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[For Sam, Silent Hill was chased by real fucking HELL. Ok, so her eyeballs still worked, yeah? But she selfishly thought there was worse shit. Ian, in corners and down hallways, in shadows and in nightmares, was pretty fucking bad. Whoever was related to him, whoever had been on the journals making threats and cooing good girl in written letters, that shit was bad. The fact that she couldn't go a few days without the gut-writhe of an addiction that was way the fuck out of her control, that was bad. Her stomach, and the way it clenched needles and tossed itself up every morning, that was bad. The fact that she really thought she would lose her fucking mind if she needed to face the reality of Ian and being locked up, the shit she'd done, if she had to think about that too long, that was bad. Yeah, maybe she could see, but she wasn't ok, yeah? Her hipbones and the jut of collarbones said that much, and she couldn't even let up or her head would spin out and she would grand mal herself to fucking death, and she knew it. So, yeah, shit was bad.
But Sam was trying really fucking hard not to wallow, yeah? She was here, in this pristine hospital, trying to help, to do something good. She knew it would help Neil if Meredith did better, and she knew Neil needed help making sure Meredith was ok. Not the money, yeah? The money was fine, but the rest. And Sam, Sam was fucking trying, even while she sat there, fidgeting and in fucking pain, tears welling as her ankle bounced, she was trying. And she knew Cris was trying too, yeah? She knew this shit wasn't easy for him. Ok, so she forgot when the pain came and gripped, but she knew this wasn't easy for him. She reached down, hand over the fingers on her ankle, cold and clammy, but there, fingers tapping against the back of his hand in that same reassuring tap, tap, tap.
And she was proud of him, yeah? For talking so calm. He was blunt, because he always was, but he was good, yeah? What he said was good, and she knew that shit had to be hard. And she was considering abandoning her chair and crawling onto his lap, because why the fuck not? Meredith wouldn't be able to tell. She was thinking it, but Meredith talked, said shit about the staff trying too hard, and Sam literally groaned.
Maybe if Sam was feeling better she would think before talking, but she was feeling like fucking shit, yeah? In her head, in her gut, in the ants that ran across her skin with their little legs. And she'd thrown light bright in the room with the open shades, but she could still feel that prick of hairs along the nape of her neck, the sensation of Ian somewhere, good girl, and she was trying really fucking hard to keep it together. And maybe if she'd been the one talking, she would have been able to. But it hadn't been her. It had been Cris, yeah?]
They don't try too fucking hard. It's their job to do what they do, yeah? Neil's paying them to take good care of you. And that's bullshit, about giving attention to people who want it. So, what? Everyone goes in, worried about your ass, to save you, and you give up? What the fuck, Mere. That's insulting as shit. Fucking fight, yeah? If not for yourself, for the rest of us. [She scoffed.] Waste our fucking time. Is that some kind of fucking joke? And what the fuck does that mean, you wouldn't if you were in our position? I don't get that. [She leaned forward, not that the redhead could see that, but her voice was closer, yeah?] You fucking fight. That's what you fucking do. [And her voice shook, whatever, because god there'd been SO MANY fucking times when she wanted to give up, yeah? Back when she'd been shot, after Ian, but she hadn't. She hadn't, because it would have fucked everyone else up more. It was some selfish bullshit, so thought the little blonde hypocrite who'd tried to slit her wrists and run into traffic. Whatever. She wasn't thinking good.]