Sometimes, inspiration comes from deep places. That's really all I can think to say about this.
Disclaimer: I don't own Danny Phantom, Butch Hartman, Lipton tea, Snickers, or a pink life size gorilla, the last three of which have absolutely nothing to do with this story.
"Look at this beautiful gown I bought you Samantha!" Sam's mother exclaimed gleefully, holding up the short white piece of fabric with frills at the hem and real pearls sewn into the neckline to her daughters face.
The red haired woman smiled hopefully with aquatic blue eyes before Sam pushed her hand away and leaned back on her bed. Her mother never seemed to tire of trying to get her daughter to be more 'lady like', as she put it. Disturbing her at eight at night while she was online wasn't a plus either.
"Mom, you know this isn't my style," Sam said gently, forcing a polite smile onto her lips. She had since let her half ponytail down for the night, leaving her short black hair thicker in the back.
She had been goth for years now, but her mother never liked it or understood it. She had said before that her interests in the darker side of life were 'unnatural, and poisoning her mind'. She sighed openly in the morning when her daughter entered the kitchen for breakfast in shades of black and purple, purple lipstick on, the same result coming when she entered her room, sometimes with a muttering of words under her breath.
Sam ignored her, but it honestly hurt that her mother disapproved of her so much. Weren't parents supposed to accept you no matter what?
"Oh Samantha," her mother said, sitting next to her on the bed with it's burgundy comforter and purple hangings, placing the dress on top of a beanbag chair. "I wish I could understand why you're like this."
It was hard to believe they were related, seeing them side by side. Sam was in her long sleeved black nightgown with purple lace, her mother dressed in a lilac shift, her fingernails painted a pastel yellow. They were night and day, trying to live in synch with each other.
"Why black?" Her mother asked suddenly, putting her pale hand of the black material of her daughters gown. "Why so dark? What about white?"
White. Sam hadn't worn white for a long time. It was mostly because of her Gothic habits, but there were other reasons too. Her eyes clouded over, thinking. She unconsciously touched her hip beneath her clothes.
This escaped her mothers notice like so many times before. The woman looked at her daughter sadly and rose to her feet, her own dress swishing behind as she left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
"You'll never understand," Sam whispered barely audibly, tugging her nightgown up to her thigh.
There, on the smooth skin of her hip, sat multiple angry red scars, about only an inch in length each. Many were raised and painful to the touch as Sam ran a finger over them, a wistful smile upon her face. The pain felt good and bad at the same time. It was punishment, yet it was a comfort to a lonely soul. She guessed that was why she kept coming back for more, why she had to keep going after the first time. The first time was an accident, a slip of the wrist. The others weren't. They were her release, her faucet where the pain of the day dripped out in red streams.
Sam turned her head to look again at the dress her mother had left, its whiteness almost blinding in comparison to her room, to her herself. White was so light, so fragile. It stained so easily, could be seen through like a veil sometimes. When forbidden blood is running down your body, that's something that just won't do. So she covered up with the colors of shadows and night. She liked to think she joined the shadows sometimes, was as invisible to prying eyes as they were.
"Only I can understand," she says.
Reviews are awesome. And so is Hot cocoa.
