iCarly Inseparable
- 3 years ago
- 27
- 0
ICarly: ICan't Do This - Chapter 3 free porn video
iCarly: iCan't Do This - Chapter 3: Rolling Down The Hill
"Sam, what's the matter? You're not yourself today."
"Shut up Gibby," I hiss, but it comes out flat and sad, so I just tug his underwear harder, jerking his feet off the ground. And boy, I must be really fucked up if Gibby's noticing it.
"I'm just worried about you Sam. It's – ah! – just not like you to be this sloppy." I tug viciously, but my heart's not in it. "I mean, I had to find you today!" I sigh and let his underwear go.
"Whatever Gibby, just get out of here. I'll find you later. I can't focus when you're all talky."
Gibby puts his hand on my shoulder, "You can tell me Sam."
I grit my teeth, looking at the ground, "No, I can't." I shrug his hand off. I lean back against the lockers, crossing my arms. "Just drop it Gibby."
He shrugs, putting his hands in front of him, "Okay, okay. I can take a hint."
"Really Gibby?" I snarl.
"But I'm here if you need me."
He walks away gingerly and I'm alone. I sigh, finally. It feels right to be alone. My blond curls shield my face, and I narrow my vision to a square of linoleum. That's why it comes as shock when a hand shoves my shoulder and I bang into the lockers.
"You Puckett?" A senior sneers, pushing me again. I recognise him from the basketball team, him and two of his buddies. I get a bad feeling about this, but I'm sick of running.
"Yeah, what of it?"
He stabs a finger in my chest, "You made my baby brother cry. Now every time he hears the word Sam he starts blubbering. And his name is Sam!"
I scoff, looking away from him. "Not my fault your brother's a dork." I look him up and down, "Must run in the family."
He looks to his friends for backup. "It's time to teach you a lesson Puckett."
I snort, "What are you, a walking cliché? Oh, 'it's time to teach you a lesson Puckett'." I imitate him in a falsetto, feeling the familiar emotion of anger growing in my gut. "Call me when you grow a pair."
I move to walk away, and I can feel him seething behind me. His first punch is clumsy, fuelled by rage. I dodge it easily and catch him on the ear. I manage a few more punches while his friends stand there stunned, and he's on the ground by the time they manage to grab my arms.
My hand feels swollen and twice its size, and I know I've torn more stitches – a lot more, judging by the amount of blood that soaking my bandages. The senior gets up, wiping his bloody mouth and spitting. If I was smart I'd make a break for it. If I cared at all I'd run. But I don't know, maybe I deserve it. Maybe I deserve to be punished. All I seem to do is hurt people – hurt Carly – and maybe it's time I got hurt.
His first punch hits me in the stomach and I double up, white bursts exploding across my vision. I suck in a deep breath, gasping, his friends holding my sagging body up. The next cuts across my cheek, his ring cutting the skin open. I laugh a little at that, as if I haven't bled enough this week. My laugh only seems to enrage him, and he motions his friends to let go of my arms.
He shoves me back into the lockers, hard, and my head hits head, jarring my neck. I slide to the ground, still laughing weakly. It's just so stupid, so goddamn pointless. All of it. He's screaming at me to get up, and then he's kicking me. I shield my body a little, reflexively, gasping as his foot swings into my stomach and pushes the breath out of me.
I taste blood, and realise I must've cut my mouth when he punched me. It sprays out, coating the linoleum when he kicks me again, trying to get a reaction, and he falters. He swears and leaves, and I'm left rolling there in agony, feeling my stomach burn and drooling blood. It seems like all I've been doing this week has been trying to breathe, taking in big, cold breaths that are never enough.
I'm not sure who it was that found me, and to be honest, I don't really care. They're not gonna get a medal for saving me, or even thanks. Maybe they weren't even the first person who found me, just one who didn't know me well enough to keep going. I grunt when they stand me up, hands around my abdomen, which feels all sore and soft, like a piece of ripe fruit. That's been kicked.
And then Carly's there, face all worried. And some stupid puppy-dog part of me wants to tell her not to. To tell her that's everything's fine, it's just a scratch. But I'm feeling all slow and heavy again, and I know even she wouldn't believe me this time.
She comes with me to the nurses' office, and holds my relatively good hand and they strip my shirt off and poke and prod me. She cries when she sees my abdomen, all swollen and covered in dark swathes of bruises. She doesn't mind when I squeeze her hand as they re-do my stitches, and she hugs me gingerly when they leave us alone for a moment.
But I wish they wouldn't leave us alone. She's looking at me with pity, and there's that look, that I-don't-understand look again. "Sam, why won't you tell me what's going on?"
Even sad she's beautiful. But I can't tell her that, so I sigh and run a hand through my hair, looking away from her.
"Nothing. I'm fine." And usually I'm good at lying.
But I can't lie to her well, especially when it's so obvious I'm not fine.
"Why won't you tell me? You just got the shit kicked out of you Sam, and I have no idea why you'd do that." She's gripping my face, trying to get me to look at her, but all I can manage are quick little glances that hurt me. I shrug myself out of her grip, wincing.
"It's not like it was my choice Carls, it just sort of happened."
"That's bullshit." Her voice is like a slap, and I've never heard that resentment in her voice before... and it's directed at me. "You don't let that sort of thing happen. I know you-"
I cut her off, "You don't know me that well Carly."
She laughs bitterly, turning away from me, "Like hell I don't!" She turns back, and her face is softer, and her tears have stopped. "But maybe you're right. The Sam I know doesn't let herself be beat up. The Sam I know doesn't hide secrets from her best friend and then lie to her face!"
And I wish I could be angry, but she's right. The Sam she knew wouldn't do those things. But I'm not the Sam she knew. I haven't been for a while now. It's just that things are spiralling out of control, and I can't pretend to be the Sam she loved. And I'm sitting there quietly, arms wrapped around myself, holding in the hurt, and taking everything she says until she's out of breath. I sneak a glance at her and she's shaking, staring at me with such hurt in her eyes.
"I'm sorry." The words slide out, whispered. And her anger's gone and all that's left is concern.
"Please Sam, let me help you. Let me be your friend."
I almost laugh again. If she knew that that word, 'friend', hurt me more than the ass-kicking ever could... but she can't know. I can't lose her. And I realise there's irony in the fact that I'm losing her anyway, that I'm closing her off and retreating in on my myself, but I can't stop myself. And it's like when we were little, and we rode our bikes down that big hill. We just kept going down faster and faster, and no matter how hard we tried, no matter how scared we were, we couldn't stop.
I'm hugging my knees to me, sitting on the sick bed, and rocking back forth, welcoming the throb of pain in my abdomen every time I do it. "I can't Carly. I- I just can't. You don't understand."
Carly sighs, exasperated, "Then make me understand. I wanna help you! But you have to let me! Please Sam, I love you." And all of a sudden, the pain isn't so welcoming. It's crushing my lungs and blurring my vision, and I push her hand away, standing.
"I... I'm sorry Carly. I'm so sorry."
I ignore her plaintive, "Sam..." knowing I'll regret it enough later, and brush past her.
She doesn't follow me. She always follows me. I feel myself rolling down that hill, and, just like then, I can't stop myself.
"Sam, what's the matter? You're not yourself today."
"Shut up Gibby," I hiss, but it comes out flat and sad, so I just tug his underwear harder, jerking his feet off the ground. And boy, I must be really fucked up if Gibby's noticing it.
"I'm just worried about you Sam. It's – ah! – just not like you to be this sloppy." I tug viciously, but my heart's not in it. "I mean, I had to find you today!" I sigh and let his underwear go.
"Whatever Gibby, just get out of here. I'll find you later. I can't focus when you're all talky."
Gibby puts his hand on my shoulder, "You can tell me Sam."
I grit my teeth, looking at the ground, "No, I can't." I shrug his hand off. I lean back against the lockers, crossing my arms. "Just drop it Gibby."
He shrugs, putting his hands in front of him, "Okay, okay. I can take a hint."
"Really Gibby?" I snarl.
"But I'm here if you need me."
He walks away gingerly and I'm alone. I sigh, finally. It feels right to be alone. My blond curls shield my face, and I narrow my vision to a square of linoleum. That's why it comes as shock when a hand shoves my shoulder and I bang into the lockers.
"You Puckett?" A senior sneers, pushing me again. I recognise him from the basketball team, him and two of his buddies. I get a bad feeling about this, but I'm sick of running.
"Yeah, what of it?"
He stabs a finger in my chest, "You made my baby brother cry. Now every time he hears the word Sam he starts blubbering. And his name is Sam!"
I scoff, looking away from him. "Not my fault your brother's a dork." I look him up and down, "Must run in the family."
He looks to his friends for backup. "It's time to teach you a lesson Puckett."
I snort, "What are you, a walking cliché? Oh, 'it's time to teach you a lesson Puckett'." I imitate him in a falsetto, feeling the familiar emotion of anger growing in my gut. "Call me when you grow a pair."
I move to walk away, and I can feel him seething behind me. His first punch is clumsy, fuelled by rage. I dodge it easily and catch him on the ear. I manage a few more punches while his friends stand there stunned, and he's on the ground by the time they manage to grab my arms.
My hand feels swollen and twice its size, and I know I've torn more stitches – a lot more, judging by the amount of blood that soaking my bandages. The senior gets up, wiping his bloody mouth and spitting. If I was smart I'd make a break for it. If I cared at all I'd run. But I don't know, maybe I deserve it. Maybe I deserve to be punished. All I seem to do is hurt people – hurt Carly – and maybe it's time I got hurt.
His first punch hits me in the stomach and I double up, white bursts exploding across my vision. I suck in a deep breath, gasping, his friends holding my sagging body up. The next cuts across my cheek, his ring cutting the skin open. I laugh a little at that, as if I haven't bled enough this week. My laugh only seems to enrage him, and he motions his friends to let go of my arms.
He shoves me back into the lockers, hard, and my head hits head, jarring my neck. I slide to the ground, still laughing weakly. It's just so stupid, so goddamn pointless. All of it. He's screaming at me to get up, and then he's kicking me. I shield my body a little, reflexively, gasping as his foot swings into my stomach and pushes the breath out of me.
I taste blood, and realise I must've cut my mouth when he punched me. It sprays out, coating the linoleum when he kicks me again, trying to get a reaction, and he falters. He swears and leaves, and I'm left rolling there in agony, feeling my stomach burn and drooling blood. It seems like all I've been doing this week has been trying to breathe, taking in big, cold breaths that are never enough.
I'm not sure who it was that found me, and to be honest, I don't really care. They're not gonna get a medal for saving me, or even thanks. Maybe they weren't even the first person who found me, just one who didn't know me well enough to keep going. I grunt when they stand me up, hands around my abdomen, which feels all sore and soft, like a piece of ripe fruit. That's been kicked.
And then Carly's there, face all worried. And some stupid puppy-dog part of me wants to tell her not to. To tell her that's everything's fine, it's just a scratch. But I'm feeling all slow and heavy again, and I know even she wouldn't believe me this time.
She comes with me to the nurses' office, and holds my relatively good hand and they strip my shirt off and poke and prod me. She cries when she sees my abdomen, all swollen and covered in dark swathes of bruises. She doesn't mind when I squeeze her hand as they re-do my stitches, and she hugs me gingerly when they leave us alone for a moment.
But I wish they wouldn't leave us alone. She's looking at me with pity, and there's that look, that I-don't-understand look again. "Sam, why won't you tell me what's going on?"
Even sad she's beautiful. But I can't tell her that, so I sigh and run a hand through my hair, looking away from her.
"Nothing. I'm fine." And usually I'm good at lying.
But I can't lie to her well, especially when it's so obvious I'm not fine.
"Why won't you tell me? You just got the shit kicked out of you Sam, and I have no idea why you'd do that." She's gripping my face, trying to get me to look at her, but all I can manage are quick little glances that hurt me. I shrug myself out of her grip, wincing.
"It's not like it was my choice Carls, it just sort of happened."
"That's bullshit." Her voice is like a slap, and I've never heard that resentment in her voice before... and it's directed at me. "You don't let that sort of thing happen. I know you-"
I cut her off, "You don't know me that well Carly."
She laughs bitterly, turning away from me, "Like hell I don't!" She turns back, and her face is softer, and her tears have stopped. "But maybe you're right. The Sam I know doesn't let herself be beat up. The Sam I know doesn't hide secrets from her best friend and then lie to her face!"
And I wish I could be angry, but she's right. The Sam she knew wouldn't do those things. But I'm not the Sam she knew. I haven't been for a while now. It's just that things are spiralling out of control, and I can't pretend to be the Sam she loved. And I'm sitting there quietly, arms wrapped around myself, holding in the hurt, and taking everything she says until she's out of breath. I sneak a glance at her and she's shaking, staring at me with such hurt in her eyes.
"I'm sorry." The words slide out, whispered. And her anger's gone and all that's left is concern.
"Please Sam, let me help you. Let me be your friend."
I almost laugh again. If she knew that that word, 'friend', hurt me more than the ass-kicking ever could... but she can't know. I can't lose her. And I realise there's irony in the fact that I'm losing her anyway, that I'm closing her off and retreating in on my myself, but I can't stop myself. And it's like when we were little, and we rode our bikes down that big hill. We just kept going down faster and faster, and no matter how hard we tried, no matter how scared we were, we couldn't stop.
I'm hugging my knees to me, sitting on the sick bed, and rocking back forth, welcoming the throb of pain in my abdomen every time I do it. "I can't Carly. I- I just can't. You don't understand."
Carly sighs, exasperated, "Then make me understand. I wanna help you! But you have to let me! Please Sam, I love you." And all of a sudden, the pain isn't so welcoming. It's crushing my lungs and blurring my vision, and I push her hand away, standing.
"I... I'm sorry Carly. I'm so sorry."
I ignore her plaintive, "Sam..." knowing I'll regret it enough later, and brush past her.
She doesn't follow me. She always follows me. I feel myself rolling down that hill, and, just like then, I can't stop myself.
Wynona
- 01.02.2023
- 52
- 0
