I haven't written a fanfic in a very long time, much less an iCarly one. Sorry if my skills are a little rusty. This was just spur of the moment and to let off steam from yesterday.
She is told to lock up for the night. She doesn't get why Gibby trusts her, but, then again, she doesn't understand anything the little nub does. Or taller nub. The boy has grown too much. Or should she say the boys. The boys…
She sits down at one of the tables and sighs, the keys dangling from her fingers, threatening to drop.
So, Freddie's got himself a crush, huh? The little voice says to her, slipping its bony claws over her eyes, making tears settle on her eyelids. Too bad it's not you. But this was inevitable wasn't it? He was always going to have his silly little crush on Carly. Of course, it's not foolish now. He's older, dear. I guess no matter what age he is, he still wouldn't want you. He never did, really.
The table begins to feel like a mixture of the bumpy elevator and the cold fire escape metal under her fingertips; it drowns her in memories she wants to forget, wants gone, wants decimated in the fire pits of hell. At least until the pain in her chest leaves when she sees him.
The little voice curls up against her, and she feels it digging into her lungs, her brain, her heart.
Oh sweetie, the sickeningly sweet voice breezes into her ear, carrying with it a false sense of understanding, If only you didn't care for him at all, you wouldn't be in this mess, now would you?
"…No." It comes out as a shaky whisper, desperately holding her emotions back. She doesn't know why she's responding to it, but it gives her some comfort to know she's not entirely alone. She can hear it make sounds of disapproval. It sends chills down to her toes.
My, my, my, Samantha. Look at what that bastard boy has done to you. The first tear falls now, rolling into her hand. You used to be so strong; able to keep your feelings guarded from the likes of him. She grips the table with her right hand. But look what he's turned you into; a sniveling idiot that even poor Gibby could read like an open book! The end is screeched into her ear and, before she can stop herself, picks up the table and throws it against the wall where it breaks into pieces.
Miraculously the keys are still hooked onto her fingers, reminding her why she is there in the first place.
She takes a few deep breaths, steadying herself, and brushes away invisible dust on the front of her shirt. She turns off the lights, marches up the stairs and leaves. Gibby can fix that table tomorrow, if he has the time.
The little voice leaves her alone for the rest of the night.