Sam's head was resting against a pillow. The shades in the room were drawn. The little sliver of light that managed its way through cut her like a dagger. She was hungover from the night before. A party to celebrate one year well done. She'd made it through her first year at Penn State, and celebrated by acting like she had her freshman year of high school.

She wasn't proud of the night before, and her mind wandered to the bits of it she remembered. The drinks, the drugs, the bad music, the even worse boys. It was all a sticky blur. She would have kicked herself if she weren't afraid the action might split her skull the rest of the way open. At the thunderous sound of a knock at her door, which was probably soft as a whisper in actuality, she rolled over and moaned. She heard someone enter.

"Go away," she breathed.

"Sam?" It was her brother. And it was loud.

"Patrick, go away. Please."

"It's past noon."

"I don't care." She threw a pillow in his general direction, not bothering to turn to aim. She heard the noise of somebody fumbling, and then after a moment she could hear him sigh heavily.

"Welcome home, little sister," he mumbled irritably under his breath, throwing the pillow back onto the bed and leaving, being sure to close the door harshly. Sam would have gotten angry with him, but she was too concerned with trying to get back to sleep.

It was dark next time she opened her eyes. And not the artificial kind blinds and window shades can fake, but the real night. With a soft groan, Sam rolled over to squint at her clock. The digital numbers sliced through the blackness of her room, telling her it was past 9 at night. Considering she had literally slept the day away, and her headache had moved from deathly painful to only mildly terrible, she forced herself awake and got up, got dressed, washed her face, put on a little makeup, and decided to go out.

"Well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty," Patrick said when at last he caught sight of her. Her foot was already one step out the door.

"You coming?" she asked, jingling her keys at him.

"After last night? Don't you need a break?"

She just gave him a look.

"Well I do," was his reply, and he turned his attention back to the television. As she closed the door, she thought she heard him call to her. Something about staying safe and not to go too crazy, but she couldn't be sure.

Eventually Sam found herself in the midst of another howling mad party. The music was too loud to even hear yourself think, and that was how Sam liked it. It was numbing. Like the drink in her hand and the smoke in the air. It was all fake. Even the people, who she let fall over her like animals. And if she could just surround herself with all that was fake maybe then she wouldn't have to deal with what was real. Not for awhile, at least. And she liked it that way. Because this wasn't the "real" Sam either. God only knew where she was this night or last. Hell, probably dying of old age back up at Penn State, bent over a desk with her nose in a book and a stiff neck from another night without sleep, the guillotine of another test hanging over her head. And who the hell needed that?

Sam turned from the boy she was currently stringing along to find her drink, a red plastic cup she'd set down amongst the sea of other abandoned ones, and slammed herself right smack into someone.

"Oh, shit," she said, laughing and drunk, "Sorry."

"Sam?" a familiar voice reached her through the cacophony around them. The guy's hands found their way to her shoulder and she was forced to look upwards.

"Hey, what gives-? Oh! Charlie!" she squealed, recognizing him finally and pulling the boy into a sloppy hug. "Hey! Never thought I'd see you with this crowd!"

"I could say the same to you," he said. She felt it not only in his voice but in his stance how cold he was to her. He didn't hug her back, and he sounded angry.

"What's your problem?" she asked, stepping back.

"What's yours?" he bit back. If she weren't so drunk she probably would have been shocked into silence by the clear venom in his voice. This was Charlie, wasn't it? Mr. Wallflower?

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she retorted in an angry slur.

"Look at you-!" he answered, pointing with absolute disgust to her. "Don't you care at all about yourself?"

"Of course I do!" she said, "Why wouldn't I?"

"Maybe because you're dressed and acting like a... like a..." he seemed at a loss for words. And that was it; she just snapped.
Who the hell was he to judge her?

"Like a what? Go on, Charlie, say it. I bet you can't. Call me a blowqueen, see how much I care."

Charlie's glare turned icy, and Sam, drunk as she was, felt the blood in her veins turn to liquid nitrogen.

"Like trash," he told her. He didn't shout it. He barely even said it at all. And when he did it wasn't in the same cold voice. This time he sounded like a kicked puppy. Like a kid who'd had his heart put through the shredder. And for an instant that sound was enough to break the fake all around Sam that night and make her feel again. And what she felt was hurt.

But only for an instant. No sooner did the remark really sink its teeth into her that some defence mechanism kicked in, and she reached for the closest cup she could find and snapped her arm out, flinging its contents onto the young boy. And Sam watched in what seemed like slow motion as the stinging, lukewarm liquid hit Charlie in the eyes and he stood with them shut for a moment before raising up his hands and wiping what he could away. By this time a small crowd had gathered around them to watch the action. As Charlie wiped away the cheap Beer, Sam stood glaring, refusing to let herself regret the action. And with a final angry and pained look, Charlie shook his head and turned, exiting into the crowd of onlookers who booed and jeered him away.

And Sam would have gone after him. Would have begged him for forgiveness and redemption.

But this wasn't Sam tonight.

So with a cocky smirk and a satisfied, but only skin deep, feeling, she turned back to the party.

AN: Review please?