Alone?

Yes. But not for long.

He can hear footsteps creaking on the wooden floor towards him, they echo fast and determined at first, but then they stop, hesitating somewhere in the middle of the room. He blinks and for a moment he can see a flash of white amidst the greys and the blacks of his horizon. Then darkness comes rushing in again.

"Who's there?"

"It's me, father." His son's voice is smooth and fluid like mercury but it falters on the last syllable.

Lionel leans back into the armchair, drumming the surface of the desk that divides them with his index fingers.

"Lex. What do you want?"

"Brought some cognac."

He reaches out for it, but his arm swings into nothing at first, then his fingertips brush against something that feels like skin so he stops and waits for Lex to guide his hand around the glass of cognac. He clenches the glass hard as he brings it to his lips, letting the sour scent seep into his half-open mouth like an alcohol kiss.

"Reluctant to touch me father? I thought you wouldn't mind, old habits dying hard and all that."

So one day he came home from the office, had a drink of water, pulled off his jacket, undid his tie, considered his options for a moment then used the tie to bind his son's wrists together. Emptied the surface of the desk with one hand, an enormous clatter as pens and books and the crystal paperweight crashed against the floor, shoved Lex down on it with the other. Kicked his legs apart.

He only realised his son was screaming when he finally stopped and sudden silence descended upon them, interrupted only by their heaving sighs as they breathed in rapid, desperate gusts of air.

He can sense some sort of movement around him, the rustle of cloth, the warmth of a body pressing closer. He keeps his elbows locked against his sides and inside his pocket the silk of his handkerchief has stuck to his palm.

"I suppose telling you it's none of your business wouldn't help."

"It is my business if you're staying in this god-forgotten town and jeopardising your future just to pursue the dubious charms of a sixteen year old virgin."

A low rumble of laughter against the nape of his neck. "For Clark? Don't be ridiculous father. He has obliged long ago anyway. But don't worry, he is not a threat to the special place you hold in my heart."

"Dad? Can I come in?"

He would knock at the office door before dinnertime, just at the point when Lionel's neck was beginning to ache and the numbers of the reports started to dance before his eyes. Lex would undress without even being asked to, leaving a trail of clothes behind him, a shirt thrown against the back of a chair, black trousers pooling on the marble floor. He would lie slowly on the leather couch of the office, his head hanging over the edge; lips moist and open like the rest of him.

Lionel would stand up, knees cracking in the process, and undoing his tie he would kneel over him. Pink lips fell wider apart still. Dinner at home never tasted this good.

He remembers his son not crying. And not looking at him. And not ever saying a word as the leather couch creaked under their weight. Afterwards he'd fall asleep, eyelids flickering at the edge of oblivion and Lionel would lift him up and carry him to bed, for the hundredth time that summer.

"No, father. As you said, we have a cause for celebration. An anniversary. Our anniversary."

"What?"

"It is mother's birthday today."

"It was, Lex. It was. Your grief is getting dusty." He blinks, trying to focus his gaze on what it must be his son's face.

He had grasped the bundle of cloth and tender flesh awkwardly, afraid he was going to drop it and the baby instantly began crying. He screamed and screamed until his poor little face grew red and splotchy and he began to hiccup.

"My son?"

"A part of you."

The disappointment when he realised this wasn't true, that all the parts of himself he had lost, all the things he had ever yearned for would never be found in that little helpless thing that drooled on the expensive sleeve of his jacket and begged blindly for love.

No matter how hard he had tried he never managed to love him. It seemed only fair to make sure his son wouldn't love him back.

Lillian didn't understand. He had married her for position, she had married him for the victories he had won. "You never loved her," said the faces at her funeral, stony-eyed like the Fates. He got home, got drunk and played the piano. He had loved her. But he couldn't mourn her for long, his hands grew sore on the keys, he soon got tired of playing the same old requiems. Underneath the lid, the ivories slept, unused for years.

A week after her death he woke up in the middle of the night, surprised at the sound of calm breathing by his side. Drowsy from sleep he turned round and saw his son, curled up on the space where her body used to rest. He must have waited until Lionel had fallen asleep to crawl under the sheets. Mouth half-open, limbs loose, his chest rising and falling peacefully. Lionel watched him for some time until he fell asleep again and forgot about it.

"Shared grief? What part of her do you think I'd ever share with you? What could I ever share with you?"

"Leave, Lex. I'm tired." A moment of silence. Then he hears a soft whisper, words on tiptoe.

"Lex? What did you say? What did you say just now?"

He expects an answer, but Lex doesn't give him one.

They had walked in the forest for hours. Clouds swirled in the sky above, Whispers were forming in the weather, but they moved on stubbornly, each one locked in his own silence. Until Lex had suddenly dashed ahead, the hospital blanket around his shoulders rising up like wings of wool. He had found that small feathery ball, helpless and trembling, sixty feet down from the pouch of sticks above. Lex had picked the little bird in his hands, holding it out to Lionel like an offering.

"It will die, son. Snap the neck and make it quick."

"But why won't its parents come and save it?"

"They can't Lex. Sometimes they can't."

Lex was pale and frail that day, as if the doctors had sucked out his childhood with needles, the cuffs of his shirt loose around slender wrists. He had burst into tears and for a moment Lionel wanted to comfort him, to tell him it would be alright but he had forgotten how to say such words. So instead he slapped him. Lex's head was tilted back violently by the force of the blow, his lip split and blood began to flow.

"Do it." His voice echoed firm and precise in the silence of the forest, like the actor's voice in an empty theatre.

Lex slowly twisted the neck until it broke and then dropped the little dead thing on the carpet of leaves beneath them. He rubbed his palms against the front of his jacket as if he was trying to clean himself from fresh death. His fingertips had turned blue. Lionel took them in his hands and held them, trying to warm them up.

There was a low rumbling noise above their heads as the October storm cracked the sky open like an egg.

Not yet. But soon. The footsteps are creaking away from him, their echo slowly fades away, until only the memory of the sound is left.

He tries to reach out for the cognac again but his hand misses the aim and the glass falls, splashing his clothes with alcohol. Sudden shock as the cold moisture seeps through his shirt, wet fingers flowing on his chest and he struggles to grab the glass before it hits the floor. It smashes between his fingers, sending a sharp stab of pain through the length of his arm.

For a moment he can see everything clearly, the shards of glass on his lap, the drop of blood rolling across the back of his palm. Then darkness comes rushing in again.

But his son was found in the end. He lived. And grown up just like him. His boy, his Lex. Just like him.