People tell you you're beautiful.
You don't see what they see in you at all.
All Carly ever tells you is that you're her meat-loving, strong, boy-punching best friend. She says, I don't get why guys aren't lining up at your door. You're awesome, Sam. She never mentions anything about beauty (and you know well why).
When she does, however, it goes a little like… Your eyes are such a beautiful blue, and you don't even have to style your hair because they're already naturally curly, and it's pretty. You're pretty, Sam. What don't guys see in you?
(You know there's nothing to see in you.)
You're a bully. You steal other people's food, take their money, hurt them for no reason. (You know it's wrong, but you can't help but feel better knowing that others are hurting.)
It's sadistic, it's sick, it's wrong… you know that. But it doesn't change how you feel seeing other people's pain.
You like to think Carly is confused, because when you look in the mirror and into your so-called beautiful eyes, you see nothing but a dull and boring shade of light blue. Your eyes don't sparkle and they're not happy, in fact they don't hold any emotion at all (because you like to hide behind that façade of being unfeeling, and your eyes never betray you).
You twist a strand of your hair on your finger and push your hair back. There's nothing pretty about your hair. It's curly and messy and you always look like you never brush it. You think, you can always straighten your hair, but it's a lot of work. Carly says you look good with it (but you know that it only makes you even uglier than when you started).
You look down at your body and you're content. Nature has been good to you. You might not be as skinny, or as fair as Carly, but you're okay.
You think of how it must feel to be Carly Shay, to be the girl everyone likes, to know you're wanted everywhere and to have boys at your feet. Even having all that, Carly, ever the saint (at least that's how people see her), is humble as can be. She acts like it's not true and simply waves it off, but you know that, deep inside, she knows it is. You know she revels at the fact that everyone wants her, that she can get anyone she wants. You know she revels in the feeling of being loved (and you know you're envious because no one loves you).
"Freddie loves me!" You remember her screaming at you when you were in the middle of a fight. You couldn't think of a proper response because you know you have nothing on that. It's not that you want Freddie to love you, it's just that you hated how she used everything she has – everything you don't have – against you. (You wanted to be able to say "Freddie loves me too!" back at her, but you know it is in no way true.)
You shrug the memory away and stare at yourself in the mirror again. Your reflection reminds you of Melanie (your oh-so-perfect sister). The mirror reflects a relatively recent picture of the both of you up in your room from her last visit. You stare at it from across the room, and make your way towards it, carefully peeling it off the wall. You remember when this was taken – Carly had wanted to take a picture of you two, and even if you told her you wanted to be seen with your hands all oily as you gobbled up on chicken wings, she had gotten you to smile for the photo. You stare at you and your sister's matching smiles, and you realize that even if you and Melanie are identical, you actually don't look alike. In the photo, your sister smiles like there was no tomorrow – there's a sparkle in her eyes, and even if she's only in a messy ponytail and is completely make-up free, she's beautiful. (You won't tell anyone, but you know your sister's beautiful.)
You don't tell anyone because people would judge you and think, then that means you think you're beautiful too, right?
(You wish you were, but you know it will never happen.)
No, it isn't like that. You look at yourself in the photo, with a smile on that, from anyone else's eyes, would've looked happy. But you know it's only forced, and unlike your eternally happy sister, your eyes don't sparkle and are still cold and unfeeling. Your hair is a mess and your bangs are all over your face, and the only word that does your look in the photo justice is ugly.
You place the photo back and peel off another photo. This one is of you and Carly and Freddie winning that award for iCarly in Japan. The photo makes your thoughts drift to Freddie, the one guy who puts up with you even if you're the worst friend (if he can even call you that) ever. When you're not using him as your punching bag, the two of you actually get along quite great, and he's always nice to you (which you never understand, because when have you ever been nice to him?). He always tells you that even if you hurt him, tease him, and insult him (only because you can), he knows that you're the best of friends, and he tells you that you can always come to him if anything's wrong.
You playfully punched him the first time those words left his lips. "As if there would ever be anything wrong with me, dork." He laughed (and you couldn't help but feel a little pang of hurt in your chest, because everything about you is wrong).
The memory makes your heart beat a little faster, and you pretend like you don't know why. You try not to show it, but you like Freddie. At first you had been mean to him because you thought you had the right to be mean to everyone, but when you realized you were starting to have feelings for him, you did it mostly for his attention.
When you hurt him with your punches and flicks and cutting words, he sees you. He'll be mad, but he'll look at you and give you the time of day. His eyes revert from Carly to you. To have someone's attention on you instead of on Carly is a refreshing change in your otherwise boring life. (You won't deny – at least to yourself – that you're jealous of the way he pays so much attention to her.)
Your phone rings and you place the photo back, and you reach for your phone only to see that your caller ID says Freddie. You hesitate but pick it up, not knowing what to expect.
"Hello?" You croak, and you hate how weak you sound, so you follow it up with a mean, "Why'd you call, dork," so that if he ever noticed, he couldn't linger on the thought of you being weak (you cringe).
"I just… I don't know," he tells you honestly, and the irritation you didn't know was there starts to lessen. "I just felt like I should call. Are you okay, Sam?"
"Of course, why wouldn't I be?" You shrug, talking to yourself more than to him. (Of course it's a lie, but you want to make yourself believe that nothing is wrong, that you're perfectly okay.) You hope he buys it and doesn't ask any more questions (but deep inside, you hope he notices the uncertainty in your voice).
He replies with a simple "Okay then," (and a part of you dies just a little). "Just, call me if anything comes up, okay?" Your heart beat starts up again (and you hate how, even though he unknowingly let you down, his undivided attention and concern could still make you feel this way).
You try to sound unnerved as you reply with an uncaring "Sure, nub," but your voice wavers (and a part of you still hopes he notices). You mutter a quick "Goodnight," and hang up, not giving him the chance to reply (because you know that the outcome will just disappoint you again).
You lie in bed and think of Freddie, of how he cared (of how you wish you were enough for him). You think about his phone call again, think of how he was so concerned about you. You lied to him (and apparently your lies had been flawless because he believed them).
Sleep calls out to you, and you can't wait to be swallowed by the peaceful darkness that awaits you. Your eyes close and your mind drifts away. You slowly lose consciousness and all your thoughts of being ugly, of never being enough, and of Freddie disappear, and the never-changing blackness finally takes you.
(At the end of the day, your façade is the only thing that doesn't let you down.)