⠀

/ it’s worth it wym ? (She’s a struggling addict pls send help) 

/ and i like the fact that people enjoy him it’s all part of my evil plan to convert you all into being a little clarkette and it’s the exact same impact that he has in WOW. people are invited by him because he’s generally a charming guy hes so disarming he’s funny he IS genuinely nice, but what makes him so interesting is how just because he is all those things doesn’t make him any less a product of the MESS that is the callaway family when it comes to viewing the world around him and his unwillingness to accept certain realities that don’t align with his utopian la la land philosophy. kim people are dying!!!!! 

[CONTINUED, PT 3] 
            
            ❝ HEY, HEY. LOOK, ❞ his hands quickly go to her shoulders, to hold her in place.  ❝ JUST GIVE IT ANOTHER CHANCE. PLEASE, JUST ONE. THAT’S ALL I’M ASKING FOR. ❞ PITY THE BEGGAR WHO HAS ALL THE RICHES YET CLAIMS TO HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO GIVE. there is a lightness in his tone that threatens to return, the showman taking the reins and seeking to flip this horror story on its head and make it a cheap comedy (it’s safter that way, dont explain). his hands go the sides of her face as he grows closer. PLEASE LOOK AT ME, PRETEND IT ISN’T THERE. IT ISN’T THERE LARA. JUST FOLLOW MY LEAD. 
            
            ❝ AND AFTER ALL THIS IS DONE AND OVER WITH WE CAN GO OUT AND- Y’KNOW… HAVE A DRINK AT THAT ONE PLACE BY THE DOCK. THE ONE I WAS TALKING TO YOU ABOUT IN THE CAR? OR UH, IF YOU DON’T WANNA DO THAT THAT’S FINE UH- WE COULD EVEN WAIT ‘TIL THE MORNING AND WE’LL GO ACROSS THE STREET GET BREAKFAST AND…❞
            
            I’M LOSING HER.  
            
            ❝ LARA…❞ @beencroft

[CONTINUED, PT 2] 
            
            I’VE BROUGHT YOU TO THIS STRANGE SLAUGHTERHOUSE WHERE THE BUTCHERMAN WIELDS A BUTTERKNIFE. DULL AND UNSUSPECTING, BUT STILL A KNIFE WITHIN THE GRASP OF A MASTER CARVER. I LOVE YOU, I SAY, AS HE DIGS THE BLADE DEEPER INTO YOUR SKIN. 
            
            I FEEL SICK TO MY STOMACH AT THE THOUGHT OF IT BEING ME. 
            
            CALLAWAY, CARSON: “I GUESS I CAN’T HAVE TOO MUCH FUN IN MY OWN HOUSE. I WOULDN’T WANNA HURT YOUR FEELINGS.” 
            
            DINNER ALWAYS ENDS BEFORE THE FINAL COURSE AND LAST NOVEMBER HAPPENS ALL OVER AGAIN. SHE LEAVES AND HE SITS THERE FROZEN IN HIS SEAT LIKE A CHILD WAITING TO BE EXCUSED. YOU HAVE TO FINISH YOUR FOOD BEFORE YOU CAN GO TO YOUR ROOM SWEETHEART… 
            
            I HAVE TO TELL MYSELF I’M NOT A KID ANYMORE. I’M NOT A KID ANYMORE I’M NOT— BUT WHEN HE’S THERE, LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, I DON’T KNOW WHO NEEDS MORE CONVINCING. HIM, OR ME. 
            
            MIRANDA CLEARS HER THROAT WHILE SHE RISES AND TAKES CARSON’S PLATE TO THE SINK.
            
            CALLAWAY, CARSON: “UH OH! WE GOT A RUNNER.” 
            
            HE HEARS LARA DOWN THE HALL, HER FOOTSTEPS GROWING QUIETER. even when the leash is not fastened around his neck he still feels it, wants it to be there forever. it pulls him out of his seat and he leaves the kitchen without looking his father in the eye. 
            
            HE FOLLOWS HER LEAD AS HE ALWAYS DOES WITH HIS STRIDES LENGTHENING INTO A HALF JOG as the distance between them increases. here he is again, chasing her down as she heads for the hills. ❝ LARA. ❞ he calls out to her, but she doesn’t answer. ❝ LARA WAIT, STOP. ❞ when she is within range he takes her arm with a desperate tenderness, a silent cry for her that transfers over into his touch against her skin. he pulls her gently towards him. ❝ JUST LISTEN— LOOK, I KNOW. I KNOW I SHOULD’VE TOLD YOU. ALRIGHT? I WAS STUPID. I-I SCREWED UP, OKAY I DID. BUT BUT THEY’RE JUST- THEY’RE JUST LIKE THAT. IT MEANS NOTHING. ❞ he swallows hard as his eyes scan hers rapidly for any signs of life, of forgiveness. 
            
            I’M LOSING HER.  

HELL IS A HOUSE WITH THE SICKLY SWEET AROMA OF MOM’S CHERRY PIE WAFTING IN FROM THE KITCHEN AND INTO THE DINING ROOM. MY MOUTH IS AS DRY AS THIS HALF EATEN DINNER ROLL THAT SITS IN ITS LONELY CORNER ON MY PLATE, FAR FROM THE GREEN BEAN BARRIER THAT I’VE MADE THAT DIVIDES IT FROM THE HEAP OF MASHED POTATOES GLAZED OVER WITH TIME. SHE COMES IN WITH THOSE BRIGHT RED OVEN MITTENS AND SETS IT IN THE CENTER OF THE TABLE AND SUDDENLY WATER IS THROWN ONTO THE HOT DESERT SAND AND MY MOUTH IS LEFT GRAINY. I SALIVATE, BUT IT’S NOT HUNGER THAT’S MAKING ME SICK. 
            
            THERE’S A PIECE OF SOMETHING IN MY THROAT AND IT’S BEEN THERE EVER SINCE I WAS A BOY. IT’S STUCK AND I CAN’T BREATHE. IT’S STUCK AND I CAN’T SPEAK. I CAN’T WASH IT DOWN WITH THE GLASS OF LUKEWARM WATER THAT’S BEEN HALF EMPTY FOR OVER AN HOUR. I SAY NOTHING BUT HEAR EVERYTHING — THE SILVER PRONGS OF THE UTENSILS SCRAPING AGAINST THE GLASS WHILE GELATINOUS RED PASTE IS DRAWN OUT FROM FLAKY CRUST. DAD’S CHUCKLE WITH BITS OF CHICKEN HELD BETWEEN HIS UNNERVINGLY BRIGHT, WHITE TEETH, GRINDING DOWN HARD AS HIS CROOKED GRIN BROADENS WITH A DELIGHT THAT ONLY HE KNOWS. MOM’S CANDIED VOICE THAT ALWAYS GROWS HIGHER WHEN SHE’S NERVOUS AND A LAUGH I’M CONVINCED SHE’S PERFECTED IN THE UPSTAIRS BATHROOM WITH BLACK MASCARA RUNNING DOWN HER CHEEKS. 
            
            MY DAD ALWAYS USED TO SAY THAT GATHERING AT THE DINNER TABLE IS WHAT BROUGHT FAMILIES TOGETHER, BUT THE DINNER TABLE IS REALLY WHERE FAMILIES COME TO DIE. HE DIDN’T INVITE US OVER FOR A MEAL, NO. I BROUGHT THE MEAL RIGHT TO HIS DOOR AND LET HIM TEAR INTO HER RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. SAYING I LOVE YOU IS LIKE SPITTING IN HER FACE. SHE DOESN’T DESERVE IT. (BUT YOU’LL DO NOTHING BECAUSE YOU’RE JUST A BOY, AND BOYS KEEP THEIR HEADS DOWN AND THEIR MOUTHS CLOSED WHEN REAL MEN ARE AT THE TABLE). 
            

[CONTINUED PT. 3] 
            
            IT IS AN ACT, A RITUAL OF PERFORMANCE AND IN A WAY THIS /IS/ MAGICIAN’S WORK. TAKING A CHILD AND TRANSFORMING HIM INTO A CAPELESS WONDER BOY BY THE POWER OF POLITICS AND PEOPLE. I’VE DONE IT LIKE IT’S NOTHING BECAUSE I DID NOTHING. NOTHING AT ALL. his brows raise and he takes a deep breath, pushing it out sharply as he puts his hands together [clap]. ❝ IF I COULD SPEND A DAY AS CLARK CALLAWAY I WOULD, BELIEVE ME. HE SEEMS LIKE A DECENT GUY. ❞ he turns towards him, fully this time around and lifts his head. he is not so far from his height yet feels levels beneath, but before the flush returns he quickly resorts to carnival tricks. 
            
            ❝ BUT IMAGINE /THIS/…❞ hands raise to paint a picture and the show begins. 
            
            ❝ GUY COMES INTO THE SCENE ON A NICE NIGHT LIKE THIS. HE HAS NO NAME, NO CONTACTS, PRESUMABLY— /now don’t take this the wrong way/— no money. why? because the name /is/ the money. alright, you get the picture yeah.. so this guy he decides he’s gonna play a few rounds, meets this other guy too but he’s not that important. /then/ he decides to raise the bet to a level these people didn’t even know existed. still with me? good. because what happens next will blow your mind. ❞ he pauses for suspense before continuing. 
            
            ❝ he wins! crowd goes wild. some feelings were hurt, some weren’t. everybody wants to know his name and just like [snap] that he’s done it. LIKE NOTHING. now /that/, kenny that’s the true feat here. ❞ YOU’RE THE HERO, THE LION, THE KING. 
            
            ❝ HE SHOULD BE TELLING ME HOW IT’S DONE, IF I EVER FIND ‘EM. NOW THAT’S THE GUY WHO SHOULD BE ON THE BIG SCREEN. ❞ he turns, half leaning against the side as his finger points towards him. ❝ HEY, HE KINDA LOOKS LIKE YOU. ❞ CLEAN CUT CASANOVA WITH A FACE FIT TO BE ON A HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL. IT’S NEVER FELT THIS EXCITING TO BE A RICH MAN. @carissus 
            

[CONTINUED PT. 2] 
            
            A BLACK AND WHITE SCREEN FOSTERED MY FIRST STEPS INTO THE CONCRETE JUNGLE WHERE I WAS IN THE PRESENCE OF ITS GRAY SUITED KINGS, GUARDING THEIR TERRITORY LIKE LIONS WITH THEIR SHINED SHOES AND SLICKED DARK HAIR. THE SMOG OF MID AFTERNOON TRAFFIC MATCHED THE SMOKE BILLOWING OUT THE SIDES OF THEIR MOUTHS. FACES HID BENEATH BLACK FEDORAS DIDN’T SCARE THE SUBURBS OUT OF THIS CALIFORNIA KID, BUT ONLY MADE THE BLOOD RUSH TO MY FACE. A RED HOT EMBARASSMENT: DISAPPOINTMENT THAT I WAS YOUNGER, SHORTER AND WEAKER. THINGS HAVEN’T CHANGED MUCH SINCE THEN AND NOW I’M HERE WITH THE 21ST CENTURY MIDAS WHOSE TOUCH MUST BE THE REASON THIS CITY SHINES SO BRIGHT.
            
            EVEN TAKING A GLANCE AT HIM REMINDS ME OF THOSE DAYS PEAKING THROUGH  THE GAPS BETWEEN MY FINGERS WHEN I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LOOKING (YOU SHOULDN’T LET HIM WATCH THESE THINGS CARSON. NEXT THING YOU KNOW HE’S GOING TO THINK HE’S ONE OF THEM) 
            
            ❝ YOU MAKE IT SOUND LIKE I’M SOME SORTA HOUDINI… ❞ WE’RE ALL GREAT ADMIRERS OF MYSTERY AND MAGIC AREN’T WE? (SOME MORE THAN OTHERS) his mouth cracks into a grin as he looks down and shakes his head. there is a line between amusement and nervousness that he crosses as he runs a hand over the bottom of his face in an effort to show that he is in fact, laughing… that he is in fact, amused. 
            

SMOOTH TRAVELLING SMOKE EXITS HIS  MOUTH AND ENTERS MY OWN, HITS ME HARD BEFORE DISSAPEARING AS IF IT WAS NEVER THERE AND NOW I CAN’T TELL IF IT’S THE 1,000 FOOT DROP BENEATH US OR THE FEELING OF IT AGAINST MY LIPS THAT’S MAKING MY HEAD SPIN. THESE TOWERS ARE DESIGNED TO MAKE ITS ADMIRERS SEEM SMALL BUT THERE ARE BIGGER GIANTS THAT LIVE HERE AMONG US, BIGGER MEN THAT LIVE IN MUCH BIGGER WORLDS AND I FIND MYSELF IN ONE THAT I SHOULD’VE LEFT A LONG TIME AGO. 
            
            IT’S A RED HOT EMBARRASSMENT THAT ARRIVES DURING THE PUBERTAL STAGES OF BOYHOOD WHERE AWKWARDNESS IS ANOTHER PHASE TO BE OUTGROWN. ALL THIS TIME I’VE HIDDEN IN A SELF MADE NEVERLAND TO AVOID THE TERRIBLE CONSEQUENCES OF RESPONSIBILITY AND NOW THE THREAT OF MANHOOD COMES TO ME ON A DARK NIGHT IN THE FORM OF A MYSTERY, HIS CIGARETTE HELD LOOSELY IN FINGERS LIGHT ENOUGH TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE ITS FLOATING IN THIN AIR AND STRONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO IMAGINE ALL THE WAYS IN WHICH HE HAS USED THEM BEFORE. HIS STRONG SET OF EYES BURN BLACK INTO A WEAKER BLUE AND SUDDENLY I’M TWELVE YEARS OLD AGAIN SWIMMING IN A SUIT THREE SIZES TOO BIG AND STRUGGLING TO TIE A TIE WITHOUT MY MOTHER’S HELP. 
            
            I’VE LEARNED THAT THE MEASURE OF A MAN IS THE SAME AS THE DISTANCE HE KEEPS FROM ANOTHER. ONE LOOK FROM HIM AND I’M THERE AGAIN AT THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SCREEN LOOKING AT THESE IMAGINARY MEN GATHERED AT THE STREET CORNER. NOT THE KIND OF MEN YOU’D FIND AT THE COUNTRY CLUBS WITH THEIR POLO SHIRTS, TIGHT SHORTS, AND SHALLOW CONVERSATIONS BUT THE ONES WITH REAL STORIES TO TELL.