A/N- This is really a Sam-central fic. I felt in a really melancholy mood, and I felt like writing the other deeper, darker side of Sam. I'm not sure whether I've really portrayed depression right, but oh well.
She stared at the bottle of pills that she had somewhere, somehow sorted out in the right combination. She stared at it, as if it was supposed to give her some sort of answer, a sort of light that shone through her fog. The only sound was of her breathing. She took the smooth plastic bottle, and ran her thumb over the ridges of the cap, over the label, over the bloated bottom in a sort of childish fascination. She didn't want to move by now. She just wanted to look at this ever-so-smooth bottle. How had she gotten here in the first place, she didn't know. White. Plastic. Pills.
She had done a lot of staring at the ceiling. She never really though while doing this, she just skimmed over the cracks and bumps of the ceiling, her body slowly locking into place. The time seemed to go so fast, and all she wanted was to lay still. School didn't even matter anymore, nor did people in particular. She used to get so angry but then she went into what she thought was a phase, yet she never really slipped out of it. Her mother was always out and in, endlessly selling her body to needy men. Maybe that's what she'd do. Maybe not. She didn't really know what to do.
She never really felt. The only times happiness was almost tangible, was when she consumed limitless bottles of booze she took from her mom. Those were the times Sam could nearly feel the drawing of her breath, the tears running down her face. Those were the times that emptiness inside her was cured, even for a little while. Hangovers were the reminders of those times. Yet was the emptiness really there? Or was it just something she should feel, the motivation to actually do something.
Yet she never did.
Trying to climb out of what she had slipped into felt useless. What was the point, anyway? It felt empty in there, but it was a change from what her mom put her through. Would she get married? No, the other person would usually leave you and break you; her existence a painful reminder. Her days were slow or fast, and always full of trying to feel and know what she was meant to do. There was always that motivation there, yet she never had the impulse to take it. To do anything.
Samantha Puckett stared at the smooth white bottle. She wondered if taking them would actually answer the hollow emptiness in her, but even she hadn't gotten that far yet. Death wasn't even a problem. And yet, she found something in herself to turn away from the bottle, to turn away form the possibility. She found something inside herself that told her to look into the horizon, at that dull glimmer of hope. That was the time when she smiled. A small smile, that reached into her soul.
Because for once in her life, she felt.
And she smiled.
End.
_
So, there you go. A lot shorter than what I hoped.
If you want review?
Love,
Khadija