For Better or Worse

by angelic_editor <Moxie406@yahoo.com>

Rated: PG

Submitted: November 2006

Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine; the words are. Please don't take legal action, as recent college graduates aren't worth suing, anyway.

Feedback: Better than chocolate, especially since I'm so new at this. Be brutal; I welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.

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So this was what a broken heart felt like.

Little earthquakes, roiling in her gut. Eyes perpetually scratchy and raw. An invisible iron band clamped around her ribs, causing every breath to catch in the back of her throat.

Funny; she had thought her outsides would match her insides.

But they didn't.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her translucent skin and impeccable makeup. Her sleek, short bob perfectly styled, veil pinned in place. Manicured nails and steady hands.

Only her eyes betrayed her. Though not red-rimmed, they were flat and dull and just ... vacant.

And this was supposed to be the happiest day of her life? Well, this sad excuse for a joke was on her, then. And she certainly wasn't laughing.

"Lois Lane," she whispered, unconsciously smoothing the bodice of the hand-beaded gown with a clammy palm. "Mrs. Lex Luthor. Lois Lane-Luthor."

The words left such a sour taste in her mouth. Why wasn't she excited? She deserved to enjoy her own wedding.

She swallowed hard. "Lois Lane ... Kent."

She sucked in a painful breath and a single tear rolled down her porcelain cheek.

"Oh, God -- I'm sorry," she hesitantly apologized to her unforgiving reflection.

She wiped at her cheek and turned away, reaching for the expensive, elaborate bouquet. The cloying scent stuck in her throat, just like the cologne Lex was so fond of.

This was so futile. There was no point in mourning what might have been -- she'd accepted Lex's proposal. She'd made a commitment. *The* commitment. She couldn't back out now.

Could she?

No. Of course not. This was a marriage, not dinner reservations.

Just beyond the heavy oak door, she heard the first strains of the wedding march. She'd expected to feel elation. Or apprehension. Even dread. But this -- this sense of defeat -- was disconcerting. And she felt strangely disconnected from herself.

She clenched her jaw. This was it, ready or not -- and she could at least play the part of the blushing bride.

Even if her heart was shattering, a thousand tiny shards pricking her esophagus.

"Clark," she murmured to herself just before the door swung open and she took Perry's arm, "I hope someday, you'll understand."

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