Author's Note: Thanks for all the lovely reviews guys! Sorry I haven't had time to reply to them individually; I really do appreciate them. As a few of you figured out, describing this as SamOC was a really terrible joke on my part. The OC, of course, stands for "other chair." ;-) And speaking of which, the chapter titles will all be the names of mediocre TV shows . . .
It was supposed to be a present for Carly. A nice, tame birthday present sent by her granddad from Yakima. Carly had no idea what she was starting when she offered us each a turn . . . I still haven't really gotten mine.
From the moment Sam sat down in it, I knew that we'd have a problem. Her reaction was just . . . different from Carly's.
"This feels soooo good!" she practically moaned. "Carls, this is the best present ever." She closed her eyes in contentment, gripping the arms of the chair and pushing herself further back into it. A small sigh escaped her lips and Carly let out a laugh.
I wasn't completely sure why at the time, but something about it rubbed me the wrong the way . . . And after hours of waiting patiently for my turn, it started to piss me off.
"Come on, Sam," I finally said. "You've been sitting there for three hours!"
"And your point?" she smirked, making no movement to get up.
"This isn't fair!" I yelled. "Other people are waiting."
"Again, your point?" she said lazily, leaning back and sighing contentedly.
"Carly, make her get up!" I yelled, becoming more and more angry.
"Aw, quite your whining, Benson," Sam said.
"Sam, don't you think—" Carly began.
"No," Sam cut her off.
"Sorry, Freddie," Carly shrugged.
Groaning, I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. She had to get up sometime.
And she did. To use the bathroom, go to school, and do the web show. Once I actually sat in the thing for almost a whole minute before nearly getting my arm ripped off . . . As it happened, she did rip my shirt, which was almost as bad. After a thirty-minute lecture on how "keeping your shirts ironed and clean turns frowns into smiles and drives off the mean," I decided that it just wasn't worth it. She could keep her herJoy.
And yet . . . Watching her sit in it, seeing various expressions of contentment flit across her face, hearing the tiny noises that occasionally escaped her lips . . . It was . . . unpleasant.
I wasn't sure exactly why, but for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to make her angry. As if doing that would somehow solve things . . . One day after school I proudly marched up to her and told her that I'd posted that picture of her goofily hugging a costumed character from "Boogie Bear on Ice" that my mom had taken a few months ago.
"It's now displayed prominently on the iCarly website," I smirked, crossing my arms and looking down at her in satisfaction.
"Oh, you'll pay for this, Fredwina," she said, but bizarrely, didn't make a move.
"Aren't you going to hurt, me?" I asked, confused.
"Yeah," she said, looking up at me in amusement, "but what's your rush?"
"Just . . . just . . . forget about it!" I yelled in frustration and stormed out of the studio.
Unfortunately she didn't. The next day in school she surprised me in the hallway. I won't get into what happened after that, but suffice it to say that, after my mother saw me that afternoon, it was time for a mayonnaise shampoo.
A few days later, I was prepping some equipment for our next webcast. Sam was being particularly loud and each little noise from her direction seemed to fuel my desire to get her out of that thing. Even if just for a little while.
"So," I said, trying to sound casual. "I was thinking that, after I finish this, I might head down to Gallini's for some pie. Do you wanna to come?"
"Nah, that's okay," she said.
At that moment, George the Bra could have taken me in a fight. Sam Puckett was refusing pie.
"I would, um, buy it for you," I offered, unsure if she understood what I was suggesting.
"Gee wilikers, Fredwald, that just changes everything since I totally thought that I might pay for my own food," she said, rolling her eyes. "Just pick some up for me, okay?"
"Sam, I'm not a delivery service," I said, my voice taking on a tinge of anger.
"What's the big deal, Fredweirdo?" she said, looking at me like she had no idea why I was angry. "You're going there anyways, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I guess," I said, trying my best to control my frustration.
What was I supposed to say? That I actually just suggested it hoping that I could take her there?
That didn't sound right.
That the expression on her face and the sounds she was making were driving me crazy and this was just a lame attempt to make it stop?
That also didn't sound wonderful.
In other words, I brought Sam Puckett some pie.
After that incident I tried to just tune it out . . . It simply told myself that I was making too much of it and there was no reason to get worked up over her bizarre attachment to that thing.
It almost worked.
Almost.
Then the dreams started.
In my dreams, it always went down the same way. It would be storming outside and I would go up to the iCarly studio to find her sitting in it. Sitting in it, gasping, and moaning. Without a word, I would approach her, grab her, and effortlessly toss her onto a beanbag chair.
And then I'd whip it out.
A giant sledge hammer. Like the one that Spencer used to crush things.
And silently, I would begin to hit it. Slamming the iJoy harder and harder, over and over again.
And all the while she would continue to moan, the sound getting louder and more intense as I continued to swing the hammer.
Sometimes she would scream or cry and I would tremble with a maniacal pleasure.
Finally, the chair would explode in a tremendous burst.
Then I would wake up gasping and in a cold sweat.
A wave of guilt would wash over me for having such violent thoughts and I would tell myself that it didn't mean anything. And yet, I would have a hell of a time falling back asleep . . .
I knew that this couldn't go on. Not if I ever wanted to get a peaceful night's sleep again.