Disclaimer: Don't own it.

A/N: So I know I'm totally knew to this fanfiction, so I'm starting out little by little. I'm pretty sure this'll be a two shot, or MAYBE a three shot. I completely love feedback. :D

Chapter One

Carly thinks scars are awesome. So do I, really. Just not mine. I don't really like my scars, seeing as they're all in the same place. Yeah, I use to cut myself. Get over it.

Times had been rough. I couldn't handle my mother's insanity then. So I just found that physical pain made the emotional pain go away. It was pretty simple, at least to me. It was the same process every night. She'd come home drunk, scream, hit me, and I'd run to my room crying and slice my thighs. Pretty simple.

Carly and Fredward never knew. At times I knew she was suspicious of something or another, but I don't think she ever full blown believed I would cut myself. She knows everything else about me- some of the things she knows hurts her more than I wish they did. She knows my mother's crazy, but we both know she means well. When my mom's sober, she's just like any other mother- but when she's drunk, not so much. Carly's never seen my legs, I've always done a pretty good job of keeping them hidden. When we were getting ready for bed I'd ask her to grab me a drink or something to eat, or to pick a movie. She looks away every time.

I've been clean for almost two years now. That's pretty good, considering I went to therapy for suicidal thoughts in middle school. Carly never knew about that either. I had trusted one of my friends with my problems, but she went and told the guidance counselors at the school. I know, what a bitch, right? I guess she meant well, too. Just like my mom.

These thoughts always pop in my head as I walk home from Carly's every evening. My past and the bits and pieces that Carly doesn't know, and never will know. Sometimes I wish I could talk to someone, when the addicting feeling comes. But I just have to push through it, desperate not to pick up a stupid knife. I'm at my house now and turn the door knob.

Bam. I mean, that's usually not a good way to enter the room, with something flying and hitting you in the face. "What the heck?" I screamed, clutching chin. My mother chucked her stupid cell phone. It hit my lip pretty hard. Damn, not again.

"Samantha!" My mom slurred, holding a bottle of Vodka in her hands. Vodka's her choice drink. "Where the heck have you been?"

"Carly's. Ya know, where I'm at every night?" I rolled my eyes, not feeling like dealing with her.

"Don't you talk in that tone! Get your ass over here." She chucked something else at me, but I managed to dodge it. Man she's annoying. I'm not even intimidated by her anymore.

"What, mom." I ask plainly, pulling out my cell phone after feeling a faint vibration.

"You're over there all the time." She mumbled, trying to make eye contact but failing miserably. "And you're never with that boy."

"That boy is annoying. Just like you every single night." I stated, trying to focus on the text from Carly. It wasn't anything interesting, she just asked if I made it home okay. I thought it was sweet.

"I'm not the dyke." Whoa, what? I looked up and found my mother awkwardly in my face. God, her breathe reeks of alcohol.

"I never said you were?" I blinked, closing my phone and figuring I'd text her later.

"You. You're a dyke." She said bluntly, taking a swig from the bottle. "You like girls. You like Carly."

Okay, now she's going a little bit over bored. "Who the hell are you to assume that? You're not a god damn mother, you're a drunk." I breathed angrily, my hands balling up into fists. "She's my best friend. God, you're so stupid."

My mom blocked the door to the hallway in my room. "Uh uh uh Samantha! I know you're secret."

"Seriously, mom, I don't want to hear this shit. Move so I can go to bed." I demanded, grabbing my back pack off the floor which I had dropped earlier. She just stared at me, clutching the bottle in two hands like it was new born baby.

"Don't get pissed at me because you like her." She said, still not moving. My god, she's been pretty ridiculous lately, but when she brings up anything about Carly, I get really, really angry.

"I don't like her mother. Get that through you're thick head." I told her, crossing my arms across my chest.

"You like her, Samantha." She taunted me. "You like her, and you know she doesn't like you. She likes boys and such, and you're a girl. You're a girl, and you're a dyke. You're a dyke, and you know she won't love you."

"Shut the fuck up!" I screamed, throwing my back pack at her and storming up the stairs into my room. I was shaking like I had taken drugs. How does she know? How does she know how I feel about Carly? This is ridiculous, this is bull shit. Who the hell is she to tell me how I feel?

I fumbled through my night stand drawers. Searching and searching, I found it. I found that stupid knife of mine, that I've kept in there for the past three years. Ever since I had started cutting, and even when I quit- it was still there. I felt the handle and flicked it quickly, revealing the blade and it's glow. I stared longingly, hardly seeing my reflection. The sharp edge of the knife was almost like a calling. Cutting was addicting, regardless of what anyone says.

No. I voice in my head drew me to reality. It almost sounded like Carly. But I knew it couldn't have been. I looked down- While I was in the moment I had thrown my pants off. The scars stared at me almost as intently as the knife did.

Just once. Just once to get rid of this dying urge.