. . . rational thought. Therefore," she said, rolling her eyes disgustedly, "what he did, Dan White, the murderer, what he did was voluntary manslaughter, not first-degree murder."
Lucas didn't even have to work for a frown that time.
"And what was his punishment?" Lucas asked. "Was he put to death?"
"No," Martha said, smiling strangely. "No, he was sentenced to seven years in prison, but served five. Then two years after being paroled, he committed suicide. In his car."
"Good," Lucas breathed out, and while Martha's expression didn't change noticeably, Jesse's and Jonathan's did. And that was shock on their faces, plainly.
Lucas knew that one. Lots of people made that face around him.
"Lucas. . . " Jonathan started, censure in his voice.
So he turned and gave the older man his full attention, gave him, showed him that respect.
But he wouldn't apologize, and that's what he thought Jonathan was wanting.
"Just because he was depressed doesn't mean he wasn't responsible for his actions," Lucas pointed out. They were all silent, and Jesse was even leaning slightly away from Lucas, that oddly confused, worried expression back on his face. "He murdered people, whether he meant to or not. If a man hurts people, he needs to be stopped, needs to be kept from doing it again and again. And if he murdered people and wasn't kept away, then it's good that he isn't alive anymore."
That got him three very, very interesting looks in return.
"An interesting view, Lucas," the Lady eventually said into the silence. She put aside her magazine and slid from the chair, getting to her feet. "Now, on that note, anyone want dessert?"
Lucas laughed, and was the only one to do so. The Lady smiled at him as she passed the couch, though, but Jonathan and Jesse both remained. . . worried? Offended? Disgusted? Lucas couldn't tell, and so he started worrying about the two of them being worried.
He didn't like this feeling, wanted to get away from it.
So he stood, and followed the Lady into the kitchen. She was taking down plates from one of the cupboards above the counter. Next, it was a large knife out of the drawer by the sink. It was shiny and sharp. Steel. The lights from overhead glinted off the blade tip.
Lucas cleared his throat, unintentionally, and was frightened that he'd done so. Unable to even control his own reactions? What would people say?
What would Lionel say?
The Lady turned her head to meet Lucas' eyes across the kitchen. She held the knife in her hand, and he couldn't help it either when his eyes fixed on it instead of Martha's kind face.
"I think I'll take my leave now," Lucas said quietly.
"Oh, stay for pie at least," the Lady responded. "It's a new pumpkin recipe." She sounded like she was smiling. "You're all my guinea pigs tonight. We'll see how it came out."
That was a big knife she was holding and using confidently, expertly.
Stop it!
"I apologize," he said, doing that little coughing thing again despite himself, "but I really should be going. Early morning tomorrow, you know. Conference call."
"Lucas."
There was so much blood in his mouth, and his throat hurt. He couldn't breathe, but it kept coming down the tube. He tried to cough, but--
"Lucas! Honey, what's wrong? Lucas?"
A hand patted him firmly on the cheek several times, and Lucas blinked. Turned his head to the right.
She was over here now, the Lady. He glanced at where she'd been, but only the plates, pie, and dishtowel were on the counter. No knife.
"Sorry, what?" Lucas asked politely, shaking his head a little to show he was clearing it. He put on a smile.
She didn't smile back. Her hand was still on his cheek, and her other gripped him tightly by the arm.
"Lucas. . . what was that just now?" And he'd never heard that note in her voice before.
"I think I'll take my leave now," he repeated, at a loss, pulling away from her. He didn't mean it as an insult, but from the way her face looked that's how she took it. "I'm sure the pie's delicious, Mrs. Kent. Tell Jonathan and Jesse I said 'You're welcome,'" he joked.
It fell flat. She looked angry now, along with hurt, and so he nodded once more before crossing the wood floor over to the coat rack in the corner. Picking up his coat, he shot her another quick smile and a wave before jerking open the back door and moving through it quickly.
When he was back at the castle, he went straight up to the bedroom he stayed in and locked the door behind himself. He whipped his coat off and hurled it across the room in frustration. Then, going over to the windows, he went about his nightly routine of checking and making sure the bars were still intact and secure. Still strong.
For not having much experience, Lucas made a pretty good welder, if he did say so himself. Three weeks, and he'd yet to get past the bars on one of his nocturnal wanderings. The door was solid, and in addition to the one that had originally been there, Lucas had installed three more locks on it. One even had a padlock, the key to which he placed in a different place each night before going to bed. He'd put the bars up on the windows himself too, in the hope that getting past them while sleepwalking would prove just as impossible as getting through the door.
He pulled off his clothes and put them in a hamper he kept in the closet. Pulling on some soft "sweat pants," Lucas came back out into the bedroom proper. He eventually went over and picked up his coat, draping it over the back of one of the chairs near the small fireplace.
The locks, he turned, and the covers on the bed, he pulled back. He figured out that he'd need to be fully awake by five-thirty tomorrow, so he set that time in his mind and pulled the little chain on the bedside lamp, turning it off.
As he lied there, he thought back on the evening.
Twinkie Defense. Insanity.
He must have drifted down into sleep for a little while because suddenly he was sitting up, breathing heavily.
The dreams.
Insanity, that murderer's lawyer had been trying say. Don't charge my client because he's crazy. He can't help it. He didn't know what he was doing.
It came then, like a heavy shadow in his mind. People who were crazy didn't usually think they were. Had this Dan White been crazy? Had he thought he was?
Was. . . was Lucas himself. . .
Was he crazy?
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