Chapter 1: The Funeral
Freddie remembers the day Carly died.
It had been a rainy day, the sky an ominous sign of things to come. Rain beat down on the roads, feet splashed hurriedly in and out of puddles, and the wind drowning out the voices of others with its own howls. He had heard distant sounds that cracked in the air – he knew he had not been the only one who had heard it, because other people in the café had turned their heads absently at the direction of the faint noise, but lightning had streaked through the dark sky right after. Some jumped, some winced, but all went back to their business, automatically connecting the foreign sound with thunder.
He should have known better.
It is hard to forget the pristine sheet that covered her body, the flashing headlines that screamed '20 YEAR OLD WEB CELEBRITY KILLED IN ROBBERY SHOOTOUT', the crying and the sobbing and the golden halo spread around Sam's body that would never be fully healed from the bullet wounds that flecked her shoulder. He does not want to remember the memory that is burned in his brain but he also does not want to forget.
He remembers the funeral.
It had rained that day, too, except it was milder, softer than the day of the incident. It was as if Carly was weeping for her body up in the skies as she gazed down at all of them, the mass of black and white huddled tightly together under inappropriately colorful umbrellas. His left hand had gripped at the handle of his blue umbrella, the right clutched around the black handle of Sam's wheelchair. He does not remember what Sam had worn – something black and long, he knows that much – because it felt so wrong to think about anybody but Carly.
It is like being back in middle school again, but for all the wrong reasons. There was once a simpler time when the biggest crisis of his life was his unrequited crush on Carly starting in the sixth grade. He still winces every so often whenever he remembers a flash of his younger years spent on wooing Carly. Sam had been right about him having had stalker-like tendencies around Carly (although he would have never admitted it to the blonde-haired demon outright) – thank goodness he had changed. But now everything is the least of his worries.
Carly is dead. That is all that matters.
He remembers noticing that Sam had not cried – at least not early into the funeral. He only remembers because her stainless, pale face contrasted starkly against the tear-streaked faces of friends, family members, and strangers. Of course he had cried. He had never been one to mask his feelings. But Sam's self-control had been worth taking note of. While others might have seen an emotionless girl that could be so heartless as to not shed a single tear for her best friend's funeral, he knew better. He knew her better.
The flatness in her eyes had unnerved him. Behind the façade, he had known there were a million things she would have liked to have said, a billion things she would have liked to have done. But she was stuck on the wheel chair, uncharacteristically too weak to move that she had to depend on him to travel around.
Her speech about Carly had been short. So short that it had easily been the most memorable of all eulogies (if one could even call her speech that).
"I'm sorry I didn't try hard enough, Carls," she had said monotonously, staring out into a distance that nobody could see. "Rest in peace."
After people's expectant looks and the fidgeting that ensued once they realized that was all she had to say, Sam had craned her neck up to glare at Freddie, who had worn the same expression as everyone else. "Benson! For the love of God, if I wanted to sit around, immobilized, I wouldn't have hired you for this job!"
Her frustrated grunts as she wrestled with the wheels of her wheelchair going down the stairs had been enough to snap him out of his dazed stupor. Somebody had hurried onto the stage and placed the wheelchair down onto level ground once he had held Sam securely in his arms, before the science teacher had taken over the microphone, beginning his story about the first time he had Carly as a student in the fourth grade…
Later on in the funeral reception, he had gone up to Spencer as Melanie had temporarily taken over his job of steering Sam. Out of all the sea of somber faces, Spencer – the goofy artist of an older brother, Spencer – had looked the gravest out of all. Spencer had given him a grin, too empty to be personal and too tight-lipped to be genuine. Freddie had warily watched Spencer take a large swig of whatever was in the glass.
"I'm sorry about Sam."
Spencer had not looked too surprised at the mention of the blonde-haired demon, but he had not looked too pleased either. "I wish I could say I wasn't expecting it." Perhaps Freddie had looked like he was about to object on Sam's behalf, because Spencer sighed. "I know, it's Sam. And you know I love her for who she is. I just… I just wish she'd say the appropriate things at the appropriate times, for once."
He knew what Spencer had meant, but he also knew what Sam had been trying to achieve: emotional detachment, to shield herself from the prying eyes behind their red swollenness that were like hawks in gauging at her, waiting for her to break. At that point, however, he had not tried to explain it all to Spencer. If Sam had wanted people to know of her true intentions, she would have clarified the facts herself.
Therefore, he had not said a word more, respecting her unspoken wishes. Instead, he joined Spencer in letting the suffocating guilt consume them.
While some parts of the funeral are a blur of pink faces and sobs and raindrops, the most vivid moment he remembers of that day is the scattering of Carly's ashes. The pattering rain had finally stopped, albeit the sky kept its depressing shades of grey. When Spencer had stepped forward with a red-glazed urn in his hands, Freddie had been the only one who had been visibly taken aback. Everyone but he and Sam had known that Carly's body had been cremated; he had been too busy urging Sam's then-comatose state to wake up when Spencer had made the announcement two days ago.
Sam had not reacted as violently as he had, if only because of her attempt at self-emotional isolation.
He, of course, knows that it was probably what Carly would have wanted anyway. She had been a free spirit before death – it only made sense that her soul was released from its corporeal form after death. Nonetheless, he remembers that his shocked reaction had been involuntary and quickly put into check at Sam's withering glare. A hush fell like a thick blanket over the crowd as all eyes were glued onto Spencer's shaking gloved hands snaking in the urn to return back out with a fistful of ashes. He had sworn to have heard Sam taking a harsh intake of breath that caught in her throat.
The wind had blown then; a gentle breeze. Closed fist faced upward to the sky, Spencer's fingers had opened, one by one.
Freddie had not known what had been more heartbreaking: the finality of Carly's ashes being released back to nature, or watching his living friend's eyes turn dull as they tried desperately to follow the invisible trail of Carly's spirit.
Choking back his own tears, he had unconsciously squeezed the hand that had been resting quietly on top of Sam's shoulder. He had felt her body quiver. While other people had remained mesmerized as the urn began to slowly get emptied, his eyes had averted away from the harsh resolution and had focused on Sam. He had been the only one to witness her unraveling, and if he thinks about it now, he can hazard a guess that she had allowed a moment of vulnerability because she knew he was the only witness to her fall.
She had clutched at the fabric right above the location of her heart, and he knew she had finally come to terms with reality: her heart is still beating. Carly's is not.
His heart had contracted painfully at her silent tears.
Now he is sitting next to Sam's hospital bed with Sam (he tries to avoid looking at the needles that are poking through her arm) tucked under the white sheets. She is sitting up despite his protests that she needs to rest – she countered with her own stubborn determination that she was in charge of her body, thank you very much – and it is one of those days where they just sit there without breaking the soft lull of silence woven around them for the past hour. She lets him absently drum his fingers on her sheet-covered knee closest to him as she twirls a golden curl between her fingers.
It has been a week and a half since the shootout and a week since the funeral. Sam is being discharged in three days, with little proof that she, along with four other surviving civilians, had been involved in such an incident. The only evidence of the violence this world is truly capable of is the tiny scars that pepper her right shoulder – the one near her collarbone being the darkest. He hates those scars, and he admires her bravery.
He always has.
He is going to give her another week to gradually have the fire return to her eyes, for the zombie, flat look to disappear forever. Unconsciously, he turns his head to observe her, and she closes her eyes as soon as they make eye contact. He resists the urge to trace the heavy circles under her eyes – they made her look sicker. Less Sam-like, more vulnerable.
He also does not like this weak version of Invincible Sam.
Looking at the clock on the wall, he is slightly startled to see that it is already four o'clock and that he has missed the freshmen orientation day. Not that it had been an event he had been looking forward to anyway. He wonders how summer holidays could flip his world upside down so mercilessly, sorely wishing for his high school days with both his best friends.
Sam is asleep (finally), so he patiently lowers her down until her head finally rests against the pillow without managing to wake her up (she has always been a heavy sleeper). He brushes a stray strand of gold away from her forehead, and a wave of fierce protectiveness washes through him.
He vows to the heavens, to God, to Carly that he will keep his only remaining, living best friend alive.
Disclaimer: I do not own iCarly. Only the plot is solely mine.
Author's Note: Anddd the plot bunny strikes again. I have high hopes for this story. Review would very much be appreciated. :)