Disclaimers: Not mine.
Sequel/companion to "A truth at the edge of hearing."
With thanks to Bas, Jack, Rynia, and scynneh.
*
Dear Kon,
You don't want to know how many times I've started
this letter, asking myself how I *should* start it. You
can probably guess. You know what I'm like.
What I was like.
Obviously, if you're reading this, I'm dead and --
This is where I'm screwing up again. You're the only
one getting a letter like this that isn't part of my little
"family." I mean, my Dad's getting a letter...
Let me start again. When I was writing the drafts of
my letters to everyone else, I'd put these little questions
to myself in, like [do I really want to phrase it like this?]
and stuff like that. Just things you do when you're
editing, and the right words don't come immediately.
I tried to do the same thing for you, but I don't want to.
These letters... there's a lot in them for the others in
terms of instructions and final requests, but they
know -- I think they know -- that it has more to do with
me getting to say 'goodbye' than anything else.
I don't think I'll get to say 'goodbye' the way I want to.
It doesn't work like that.
I can talk to you here, though. I can... spend a lot of
time saying things you couldn't care less about because
I don't know how to write this letter. You should be
here. Or, I guess I should be there, with you. Writing
this is making me miss you, even though right now
you're about two hundred feet southwest and two
stories up. (The Tower) I think you're asleep, and I
wish
*
Okay, so I'm not even going to try to rewrite the
beginning. Not now. It's about a week later, and I
don't know if you're asleep yet, or not. You're in your
room, though, and I'm here, and I'm trying to figure
out what I want you to know, what I -need- you to
know for when I'm dead.
That's a lie. I know exactly what I want you to know.
I want
*
Three days later and I don't think it should be this hard.
I don't think I should be this -- what I am. I don't know
where you are, exactly, but you just signed off, so you
might be in bed back in Smallville. Or maybe you're
flying. You told me once that you do that, sometimes --
take night flights around Kansas before bed, hoping
there's at least a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere, so
that when you get back you'll be able to tell the Kents
you'd gone out for a reason.
I don't think you know how much I think about that. I
have this plan to go out there one day and plant kittens
in trees all over Kansas, just so you'll have something
to do. And so I can take pictures.
[Note: Possibly delete/reword this if you ever get a
chance to do it.]
I hope to God you're laughing at me, Kon. I don't think
I'm ever going to get this letter right.
*
Four days later and you're unconscious. You're
breathing, but you're unconscious. Don't do this. Don't
Do you have a letter for me? I think I must be the
worst kind of asshole to hope you don't.
The others think I'm working on some secret,
complicated plan to make you get better, or maybe just
taking notes about your... your -fucking- DNA. I'm
not. You need to wake up now.
*
Two days later and I almost thought this would get
easier. I thought...
Depending on when you read this, you may or may
not remember what happened. It was right after
Deathstroke came back the -second- time, and you'd
been spending all that time experimenting with your
aura, and it was down when he shot you.
And then it was down because you were unconscious,
and he shot you -again-.
Superman was the one who finally got them to pull you
out of the infirmary and into the sun. They wouldn't
listen to me. I -told- you we should tell the others about
your DNA, that it wasn't just random Kryptonian
-whatever- and I probably shouldn't write this when
I'm still pissed off.
*
A day later and this is what I was going to say: I almost
told you when you woke up. I thought it would get
easier to write this, because I was going to tell you how
much I love you.
I'm in love with you.
I've been in love with you for a long time. I don't know
exactly when I figured it out, or I would tell you. But.
I guess it -is- easier now, because I know that if I didn't
tell you then I probably won't. Because I'm a coward,
and I'm terrified of losing you as a friend, even though
I don't really think you'll freak out.
This is about me, and about how screwed up I am, and
about the fact that now that I can finally deal with the
fact that you're the best friend I've ever had, I don't
know if I can deal with anything else.
And I'm figuring something else out, too: this letter isn't
for you at all. None of them are. All of them are for me,
so I can say everything I'm too much of a -chickenshit-
to say out loud.
And I don't have any idea...
I'm giving them all to Alfred to read first, with yours
first. Alfred is the smartest man I know, and he's going
to decide if you get this or not. I don't know if I want
you to. I don't know anything, Kon, and I wish you'd
believe me when I tell you that. I wish
*
I've been trying to add something new to this for about
three weeks now. All I can come up with is this:
I love you because you make me feel like I could be
normal. I love you because you won't let me be anything
else. I love you because I can't look at you without
wanting to take off my mask and show you -everything-.
I love you because the part of me that isn't such a
complete freak thinks that maybe, maybe, you'd really
look.
And still want to be my friend.
*
I'm sorry. For everything I did and didn't do, said and
didn't say. I'm sorry if you're hurting.
You're sleeping on my floor, in my Dad's old sleeping
bag because mine is too short for you.
I never thought I'd have anything like this. And, yeah,
it's kind of messed up that you have to be 'Conner Kent'
here, too, but
I can't stop watching you sleep.
*
Feedback welcome. teland793@sbcglobal.net