Chapter 1 - The Beginning

The story of my father, Clark Kent, begins in 1965. As a child, my father was elated by his name. He would race around the house, arms outstretched in front of him, creating his own sound effects with his mouth. My grandmother, Clarabell, would sometimes help him tie a terry- cloth towel around his neck in order to make him feel more authentic. Every Halloween, he dressed up as Superman, complete with tights and cape. At around age sixteen, however, my father began to despise it. Kids would torment him and mock him. No one is really sure when his deep-rooted hatred had grown for my grandfather, but I would surmise that it was somewhere around that time.

He had arrived home from school, adorning a freshly decked black eye. He threw his books onto the parlor chair, the smallest falling to the floor. He stomped towards the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe. My grandmother was standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot of something steaming. She hadn't even heard him until his feet had stopped. She continued to swirl the wooden spoon around the cauldron until my father finally spoke up.

"Nice to see you too, Clarabell," my father sang out in the same melody used by the kids who had pummeled him just moments before. Since the age of ten, my father never called my grandmother some endearing title, such as 'Mom.' He used her first name and her first name only. She had grown to hate it and the coldness in his voice whenever the name escaped his lips. She stopped stirring and placed the free hand on her hip.

"Clark, how many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" she inquired, wiping her hands on the dishtowel next to the stove. She turned around, ready to scold him when she saw the bruised flesh around his eye. His clothes were tattered and torn. Smudges of dirt soiled his face and his limbs. His upper lip was twice the size of the bottom. Clarabell's eyes bulged farther than Clark had ever imagined. "What on earth!" she exclaimed, throwing the rag onto the counter and rushing over to him. "Clark! What happened to you! Who did this?" But Clark said nothing. Underneath his swollen lip lay a smirk, one that was pleased by the way his mother was fussing over him.

"I'm fine, Clarabell," he insisted, shrugging her hands off of him. "Geez," he mumbled as he walked past her and went to the freezer. He swung open the door and retrieved an ice pack. He wrapped it in the towel that Clarabell had thrown onto the counter and placed it over his eye.

"Oh, no, don't use that," Clarabell scowled as she went over and snatched it from him. She unwrapped the ice pack and placed it inside a clean dishtowel. She went to place it back over his eye but Clark stopped her.

"I can do it. Thanks, Clarabell." Clark held out his hand and she heaved an unhappy sigh. She let it drop into his hand and placed both of hers on her hip. Clark's hidden smirk had refused to fade as he placed the pack gently over his bruised eye and waltzed out of the kitchen as if it was the happiest day of his life. Clarabell's eyes lingered on his frame as he went up the stairs until he was behind the façade of the upstairs. She shook her head discouragingly and turned back around to tend to her stew.

"I swear," she muttered to herself as the steam poured onto her face, "That boy." She shook her head again before she placed the lid over the pot and wiped her hands off on the dirty dishrag.

Upstairs, Clark tiptoed quietly past his parents' bedroom. His father was a policeman and worked the night shift, which ran from 11:00 pm to 4:00 am. Whenever he was disturbed from sleeping he was known to throw more than a few punches. At that time, Clark didn't realize that his father had no right to act that way. But times were different back then, and parents could do virtually anything they wanted to.

He peered his head around the corner of the open doorframe, seeing his father's large silhouette on the bed, sheets tossed over him and onto the floor. He watched his abdomen rise up and lower down with each breath, something that Clark wanted to stop. But that realization wouldn't occur to him until later in life. Clark clenched his jaw due to the anger he felt towards his father and was about ready to curl his fingers around the brass doorknob and slam it shut, but he remembered what happened the last time he woke his father. After being beaten earlier that day, Clark certainly didn't need it again.

So he restrained himself, clenching his free fist (since the other was clutching the ice pack) at his side and quietly walked to his room. He gently shut the door behind him and leaned back against it. Closing his eyes, he let his head rest against on the door. He sighed and pushed himself off with the heel of his foot and staggered over his bed. He felt his body fall freely to the bed, as if it was weightless for if only a brief second. But that careless feeling dissipated as his body came in contact with the mattress and sunk down into it.

The ice pack was resting at his side, still being held in his hand, at the end of an outstretched arm. He felt the heat of his breath on his face as he breathed in the smell of his sheets. They smelled like fall and fabric softener. Clark rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He noticed that some paint was starting to peel and chip right above his bed. His eyes traced the path of the cracking paint until he couldn't follow it any further without picking his head up. Placing the ice pack over his eyes, Clark let his eyes close and rested his hands on his abdomen. He felt its rising and dropping, but was incapable of believing it did it in the same way that his father's did. They seemed like two entirely different people from two different species. His father, to Clark, was the lesser of the two. Soon, thoughts traveled out of his head as he met sleep, and the sun gently settled below the horizon.