Wow, this is still great, Cat!
It's probably because you said that Lois was only kinda sorta dead and she would get better, or maybe it's because there is a Lois in this story in any case, but I'm not in any way frozen with horror at Lois's death in this story. Instead, I'm incredibly moved by how you write Clark's reaction to the news that she is probably dead. His panic attack, which made him so sick and faint and horrified that his powers counted for less than nothing. The way he couldn't breathe, the way he didn't dare to sit down for fear of not being able to stand up again, the way he squeezed Lois's wedding ring and unconsciously deformed the tray form she was lying on. The way he looked at her, the way she looked to him:
She had always taken care of her hair, and her nails, if nothing else. Now, though, the style was haggard and unkempt, just slightly longer than when he had first met her and no longer the pixie cut he had once adoringly teased her for. Her nails too, he noticed as he took a frail hand in his own, were uneven, a few were ragged, and there was even grime beneath them that couldn’t come out from just one washing alone, that had to have built up over time.
There were even more signs that she had had a year even harsher than his own. Her face was gaunt, cheeks more hollow than he remembered them being. He could tell, just from the harsh outline of her clavicle, that she had probably only been able to eat enough food to survive.
And there, above the collarbone and near her right shoulder, an angry scar glared up at him. It was small, round, and looked as though it had been burned.
(Of course, I have one thing to add:
Thank you for not smoking! )
Ann
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