IV:

Near to you, I am healing
But it's taking so long
'Cause though he's gone
It's [still] hard to move on

Sam had never been one, to have a way with sentiments. It was… difficult, for her. Sensitivity ended with the divorce and tears died with her father. Strength regained its powerful control and thus, she saw no need for shedding salt water. It only let onto the depths of weakness dwelling in her heart, often met with the piercing jabs of scorn and hatred.

…The thing was, expressing them could do untold destruction if handled incorrectly, irreversible damage that scarred one into a swirling spiral of depression. She'd experienced it. Words hurt. Words echo in one's head and are carefully disintegrated by over-sized tweezers into the smallest molecule for meaning, for depth, for an answer. They could linger with one for years; keep reactions holding back…

You wanted to know what was wrong and you were going to have quite a battle on your hands. Few won it. Strength was the thing she almost always possessed. She had to. It was who she was and who she had to be. It was all just straightforward talk. Blunt, no depth, no start no finish. Cold.

In an ironic twist, she felt better inside. No longer bothered with false entertained hopes, her study skills improved, to say the least. Sure, teachers still screamed at her deafeningly about her life as an unpleasing failure. And students still treaded over her like a muddy jacket laid out carefully for them. He was gone; like that, still hating each other.

But inside, she was partially happy. If anyone ever said anything to her, she'd smile as if every muscle in her jaw was crying in pain.

But she smiled. And they smiled back. And Sam felt better.

He was gone.

Out of her life forever.

Never had to see his ugly mug again.

A sense of relief washed over her, as she collapsed onto the couch; limbs skewed about like a forgotten rag doll. Throwing her head back towards the ceiling, she sighed softly; soreness from strain dripping in her throat. Her stomach was still swirling restlessly from the excitement, and somehow listening to the clock tick softly, steadily, drove her insane. She wasn't relieved.

She was empty.

And that made her the happiest, carefree and yet most miserable, pathetic excuse for a Puckett alive.

She never wanted to admit it, in an oxymoron; that she'd been weak… But something contradictory in her wanted to, and yet didn't. It was a constant war with herself; to be strong and to have moments. Moments of isolation, so she could shed tears about her troubles and have no criticism, no, 'positive advice'. Because maybe she didn't want to right now…

Tears were scornful, hateful, betraying to the inner person. But in the same sense, these salt-saturated waters streaming from her heart told the world, that, shoosh yeah, there was something under all that abrasiveness…that bold fearlessness about her… she had a heart. And emotions. Both bound up like a fire escaping in mere episodes that fled as quick as they came.

"Sam?" A meek, almost bemused voice came, closing the apartment door behind her gently. She lifted her heavy cranium and turned to stare at the source. It was Carly.

The brunette hung her black denim jacket, strolled past the couch and set down the sagging plastic grocery bag on the counter. Tossing her mess of keys attached to worn down plastic monkeys holding on for dear life, she sat down quietly next to the blonde.

Spencer trailed a few seconds after, swinging his keyring cheerily on his finger and slurring his pace at the Sam that lay like a fallen warrior. Carly prodded her for information.

"Uh, is this gunna be one of those girl—"

"Yeah, probably—"

"Then, I'm going"—He jabbed his finger in a random direction—"That way."

The brunette watched him flee up the stairs as if his ears were to implode at any unnecessary 'feeling-talk', then turned back to her best friend, setting her feet up on the edge of the coffee table and crossing her arms and tossing her head back.

"What happened?"

Sam pursed her lips together, sitting up. "I got into a fight." She muttered, dark circles resting under her eyes.

Carly sighed disappointedly, more to herself, before asking another question.

"Was it a fist fight or a verb duel?" She sat up this time, cocking her head.

Sam shifted uncomfortably, as if there were rocks under her seat. "Duel. I won."

"Well then why—"

"Cuz he's…" She paused; her friend nodding expectantly. Sam shot up abruptly and hurried towards the door, as if she'd forgotten her breath outside.

"Sam get over here." Her friend called, trailing after her.

"I can't, I just need to—"

Carly stood infront of the door, arms stretched out protectively of it. Sam was squinting at this point but she took it more as of a death glare.

"I'm not letting you go until you tell me, what happened."

Her eyes started melting, voice crackling. "Let me go, Shay." She ordered, fiercely. "Don't make me—"

Carly gripped her shoulders. "Look, we promised we wouldn't keep secrets from each other, remember? Just tell me what happened. I won't be mad at you unless you tell me."

Did she really deserve the right to know everything about her life?

Sam felt like a small child in the hands of an overprotective mother. She turned her head away, teeth gritted, hot tears bleeding from her face. She tore from her hold and Carly side-stepped the door, letting her leave; defeated.

"You miss him, don't you." She said softly, as the blonde's hand clutched the chilled doorknob. She sensed hushed, shattered pain in her voice, as if reaching out for her own condolence.

Because he was gone when they needed him most.

Sam opened her sealed eyes and listened to the silence. It was maddeningly quiet in the apartment; familiar reassurances echoed in her ear, as if to drown it out. It wasn't exactly working so much as it was making her more miserable than she already was. She threw the covers over head, panting, tearing, sweating.

She lay wondering, almost lost staring into space, about everything one could possibly think of. Night could be one's worst enemy if it wasn't used properly. It gave one time to oneself, something that was never good if you had too many things to stress over. That only prolonged sleep, and in turn kept one wide awake with entertained thoughts of hope and crushing resentments of the past. Carly; she hadn't heard from her best friend in a while. The supportive phone calls and interchanges died out as life went on.

…And, then there was him to think about...

Hey ya'll, sorry it took me so long to update another chapter. I've been sick the past couple of days, so you all know how fun THAT is. *rolls eyes* This one has been under quite a bit of editing, and I wasn't quite sure if it was ready to go up yet. (It's one of those things where you're NEVER sure, you know?) It might be changed later on. But anyway, enjoy!