Worth.

Chloe hates that word. And no, she doesn't hate it in the same sense that she hates miscellaneous words, like radish and milieu and prickle, she just plain hates it.

It tastes bad when it rises in her throat- tastes even worse when it explodes on her tongue. Gushes something like luke-warm soda and orange juice after brushing your teeth all over her palate.

She hates that word.

It's not just the word, it's everything associated with it.

The expectations that come with it.

She loves to use words- they can do so much more than simply describe things. They can feel, soothe, crunch, talk, taste and move, all within the confines of lines made on sheets of recycled trees.

Being a writer means you're entitled to vocabulary. Entitled to storylines, entitled to writer's block, entitled to whatever flits into your brain that you can get down on paper. End of story.

But with worth, you're not entitled to anything. In fact, Chloe has learned that it often disentitles you to anything whatsoever.

It makes you feel numb and stupid. Like when she was younger and got a valentine from a 'secret admirer,' only to find out it was Pete playing a cruel joke on her.

She wasn't worthy of a real valentine. Never has been, actually. Like that card he gave her- the pretty red hearts on the front mocked her heart cracking and bleeding that same raw sienna hue, dripping the remnants onto the floor which was already littered with her pride.

And if she was now thinking in terms of gross metaphors and hearts with blood, then Smallville really was not a good place to grow up.

Humility is an interesting word. It makes her think of sackcloth, ashes, penitance.

It's not demeaning in the way that not being worthy is. The penance you suffer for the word itself is often far more pleasant when you get down the road. Because afterwards, you've earned something. Forgivness, a new sense of self.

But worth. Yuck.

She's not worth it, never has been. Worth anything, worth everything, worth nothing. Worth, worth, worth.

How many times has she tried to prove this wrong, only to end up in the dirt, on the wrong side of the line in the sand she drew herself? How many times can she paint herself a fool?

Sometimes, when she thinks of her worthiness, her vision clouds with sprays of evergreen. She sees in green.

Green, the color of jealousy. Of envy. Of one of the seven deadly sins. How utterly fitting.

Some say that green is the symbol of life- of nature renewing itself. But Chloe is a green weed sprung from the earth, and never has she been seen to be anything but a dandelion.

Somewhat pleasing to look at, but oft dismissed for her over-all lack of...usefulness.

It seems fitting, therefore, that when she thinks of the word Worth she sees only green. Of course, she couldn't see pink like the Lady Lana. That is a color reserved for princesses, for girls with pretty eyes and shiny hair and the love of the one boy Chloe has ever wanted. The word pink tastes like lemonade left out in the sun too long on her tongue, and she pushes it out of her mind as fast as she can.

Of course Worth couldn't taste like maize, a color and word she associated with Clark. When she tasted that word, it felt like home- warm, light, airy and comforting, like the old wool blanket she carried around with her when she was a child. Like tinges of betrayal, of pain, but coated over with the wonderful feeling of warm, sweet clothes come straight from the dryer.

Worth also couldn't taste like Lime, the color she put with Pete. Zingy, colorful and a bit tartly sarcastic, the word itself rolled on her tongue and tasted oddly like...cookie dough, and tears, and movies- when she was heartbroken over some trauma in her life and Pete would comfort her in strange ways on a boy could think would work.

No, worth couldn't taste like any of those, because it was...worth. It was dirty, it was painful, and it was humiliating.

It defined a whole of her that she didn't like to believe in, didn't like to think about.

And so she'll go on pretending that word doesn't even exist, as though it has been wiped clear from vocabulary and dictionary alike.

Pretend that she sees in sepia, all rich tones and contrast and oh-so-different from green.

Green is not in her vocabulary either, anymore. Jealousy, envy, resentment- why, no, they don't have a permanent harbor in her mind. No, not at all.

She sighs, pushing away her stale coffee and slamming her pen against her dangerously empty notebook. Notices the green ink her pen has bled and throws it with force, ignoring the stunned and worried looks of the customers in the seats next to her.

It's all that damn word's fault. She told herself she wouldn't think of worth anymore. And there, she's said it again.

She slams the notebook closed, throwing her change on the table and storming out. It doesn't matter who points or stares- she's not worth their time, right?

And there it is again- worth, worth, worth. She stops to give an innocent stone a meaningful kick, angrily humming a nameless tune in her head to drown out the reverberating echoes of that word in her mind.