Disclaimer – I do not own iCarly, I only this story and it's plot, nothing else.
A/N – Implied child abuse and general angst.
I remember the first time I had shown up at Carly's with a split lip and swollen cheek. She had gasped and demanded to know who had done this. I remember stammering, trying to think of a good excuse. "I-I got into a f-fight. No big." I looked down at the ground, at my shoes, a small stain on the rug, anywhere but Carly's eyes. A moment silent passed until I found it safe to look at her again. Carly rolled her eyes, annoyed at me. "Why do you have to fight so much? Why can't you be nice?" She had exclaimed, before calling for Freddie. As I watched her walk away, I realized a better friend wouldn't have believed me.
A few weeks later, I had a black eye forming. It was painful to touch, and I could barely see properly. Carly had scolded me after I told her I had been fighting again. "Why do you have to be so aggressive, Sam? Can't you just be nice for once?!" I felt her place a cold flannel to my face and I leaned away from her contact slightly. She noticed though, and got all huffy. "Fine! I was just being a good friend, but forget it. If you wanna get into fights, then deal with the consequences Sam!" I didn't talk to her that day.
The third time, I had a series of small purple bruises, littering up the length of my arm. The excuses came easily now, rolling off my tongue. Carly had merely shaken her head that time, while Freddie remained silent. I was grateful that they left it at that.
The latest time, I had a larger bruise of my chest. It trailed down my stomach and my hips, and trailing up to my neck, peeking out of my tee-shirt. I had made no move to cover it up. It didn't matter, not anymore. I walked into Carly's apartment. Carly was at the desk, uploading the latest iCarly video and Freddie was sitting on the arm of the sofa, watching her, with that stupid little grin on his face. It made me sick – Like, she would ever love him. I made a beeline for the fridge, giving Freddie a rough shove as I did so, smiling as a watched him fall backwards off the chair. Neither of them said anything about the mark on my chest.
I don't what hurts more; Them acting concerned and worried, or them not even noticing anymore.