Hello, this will be my first iCarly story that I shall post on . This is a story based upon "Facing the Swell" by NagiR. Each chapter shall be a descriptive version of the poetic version NagiR. has written. Let it be known that she's given me permission to do this story, and is even helping me with it. So, you can just say that we are kind co-writing it. I'd like everyone who likes this story to go and read the original. It's really good; I'm sure you'll like it. :D
Anyway, this has cussing in it. Remember people, this story is rated T for a reason.
Disclaimer: No, and if you want to be reminded of this, just come back here to chapter one, 'cuz I'm not gonna put this tidbit of info again.

Otherwise We'd All be Dead

Wednesday, September 23rd, 2009

When you were twelve, your mom made you pee on this little white stick, saying she was checking for viruses. (You tested negative, of course.) It was only a day later when you found the box that the pee stick had came from, that you figured out that it was actually a pregnancy test.

If there was one thing you thought you'd never do, it'd be taking that same "virus" test four years later.

You're pacing, and the crazy thing is, you hate pacing, and you hate people who paced in front of you because it got you all worked up for nothing, but you're sure as hell doing it right now. You near the only window of your bathroom, and just as you were about to make contact with it, you turn sharply around, trudging forward in the other direction, and repeating that same motion as you're about to collide with the musty old oak of bathroom door.

Stopping, you look down at the slim white stick (or Death Stick, as you've dubbed it) in your hand which is white and blank at the moment and you shake it vigorously, trying to make it give you a faster answer—an answer that would favor you.

You shake the stick again, and continue pacing. So many things were wrong with this situation that it wasn't even funny. You stop in front of the bathroom mirror, and set the Death Stick down on the edge of the used-to-be white porcelain, and run a hand through you tangled mane. Inspecting yourself in the mirror, you see that your hair is a complete mess, you face is so fucking greasy that it felt like it had been dunked into a tub full of lard, you stink from lack of shower, and you're two weeks late.

Reaching into your coat pocket, you take your cell phone out and check the time—only thirty seconds until your possible death sentence. Time ticks away quite fast compared to the other four minutes and thirty seconds of pure, utter hell you have gone through. And now it's time and pick up the Death Stick.

The Death Stick in your hand, which you've come to know as a home pregnancy test, shakes because you can't control the horrible tremor that's overcome your hand, and you don't think you can let your eyes wander down to find out the result. But after only a moment of complete silence and confidence building, you force your eyes to and you wish you hadn't because now you think you're going to die.

That little plus is staring right back at you in its proud, pink coloring.

You've always hated math and the color pink.

Your cell phone is singing some Drake Bell song that you can't remember the name of at the moment, it's probably Carly, or maybe even the dork, calling to ask why you haven't been to school for the past three days, which you're bound to make four.

But you just let it sit there, in your coat pocket that lays discarded and forgotten atop a pile of clothes across the room. Nothing inspires you to ascend from your somewhat comfy bed and make the trek to get it. You don't want to deal with all the crap you know they'll give you for skipping school and them for so long.

So you just lie here, on your bed, and stare up at the white ceiling above you. That ceiling of yours has seen so many things over the years that it makes you sick—'things' meaning your weaknesses, of course: crying, bleeding, your mom (in her many states of mind), your secrets...

You ease out a sigh, and don't care enough to listen as your cell goes into another song by Drake Bell. You just close your eyes and let the fatigue you've accumulated over the past three days bring you back to your slumber. You mustn't keep those anxious nightmares waiting.

"Wake up..."

An almost soft murmur reins over the silence that occupies your room, one that tears a rip through your already unsettled dreaming, one that you refuse to listen to.

"Wake up."

Now more demanding, hinting that if you don't do as they say, you'd end up with the ham you have hidden in your sock drawer (which you know they know where it is) out your window. So you crack one eye open and lock gazes with the chocolate brown, Hershey Kiss eyes of Carly Shay. And you can't help but think that they could piece through a dozen monuments.

But you just stare back into her unforgiving eyes, rebelling against them with your own.

"Why haven't you answered any of my calls or called me or something to let me know that you weren't dead?!" that's a question you've already expected her to ask. Her expression held one of worry and disbelief. But, hey, how could she really not? You're always at her house—apartment, whatever—always raiding her fridge, always doing whatever the hell you please.

She must think something is seriously wrong with you. And you know she's right on the mark, of course, if she's thinking that, which she probably is, because she's Carly Shay, your best friend.

Something is seriously wrong with you.

Should you tell her?

That's the question that's been plaguing your mind ever since you woke up two hours ago to Carly and her worriment. But really, should you tell her? She's your best friend, and you know she'll stick by you through thick and thin. Hell, she's been with your since the 3rd grade, she's already been with you through a lot of the "thick and thin" that pertains to your life. C'mon, getting knocked up isn't the worst you've done in your life. Right?

Sighing, you dig out a spoon full of chocolate ice cream from the bucket of Kilken's and place it into your mouth, actually savoring the delicious chocolate and not quickly diminishing it like you would usually do, but, hey, you don't usually go making your best friend worry about you for three days because of an act of stupidity that you did at a summer party.

Carly's also partaking in the enjoyment of the sweet treat, but she's doesn't look wholly satisfied, not in the least bit. Which this only brings you back to that haunting question of yours:

Should you tell her?

The question reins as a major priority to be answered, at least in your mind; the question practically needs to be answered because, otherwise, you'll go insane, more so than you already are.

Shouldyoutellher?Shouldyoutellher?Shouldyoutellher?

It keeps repeating itself over and over and over in your mind, like a broken record player.

Carly takes the spoon from her mouth and sets it in the Kilken's ice cream bucket that you two are sharing. You're both not worried about how "germy" that notion is because you've known one another too long to even think of that.

"Tell me what's going on with you..." she whispers, gently, caring, worriedly. And, before you can think about it once more, you do:

"I'm—I'm pre—pregnant..." it comes out strangled and you feel like you're on the verge of passing out, but you know that if you do, Carly will be there to catch you. You take comfort in that.

As you've expected, after all of the emotional shit has passed, Carly wants to know who the father is, but you don't think you're strong enough (that's a silly thing to think about—you not strong enough to do something, that is) to tell her, not just yet.

Hell, you doubt even the guy who knocked you up even remembers that night, you both were pretty damn well wasted that night and plus (oh, how you hate that sign), how can you tell her that it's Freddie, the tech-nerd, the dork, the guy you've bullied since as far back as you can remember?!

How can you tell her that?

You won't.

You can't.

You're not.

Please review and tell me if you liked it or not. Tell me what should I work on, and whatnot, please. I'd appreciate that.
:D