Disclaimer: iHardly own iCarly. And, by hardly, I mean not even remotely.
()()()
Carly's throbbing head opened its eyes the next morning with a strange, uncomfortable feeling in the roof of its mouth. It was indicative of an oncoming flu. Later, it would ooze down to her throat, stripping her of her normal voice, replacing it with congested, raspy nasality. It must have been the weather yesterday.
By that evening, she was bundled under clothes from yesterday, over which was a sheet, over which was a blanket. Any and every part of her body that didn't get covered sufficiently brought a shock of cold to her.
The worst of it was that her nosebleeds had returned, though not as merciless as before. They forced her to lay on her back most of the time. She was gazing at the ceiling, colors bleeding into others, small noises her ears picked up that weren't definable. Everything seemed so out of reach all of a sudden. Everything except the questions in her mind she didn't want to answer.
()()()
"Let me see if I've got this straight…" Sam clasped her hands together, muffling a groan of frustration, "The reason that Carly is mad at you right now… is because she caught you masturbating to Claw 3D in the middle of a crowded theater?"
The room was dimly lit, despite being mid-afternoon, with little evidence of tension piercing through the mundane normalcy. Freddie had a barely-detectable scowl of shame set on his face, as if containing something within that he couldn't defeat.
Sam had called Freddie an hour ago to discuss the problem with him at her house. After refusing to show up, Sam made a point to come over to his house instead to confront him. He's lucky to not be beaten up right now, she thought to herself many times since yesterday evening. She'd come very close to doing just that when he wouldn't give any clear answers to last night's questions.
Finally, after Sam clobbered his door, Freddie gave in and told her the entire story. Carly had left to use the restroom, and when she got back he was jacking off. That pretty much summed it up.
"…I don't even know what to say to that, Fredd-o," Sam said after a long silence. It was hard to tell, but she was trying to stifle a derisive laugh aimed at Freddie. Even though their friendship was less hostile than it was years ago, Sam wasn't above mocking her hapless pal occasionally. But this was something far too serious. If it were any other girl, Sam would have lost her mind laughing, and then slapped some sense into him. But it was Carly, and that was no laughing matter.
All Freddie could do in response was mutter something incomprehensible and shift in his seat ever so slightly. Like a child who knew they were in big trouble. But, again, this was something so much larger than just breaking the neighbor's window. This was indecent exposure. You can only get away with that shit if you're breastfeeding. Freddie was certainly an A cup.
()()()
Spencer had been working on a lot of projects lately. He had a lot on his mind, so he compensated with a massive amount of work to busy himself with. Right now, besides re-working his fork sculpture, he was… well, it's a long story, but it involved hot glue.
"Shit shit SHIT!" he swore to himself under his breath, inaudible because of the ice-cold water he was running on his forearm. "I'm never going to use a hot glue gun again, I swear."
Beneath the ever-vigilant layering of water on his skin, something looked familiar. Spencer didn't want to know what it was. Because the closer he got, the closer he got to reliving something he didn't want to re-live.
It was about to be another first of another month, and Spencer loved those. Ripping that page off the calendar felt like he was leaving awful things behind. But the effect was much less potent when the next month brought the same problems back. Spencer always lived in a sort of fantasy. Even with money always lacking, he never acted like he was in any kind of crisis. Fact was, sculpting brought very, very little in, and mommy and daddy money wasn't an endless reservoir.
When he finished rinsing off and bandaging his hand, Spencer leaned over the couch. There was nothing on the TV. Well, not nothing. But there was no interesting stuff on the screen. Why couldn't he stop thinking about Carly and Freddie?
()()()
"What do you mean, 'you're screwed'?" Freddie asked coldly, leaning forward in his chair. "Are you telling me Carly's never going to talk to me again?"
"Yep," Sam responded simply. "I don't know what you expected, but this is what you get."
Freddie leered, giving Sam a look that would have gotten the shit beaten out of him in other circumstances. Carly was someone who meant more to him than Sam ever cared to understand. All these years putting up with Sam's constant belittling, only to have his future with Carly dictated by HER?
"Why do you look so happy about it?"
"Freddie, I don't look anything about it. I'm just humiliated to be your friend right now."
"The feeling's mutual."
Sam flinched. Freddie's said a lot worse to her before, but she couldn't remember when. How dare he talk to her like that when he's the one who fucked things up?
()()()
Hey, Carly… hey… Carly! …CARLY!
Slowly, she opened her eyes. They were dry. They hurt. But at the same time they watered up in sync with Carly's attempt to speak. "Spence… what's up…?" She managed to croak, not feeling quite up to giving him a smile.
He shrugged, mostly to himself. "Eh, just sculpting. You don't really want to hear about it."
In a room with someone so ill, even the slightest noise could send a shudder through the high-strung sibling. Carly pushed herself ever-so-slightly upwards to get a good look at her alarm clock. It was only when she looked at the clock that she realized it didn't matter anyway. With that, she crashed right back down, head against the pillow. He waited for her to breathe again before he spoke.
"Carly, look," Spencer began. Carly might have noticed that he was unable to stop fidgeting, on one of her better days. "I know this isn't a very good time to talk to you about this, but you made a really terrible mistake leaving to go see that movie without telling me you had another nosebleed."
At those last words, Carly's foggy eyes shot open with speed almost like the shutters of a camera. Against Spencer's will, she summoned a few remaining pieces of strength to boost herself into a propped-up position. "Who told you about my nosebleed?"
"I just got through talking to Freddie's mom," Spencer sighed. "She overheard Sam and Freddie talking about it together. I…"
He didn't want to admit he was lost on what to do.
()()()
"Sam… whether you want me to or not, I'm going to keep talking to Carly."
Sam swiftly brought her balled fist down on the table. Nothing- absolutely nothing- she had said to him was getting through. If reason wouldn't work, it would have to step to the side for anger. "I've told you already, you idiot, it isn't YOU that's not going to do any talking, it's HER!"
And just like that, the room became silent for a few brief moments. So quiet, it was like the universe. Slowly, Freddie began taking sharp breaths. Breaths that sounded like the aftermath of a 20-mile marathon. Sam stood up from her chair. She wasn't sure what she was hearing from Freddie, but she wanted to be ready for anything.
But just as quickly as they started, they stopped, and the deafening silence re-appeared. To say that one could hear a pin drop was an understatement. One could damn near hear a person breathing from across the hall.
"How do you know Carly won't talk to me?" Freddie snapped with no warning. "She will! She has to!"
Sam shook her head, "No, Freddie. Don't be dumb about this. You really humiliated her by doing that, and it's your fault for not thinking of that before you took out your… TOOL, in a crowded area."
"SO WHAT?" Freddie screamed. At this point, it was very safe to say that Sam had never heard Freddie get this loud. "I've known her almost as long as you have! It's not fair that one mistake destroys everything! She needs me almost as much as I need her!"
()()()
Putting her pen down for a second, Ms. Benson tried to be quiet as the noise in the kitchen escalated. It sounded like she was about to have to get up. Something she couldn't do very well these days.
She'd been trying hard to take a different role in her son's life besides the doting mom with OCD tendencies. With her injury, she knew all too well that she couldn't handle anything too stressful. All that she could do was justify it to herself, try to believe, "This is how he wants it."
She caught herself at the end of the sentence, not wanting to drown the noise coming from the other room. The screaming between the two was getting louder and louder, and she could hear them mentioning Carly's name.
Carly.
She knew that bitch would be trouble from the moment Freddie came home talking about her. That girl, and the screaming blonde in the kitchen with Freddie; both of them did this to her son. Turned him into some kind of monster. She wasn't keeping track anymore of exactly how long Freddie had changed. But… sometimes she felt like the son she once had was gone.
Suddenly, a piercing shriek and a crash propelled Ms. Benson into the other room.
()()()
"…Did you hear that?" Carly gasped to Spencer. He turned around to look at her, shaking his head.
"It sounded like a crash coming from Freddie's apartment! Go and check!"
"How could you possibly have…?"
Spencer put his hand on Carly's forehead to check her fever. Carly didn't feel it. At that moment- how Carly would never forget this moment!- she was numb to everything happening in the material world. In all of her fever, a little picture show clawed along at a dream-like pace in her head. The edges were faded, but she could see Freddie sprawled out, nose bloodied, on his kitchen floor. Sam standing over him, fist clenched, breaths heaving, face expressing… anger, pain, pity, creating something she didn't recognize. Ms. Benson entered the room…
And then, it went blank, and Carly could hear what Spencer was saying, but barely. He sounded scared, she thought, licking her lips and tasting the copious amount of blood flowing down them again.
"Carly, keep your head back as far as you can! I'm going to- oh God- I'm going to get a napkin!"
()()()
"WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?" wailed Ms. Benson, knelt to the side of Freddie's unconscious body. "What did you do to my son, you witch?"
"Nothing he didn't bring on himself." Sam stated coldly. "He came at me with this knife," and she gestured to the knife on the table where, seconds ago, Sam and Freddie had their last conversation.
Ms. Benson muttered something between sobs of agony that Sam didn't understand, but didn't ask her to repeat. She stood shakily in the boundless forever that the moment had become. No longer caring how it had come to this. No longer wanting to know what it was going to lead to. Belly full of ice, hands grasping at each other for warmth. Again, Ms. Benson muttered something incomprehensible.
After an achingly long pause, Ms. Benson got up with struggle and walked to the table to get a napkin. It was as if, to her, Sam wasn't even there. The blonde herself didn't know how to feel about that.
She wanted to help as Ms. Benson creaked down, caring for her laid-out son, but her limbs ignored her brain.
"M-Ms. Benson, I… I-"
"Get out."
The simple words, spoken so meekly, died in the air fast.
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" came the sudden, deafening screech, inhuman sounding, from Ms. Benson, who appeared poised to struggle to her feet once again. Before she had to, Sam quickly let herself out.
()()()
Spencer had flown downstairs when Sam burst through the door and collapsed in tears on the couch. The sculptor stared, dazed, at this girl releasing her anguish, who appeared so suddenly, as if out of the sky.
"Uhh… can I get you something...?" Spencer asked, half-jokingly.
Sam didn't respond, or maybe she did but it was inaudible.
"Well, look, Carly's really sick, so I'm going to go upstairs-"
"What's wrong?" interrupted Sam as she lifted up her head.
Spencer paused to parse her words spoken through her tears. "She has a cold. I don't know if you should see her or not, you might catch it."
"I really need to talk to her."
Spencer sighed, honestly wanting Sam- and Freddie as well- to just leave Carly alone. The more they'd been seeing each other since that one night, the more it seems to have made Carly hurt. Still, he also knew that they could make her really happy sometimes.
"Look, I'll go ask her if she wants any visitors. Just stay there."
()()()
I'm dying… I just know it. I'm going to die; I'm never going to get to see everyone again. Spencer, Sam… Freddie… I don't know where you went, but this guy you left in your place isn't good enough… I want you to come back. I didn't think I could miss anything so much. So scared… I'm so scared… I'm seeing more things I shouldn't see, and I don't know what they mean, and I don't know how to get away from them.
Fucking internet… fucking internet people. They betrayed us. That's just what happened, we had an audience, people who wanted to watch our show, and we thought it was because they loved us. But that can't be true. Not after what they did to you, Freddie… made you disappear, made you not be here with Sam and I to graduate…
They hated us all along. They were watching for something they could do to turn us into… one of them. One of the rotten people who sent us those photos… those butchers.
And the worst of it. The worst of it was that they won. They broke us. I'm dying… Sam's not the same… Freddie's become someone I've never met before, a monster. They beat us.
()()()
Freddie glared at the ceiling and refused to move, and his mother didn't feel like trying to pry him up. She knew he was basically okay, physically. It didn't faze her anymore. She would have been freaking out several months ago at the idea of Freddie even being scratched.
"Freddie, honey…" began Ms. Benson in the middle of an inner monologue that debated the futility of this course of action. "Do you have any broken bones?"
"Why don't you get me a prune pop?"
Ms. Benson forced back a gasp, straight from her gut. Even back when she was more obsessed with her son's overall wellbeing, she knew that he hated those forsaken things. Ms. Benson didn't try to understand it; she knew she wouldn't. She just did as her son asked and watched him eat the thing he would have flushed not long ago.
He slurped it, forcefully, angrily. As immature as it may be to say, it truly appeared that he was sucking a dick. The poker face he held never left him, no matter how crudely he shoved the thing down his throat. Then he began to bite. He would take a bite from the popsicle Ms. Benson knew damn well was still frozen near-solid. Crunching, moving his jaw, allowing small purple-black droplets to escape from his maw.
He finished the popsicle and returned to his room, where he spent all of his time these days. Tears came out of his mother's eyes, but she didn't feel anything.
()()()
Carly walked into Freddie's apartment one afternoon. He had shed his skin all over the place once more.
"Freddie?!" Carly shrieked his name. No response. Again, she shrieked. Nothing.
She had to feed him, but she had to find him first. No problem. Same place he always was. Under his bed. He liked to stare at the wall blankly, even though he had no eyes to do so with.
"It's lunch time, Freddie," and Carly started cooking. It only took a minute. She grabbed the dirty doggy bowl and vomited into it. When it was nice and full, she pulled Freddie out by the stump of one of his arms. With his head slammed into the bowl by his owner, he started to feast. He slurped like it was a toilet, and he was truly a dog. Sometimes, Freddie Benson was glad he did not have eyes.
()()()
Freddie stepped over piles of cans of Red Bull and used tissues to sit at his dilapidated leather chair. He moaned, letting the air that came out of his mouth be the tip of the iceberg in his chest. He was a shell that once belonged to someone else, but was like that old house on everyone's corner. Tired, lifeless, being eaten alive inside and out, mocking the better years it lived through.
With machine-like movements of his fingers, Freddie accessed his internet and began to peruse through the usual websites. Finding the one he wanted, he scrolled down slowly. He smiled. Something he rarely ever did. Through the coat of sperm on his computer screen, one could make out the shapes of various cruel images. Abuse of all sorts performed on small animals. The sort of website one looks at and loses faith in humanity. For Freddie, it was another night on the town.
Freddie never gave any thought toward what turned this stuff from disgusting to fascinating- and arousing- for him. He never gave much thought to anything, here in his room. Where he could create his own little wannabe paradise, with rivers of waste and fields of decaying, letting everything go. Where he could face himself in the only reflective surface that didn't make him want to break it. Where he could have power. Where he could feel right. Where he wasn't helpless and angry. Where home was.
He took his penis out before closing the tab and going to another one. This was a favorite of his. Coprophilia anime. Even when he would finish relieving himself to it, he would think about it and get horny all over again. It had everything he enjoyed confined to about 30 minutes of video.
But first, he had to wait for it to buffer all the way. There was truly nothing in the whole wide world worse than being cock-blocked by a circling series of dots. Nothing at all. There was nothing at all. The darkness wouldn't leave, or stop creeping over his shoulder.
()()()
"Carly," began Spencer as he closed the door behind himself and Sam, "Sam's here to visit, is that okay?"
Carly, as she had made a habit of doing in the last few hours, mumbled something inaudible. But her hand holding up an "A-OK" sort of gesture, indicating that she was fine with it, accompanied her voice. Spencer nodded and let Sam approach the bedside of her ill friend. The older brother, as suspicious as he was, felt the strange need to leave while the two friends talked.
So after the time she spent trying to figure out what to tell Carly, Sam didn't know what to say. Looking at Carly made her feel even sadder than thinking about Freddie. It was then that she wondered to herself if it was even worth coming around them both anymore. iCarly wasn't fun to make anymore, and honestly, it had kind of stopped being fun even before that horrible night.
But what was the point of thinking about that now?
"Carly… have you felt any better since… I guess, a few hours ago?"
"No."
Even though Carly would have liked to lie to Sam, she couldn't help but to be truthful. Lying to Sam felt wrong, especially after she had given her and Freddie flak for keeping their kiss a secret.
"Have you seen a doctor?"
Carly groaned in pain. Every one of her joints ached, making shifting around and trying to get comfortable in her bed a nightmarish affair. "Spencer says if I'm not better by tomorrow, he's taking me to the emergency room."
It was time to cut to the chase.
"Listen, about Freddie. He and I-"
The noise Carly made in response was utterly inhuman. A sort of growling scream that curdled the blood. Ignoring the soreness in her joints, she gripped her head with both hands, desperately seeking relief.
()()()
Carly had to scrape and flail her arms around for ten minutes before she could feel air instead of garbage. When she escaped, it was pitch black, save for a crack of light a few feet above her. Using nothing more than intuition, she concluded she was inside of a dumpster.
With no memory of how she got there, she looked for a way to escape. The lid of the thing seemed too far away for her to reach. Why would they make a dumpster so fucking tall? The only thing she could think of was to pile some of the less disgusting garbage up: a makeshift staircase.
It was collecting the pieces that she saw a baseball bat, or at least the handle of one. Perfect! She could bang on the inside of the dumpster for help. But the plan was dead on arrival when she saw what the other end of the baseball bat was attached to: the head of Ms. Benson.
()()()
He barely suppressed a scream of bliss as the screen took another out of many, many shots to the face. Freddie sat, heaving breaths, performing his usual routine of ignoring the shame his diminished old self brought to his conscience. He had juts gotten his rocks off to rape hentai and was sick and tired of feeling bad about it. It felt good. Why couldn't it just feel good?
There's an old parable, perhaps you heard it once. The last man on Earth was sitting alone in his room. All of a sudden, a knock on the door…
Freddie's gut gripped his throat when the doorknob turned slightly. And turned slightly more. And turned into a staring eye. Squinting couldn't make it go away this time. Squinting couldn't make it turn into something else this time. The eye didn't go away, and Freddie knew if he turned away it would only stare harder.
Everything started to fall out of focus. As if Freddie's room was constantly in the process of being sucked through the floor. He could no longer tell what was really moving or not. His brain forced his unwilling body to do things he couldn't comprehend in his mental state. His hand was gripping something. Swinging it frantically, but only once. And then everything was still, The fur that coated everything was gone as quickly as it materialized. Freddie regained use of his mental faculties long enough to realize something very important. What had just transpired was exactly what he had wanted.
Laughter, screaming laughter, was a soundtrack to every move he made. With his baseball bat, he trashed everything in his room. No direction or sense of purpose. Just mindless action. All-consuming emotion. Rage. Self-loathing. Uncertainty. Hatred. So much hatred. Enough to de-classify everyone around him as a person.
Tripping over one of many fallen pieces of matter in his room, he landed on his mother's bloodied face. It smelled like a time he knew he could never have back. The corpse was still so warm, he fell asleep on it.
To Be Continued