A/N: Okay, I haven't planned this one out, so I'm winging it…It's kinda sad, at least I think it's going to be…I haven't thought for an ending, so…I'm not going to say enjoy, because unless you are some sick person who is liking this, the pain inflicted on a child, not the story in general, than you are just some sick dumb ass…

Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly or Pat Benatar's Hell is for Children

Hell is for Children

Sam ran as fast as her feet would carry her against the wet asphalt. The sound of her high tops hitting puddle after puddle did little to distract her. The smell of a new rain was in the air. It wasn't uncommon for it to rain in Seattle.

Hell, it rained eighty percent of the time, but rain now, well, rain now was perfect. Sam felt the first drop before she saw it coming down. Rain came down in sheets, hard enough to hide her tears, hard enough to wash the blood from her injured person.

Sam was thankful that it was the dead of night; no one was there to help her. She was Sam Puckett. She didn't cry and she didn't need help. She would be damned before she let someone see her in the state that she was in. Not even Carly.

No, Carly could never know. No one could ever know what happened behind closed doors. Sam had stopped outside a park that she used to go to as a child to get away from everything, and it was the same now. Dark, so no one would see her tears.

She walked to a tree, holding her side, trying to stop the wound from bleeding anymore than it already had. She plopped down at the trunk of a tree, one in the very center of the park, and thought of her life, both with her father and mother.

They cry in the dark, so you can't see their tears

They hide in the light, so you can't see their fears

Forgive and forget, all the while

Love and pain become one and the same

In the eyes of a wounded child

Loving was hard for Sam. She was never taught how to love. Love wasn't what she grew up on. Not like Carly or Freddie. No, pain was her love. Love. Pain. It was the same for her. To love was to be in pain. To be in pain, was to be loved.

She was raised to full of pain. To take pain any from others, like her parents. To be yelled at, or hit, or cut, or any of that stuff, it was the only way to take away the pain from the people she 'loved'. It wasn't until she met Carly that she understood that she wasn't suppose to hurt. The other kids didn't get hurt.

Because Hell, Hell is for children

And you know that their little lives can become such a mess

Hell, Hell is for children

And you shouldn't have to pay for your love with your bones and your flesh

How many times had she had her bones broken to make her parents love her? Or how many scars that marked her body showed people to care for her? Too many. Too many 'accidents'. Just, to many.

It's all so confusing, this brutal abusing

They blacken your eyes, and then 'pologize

Be daddy's good girl, and don't tell mommy a thing

Be a good little boy, and you'll get a new toy

Tell grandma you fell off the swing

She was a bully to cover the pain her mother and father had inflicted on her. First it was her Dad. Her Daddy. When she was little, too young if her first memory was his foot to her stomach. He told her not to tell Mommie. She wouldn't understand their little game, he told her.

She found out when Sam was four. After two years of secret abuse from Daddy dearest, her mother had come home early from work. He was in the middle of hurting her. Sam, in too much agony to keep being a good little girl that day was trying to crawl away. He was yanking on her leg, twisting the ankle, when she walked in.

He was arrested and Sam and her mother moved to Seattle. It was good…for awhile. She was losing job after job and had took on drinking. She was a mad drunk. And she took her anger out on Sam. It started out as verbal strikes. Like 'It's your fault I keep losing my jobs' and 'I should have left you with your father!'.

Not long after that, the hitting started. At five, Sam was the best liar that the world's ever seen. She's had to tell her Grams and Jamama so many times that it was just another fight at school, and it wasn't a total lie, Sam did get into fights.

Just with her mother and a knife now that she was older. More capable of hiding her wounds.

Because Hell, Hell is for children

And you know that their little lives can become such a mess

Hell, Hell is for children

And you shouldn't have to pay for your love with your bones and your flesh

She wouldn't have it anymore. She had run away. No more waking up to a fist in her face. No more knifes and bats and brooms. No more of it. Sam took what she had and gone. At fifteen, she couldn't do much, but get the fuck out of there was the best thing she could think of.

No, Hell is for children

Hell, Hell is for Hell

Hell is for Hell, Hell is for children

Hell, Hell is for Hell

Hell is for Hell, Hell is for children

Hell, Hell is for Hell

Hell is for Hell, Hell is for children

Hell is for children

Hell is for children

Sam hissed, the sting of all her cuts and bruises finally hitting her. She opened the bag she brought with her and pulled out paper towels and hand towels. She gently peeled away the fabric of her shirt from her skin. Dark liquid gushed down her skin and onto the ground.

She swore loudly. It was worse than she thought. Sighing, she wadded a bunch of paper towels together and wiped the blood away the best she could, considering that it wouldn't stop. She gobbed the paper towels over the wound and grabbed the towel that was folded in two and quickly swapped the two.

After tightening a belt around her abdomen to secure the towel, Sam change shirts. She laid her head on the tree and smiled. Not a grin, not a smirk or a combination of the two. The genuine Sam-Puckett-One-Of-A-Kind smile.

She was free.

Finally.

The End