Author's Note: Should be studying. Instead I wrote this. It's a bit different from my others, and it's definitely not upbeat, so be warned. Title from a Talking Heads song.

Warnings: Mentions of mature themes; glosses over court process.

why say it again?

Sam's in a decent mood today. She doesn't sneer or cuss when Freddie enters the room, at least. She sits in her seat, deceivingly docile, and stares determinedly at the table in front of her while Freddie walks over. He takes the seat across from her, so there's some distance between them. It's more for his safety than for hers; or that's how it's supposed to be. He shifts until he's comfortable in the stiff chair. He crosses and uncrosses his arms, over thinking it, not wanting to come off as defensive. He's done nothing wrong here. He's not the one at fault.

Freddie smiles and says, "Hey, Sam. How are you?"

It's a stupid question. Freddie knows it's a stupid question. He just can't think of anything else to say.

Sam doesn't move or reply, unsurprisingly. She's always been stubborn.

He sighs and leans back in his chair. "Sam, this is my fourth visit. I'd appreciate it if you at least tried to talk to me," Freddie pleads.

Sam's hair is still long, falling past her elbows. It's familiar, but the way the curls are tangled and matted is not. Sam's one vanity has always been her hair. That she has let it get to such a state is a true testament as to how wrong this situation is.

They sit in silence, Freddie stewing in his thoughts, Sam refusing to do anything.

Finally, Freddie is forced to play the card he has stored up his sleeve. "Carly says hello. She's moving into a new apartment tomorrow," he reports. "She's getting serious with this guy." He waits, but there's no response from Sam. Freddie settles into his chair and prepares to babble, like he's done the three previous visits when it's obvious he's not going to shake Sam. "It's a place more downtown, but there's a park nearby so Carly's getting a dog, just like she always talked about. And Spencer's art piece, the one with all the hats, it just got picked up by the Met—"

"Name."

Thrown, Freddie blinks. It takes a few times before he is able to respond. "Sorry, what?" Freddie asks.

Sam isn't looking at him still. But she says, "His name. Carly's guy, the serious one," and her voice is scratchy and hoarse from disuse.

There are dozens of things Freddie wants to talk about, now that Sam's actually speaking, now that she isn't steadfastly ignoring him, but he knows better than to press his luck. "His name is Carl," Freddie says, "but he insists everyone call him CJ."

A sound comes from Sam, a choking cough that it takes Freddie a few seconds to recognize as a laugh. "Carl and Carly," Sam mutters. "Of course." She's shaking her head and there's a smile playing on her lips, not quite there but almost, and, heartened, Freddie straightens up. He's prepared to launch into a discussion, a real conversation, about anything, anything if Sam will keep laughing and smiling. Before he can, the smiles drops off her face and her laugh cuts off, as if she's abruptly remembered where she is.

That's when she, at last, looks at him. But she doesn't look him in the eyes. Sam stares at the space over his left shoulder and says flatly, "I think that's enough for today."

Obediently, he's always been obedient when it comes to Sam, Freddie stands. He walks away, doesn't look back. He knows what he'll find if he looks: Sam sitting in her chair, peering down at the table like it has all the answers as to how they ended up like this. As if she doesn't already know.

Sam's in a bad mood today, Freddie knows the second he walks in the door. Her hands are tucked behind the back of the chair and her jaw is sticking out, like it does when she's feeling particularly difficult. Freddie braces himself and sits down in his chair, as per usual, and shifts until he's comfortable. But today he can feel Sam's eyes on him, gaze burning holes, and he takes longer moving around. He's restless and uncertain. Sam hasn't looked at him directly in a very long time.

Freddie tries to remember the last time she'd looked at him and has to close his eyes against the flood of memories attack; flashes of Sam standing next to him, holding his hand, yelling at him, pushing him around, making a joke, eating, dancing around, they all barrage his mind.

"Hey, Sam," he says tiredly. "How are you?"

He warily glances up and her eyes catch his. He barely restrains his flinch. Her blue eyes seem even lighter in her pale face, and the accusation in her gaze pierces him.

She attempts to move her wrists, making her handcuffs bang against the metal chair she's sitting in. "I'm in prison," Sam snarls. "How do you think I am?"

There's no safe answer to that, so Freddie says nothing. He tears his eyes away from hers and stares at the table, which is usually Sam's pursuit. After a long, tense moment, he hesitantly says, "Sam, I really think you should see another therapist. I think it'd be good."

Sam doesn't say much for a while. She mutters "incarcerated and imprisoned," in a steady mantra for about ten minutes. Freddie tries not to count but he glances down at his watch. He's waiting to leave. Sam's behavior has him on edge today. He chances glancing at her and is once again unsettled by her hair. It's been chopped off to her shoulders. It's short and Sam never has her hair short and Freddie doesn't like the change. It had been getting too tangled. Sam hadn't been taking care of it.

Sam's never been very good at taking care of things.

An hour passes and Freddie gets up to leave. As he reaches the door, guards on the other side holding it open for him, Sam says casually, "I'll see the shrink. Just for you, Fredward. For you."

Sam's hair is long and Freddie loves to run his hands through it. Sam only lets him do this when she's half-asleep or when she's feeling very happy. Freddie likes to think she's feeling very happy as they are curled up together on the couch, TV on, Sam laying her head on his lap. His fingers sift through her curly golden hair and Freddie never wants anything other than this. Sam whispers mocking comments about the show they're watching, some cheesy law drama where a murderer is on trial and there are lots of female lawyers trotting around in heels and tight skirts and low-cut blouses.

"Is that what your job is like?" he murmurs to Sam.

She sleepily blinks up at him. "Naw, there's a lot of men in tight clothing at my firm."

Freddie grins. The only time Sam looses her sense of humor is when she's fully asleep. "Oh, really?" he asks. He pretends to pout, sticking his lower lip out. "Are they prettier than me?"

Sam slowly sits up, leaning in to press her lips against his. She whispers, her mouth moving against his, "No one is prettier than you." Before Freddie can tease her for saying something so gushy, Sam pointedly straddles his lap and he's got more important things to focus on.

Sam's mood is talkative.

She's the one who greets Freddie when he enters, instead of the other way around. "Hey, Freddie," she says. "How are you?" She winds a long strand of her hair around her finger, her eyes unfocused and drifting.

"Okay," Freddie answers. He's wary, waiting for a trick, waiting for the catch. There's always one with Sam. "How about you?"

She smiles dreamily. "Just grand," she retorts. "My meds are magical."

She's stumbling over her vowels and slurring a little bit. Freddie bites the inside of his mouth so hard he can taste blood and refuses to be worried, to be angry. The people here, they know what they're doing. Sam's seeing one of the best therapists in the state. Freddie still tries to take care of her, even if Sam doesn't realize it. "Are you on a lot of them?" he inquires. He's not being nosy, he tells himself, he's just starting a conversation.

Sam nods and then rolls her head in a circle, like that silly stretch they'd done in P.E. "Blue ones and white ones and ones that taste nast-ee," she says and then laughs shrilly. It sounds wrong and sends shivers down Freddie's spine. "But the doc says I should take them, I have to take them. I'm like a seesaw, only there's a really fat obese kid on one side and then no one on the other. No one no how, I said. But she said, yes yes you have to, so I did."

Freddie's so focused on what Sam's saying it takes him a second to notice she's crying, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Her voice is fine, no sign of sobbing, but her shoulders are shaking. Her eyes are bright. "So I did and now it's spinning, it's all spinning, and they are so many of you," she says desperately, "and only one of me! Freddie, Fredkins, Fredward, I'm scared. Can we go home?"

Sam leans forward, and she's not cuffed today. 'Not a problem, she's drugged,' Freddie imagines a guard saying to his guard buddy, and they laugh and Freddie sees red.

"Can we go home now, Freddie?" Sam asks again. Her face is open and vulnerable and eager. "I've been good, I swear. Let's go home."

There are matching tears rolling down Freddie's face as he walks out and he tries not to hear, but Sam's calls, her plaintive shouts, her loud shrieks; they all follow him long after he's raced out of the building and into his car. It's pouring, thunder rolling, and he sits in his car for a long, long time until the rain stops pelting his car and his sobs have subsided. Then he takes his phone and he calls the building he's sitting right next to and he says, "Yes, this is Fred Benson. No more pills and no more therapists or doctors."

The sun is shining and his apartment is empty. Freddie is home and the guilt is overwhelming. He lies down facedown on his too big bed. He ends up calling in sick to work, sitting on top of the covers of his bed and thinking of nothing, his mind blissfully blank.

"Hi, Mr. Benson, I'm Sandy Briar," the woman says. She's in her early forties, maybe, her hair artfully died to hide the slight graying. She wears pearls and a confident expression. "Please, take a seat."

Freddie sits and sinks into the leather armchair in front of Mrs. Briar's desk. She's only a decade older, but it feels like she's ancient and he's a newborn, that he knows nothing. There's a series of diplomas framed, hanging on the wall behind her; all her accomplishments, hanging there for the world to see. Freddie wonders where his diplomas have gone and what the world would think of his accomplishments, of what he's done.

He feels like a kid again, going to the principal's office; he'd never been sent to the principal's office though, not until high school. Not until Sam. And that brings him full circle, because Freddie says, "Mrs. Briar, I'll be frank. I just want to know if you can help her."

They both know who the 'her' Freddie's talking about is.

Mrs. Briar nods slowly. "Yes," she says. "I believe I will be a great aid to Samantha."

There's a twinge in the back of his mind, a warning, but Freddie shoves it away. This is the fourth therapist he's seen and she's the best so far. "Don't call her that. Don't call her Samantha," he says, a little snappishly. Maybe too snappishly, because Mrs. Briar's plucked and thin eyebrows rise. He calms himself down and adds in a more reasonable tone, "Call her Sam."

Sam's mood is impatient. All she does is tap her fingernails against the metal table and ask if it's time yet.

Each time Freddie says, "No."

She continues to tap her fingernails, over and over, but never once does Freddie ask her to stop. He sits there and once thinks it's vaguely like he's doing time too. He's immediately ashamed of himself. He's here because he's spending time with Sam, he tells himself. He continues to be unsettled.

"Is it time yet?" Sam asks. She's bored and makes no attempt to hide it.

This time, Freddie says, "Yes."

Freddie's been in his home office all day. After he'd churned out a guest piece for the local newspaper, Freddie had then turned to the word document that's been on his computer and mind for the past few years. It had been a great day, and he'd advanced several chapters. Freddie is optimistic about finishing it sometime soon. But when the inspiration leaves him and he tiredly leans back against his chair, closing his eyes, he realizes how quiet the apartment is.

Checking the time, it dawns on him that he's been lost in his own world for quite some time. Sam should've arrived home from work by now. "Sam?" he calls.

There is no answer.

He gets to his feet too quickly, and has to stand still until the dots swimming in front of his eyes disappear. Then Freddie walks around the apartment, just in case Sam's decided to nap somewhere unconventional—no joke, he'd once found her curled up in shower, and another she'd laid out on the kitchen floor. But she isn't anywhere.

Freddie turns on the TV and ignores his grumbling stomach. He'll wait for Sam to come home and then they'll go out to eat. He waits so long his eyes begin to grow heavy and they shut, eventually, and he drifts off into a restless half-sleep. Then there's a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Sam whispering, "Sorry, Freddie, let's go to bed. C'mon." She helps him stumble into the bedroom, and half-asleep he slings his arms around her in their bed, burying his face in her hair; and it's there, with Sam safe and home in his arms, that Freddie finally falls into a real, deep sleep.

Sam's mood is all over the place.

She's wearing a straightjacket when Freddie enters and he stumbles, almost trips, because she's only had to wear it once before; his memory flashes to a picture of Sam, sitting in the courtroom, head hanging and wearing that damned jacket, waiting for the inevitable sentence. It'd been the one all the newspapers had used. Most had also used a headline that involved something along the lines of "iCarly Star Imprisoned" or "Internet Celebrity Sent to Prison".

Freddie hated the picture then and he still hates it. He loathes seeing it resurrected now and in such a fashion.

He addresses the guard impassively standing watch behind Sam. "What happened?" he demands. "What did she do?"

The guard looks at Freddie for a tense moment. He's vaguely familiar to Freddie.

"Why is she wearing it?" he asks, pushing. He doesn't care if something breaks as long as that something isn't Sam. Freddie can break and snap and collapse, as long as she's fine. (She's already snapped, a despicable part of his mind snickers, and he shoves it away.)

"She tried to hurt herself," the guard says.

Sam throws back her head and laughs. Her long hair falls away from her face and Freddie sucks in a sharp breath, because the angry red marks on her face are clearly visible. Eight gorges, four on each side of her face, going from the end of her eyebrow to her chin that guard calmly explains are all from her fingernails.

There's a knock on the apartment door.

Sam's stretched luxuriously out on the floor beneath Freddie. Their newly installed big screen is playing some movie Sam loves, the light flashing over exposed skin. Freddie groans, the moment interrupted, and Sam pats his chest sympathetically.

"Go answer the door," she says, and rolls out from under him as he sits up. Freddie watches mournfully as she slips back into her t-shirt and trots into the kitchen. He sighs and gets to his feet, his blue mood worsening when he stubs his toe on a box labeled 'office junk'. Freddie glowers at it and stumbles over to the front door.

He pulls open the door and there's young man, probably around Freddie and Sam's age, standing there. He's holding a bottle of wine and what looks like a pie. "Hi," the stranger says. "I'm Millbrook. I live next door in 4B. I'd shake your hand but my hands are kind of full." His mouth twitches into a smile. He seems nice enough, if a little on edge.

Freddie sighs quietly. The manners his mother instilled in him demand that he invite this new neighbor in, and there goes Freddie's plans of a nice night with Sam. That's going to have to be put off for a few hours. "I'm Freddie," he says, standing aside. "Why don't you come in?"

The first thing Sam says when they come into the kitchen: "Is that pie? Yes!"

And all the wine and pie makes Sam so sleepy that, by the time Millbrook leaves, she falls onto bed and starts snoring immediately; leaving Freddie to frown up at the ceiling for another hour as he tries to fall asleep, his plans for the evening foiled.

The blood is everywhere, it covers the hands that had held his not long ago. It coats her fingers and for a dazed moment he thinks, she's spilt nail polish, I hope it didn't get on the carpet. That must be it. It has to be it. Because Freddie is scared and shaking and Sam isn't helping, she's sinking to her knees, looking at him like he'll know what to do.

Freddie, she says, and her voice is terrified and helpless and Freddie doesn't know what to do—

He wakes up with a start, sweating and panting, disoriented. He hurriedly looks around but he's in bed, tangled in his covers. Freddie waits for his breathing to slow back to normal and turns on the light on the nightstand. In the dim lighting he organizes his covers. They're only messed up on the right side of the bed. The left side is fine, untouched by the thrashing he must've done while asleep. Freddie finishes, the covers straight, and leans over to turn the light off.

Before he turns the switch, Freddie glances down and his eyes catch the shadows playing along his chest. For a moment they look red, and they gather right where he'd seen, right where the gory hole had been, and-

And the room goes dark and Freddie goes to sleep.

Sam befriends Millbrook. Freddie doesn't really understand. Millbrook's a nice guy, sells pharmaceuticals to doctors or something, and he's sort of funny. But Freddie doesn't see the appeal in having Millbrook as a friend. The guy's a little whiny and holds killer grudges. He's almost as bad as Sam.

Then Freddie thinks to ask Sam, and she pauses, stops flicking through the TV channels. It's like she's formulating her answer so Freddie waits patiently, his arm wrapped around her waist.

"He's nearby," Sam says eventually. "You know?"

Freddie thinks of how overworked Sam is and accepts her answer easily, feeling slightly guilty for reading so much into it. It's hard for Sam to make friends. She's fresh out of eight long years of college and then law school; she's working herself to the bone. Freddie had only gone through four years of college and is now picking up random newspaper gigs while he works on his novel.

"Yeah, you're right," Freddie agrees. "Hey, I think Survivor's on, let's watch that."

Sam's eyes light up. "I love that show! Channel three or five?"

"Three, I think."

Sam's mood is inquisitive. She's full of questions today and Freddie has a hard time fielding some and answering sufficiently for tricky ones and trying to answer silly ones. It seems like Sam's forgotten things, or she's pretending not to know them; she asks questions she knows the answer to. Sam's almost childlike today. He knows the new therapist is a good man, that he doesn't have Sam on any heavy medication. Sam's back to her ADD medicine and her mood swings are unrestrained.

Freddie doesn't mind the questions. They're talking, so he's happy.

"Why's your hair so short?'

"I just had it cut. Sorry, I know you liked it long."

"Whatever. Why are you tanner?"

"I had to go to a book signing in California this weekend."

"You wrote a book?"

"Yes, I did."

"What's it about?"

"It's about high-tech pirates, in the future."

"High-tech pirates? That's stupid."

"It's because I love fencing and technology."

"Who gave you that idea? To mix them?"

"You did, actually."

"Oh."

"It's a New York Times bestseller. It's been number one for about a month."

"You happy?"

"I'm glad I finally finished it."

"You gonna write a sequel?"

"I don't know."

"You should. Even if it's stupid, if it makes you happy, you should keep doing it." Sam abruptly closes her eyes and declares, "I'm tired. Can you go away now?"

Freddie smiles sadly and says, "Whatever you want, Sam."

"I'm just worried about you," his mom says. Her concern is palpable, even over the phone. "You're…fixated on repairing something that's never going to mend. I think you've come to the point where it's best if you simply let it go."

Freddie's heart is beating so fast it might explode. "Let her go," he says quickly, angrily. "Let her go, that's what you mean."

"Freddie, I," his mom stutters.

"I won't," he vows. "I loved her and I love her and I will love her. There's nothing you can do change or stop that."

Then he hangs up and throws his phone across the room. It ends up clattering into the sink. It might have slid down the drain. Freddie doesn't care. He strides over into his home office and turns the stereo up as he works, his fingers sliding and pounding over the keyboard of his computer.

Sam's mood is unreadable, mostly because her focus is on the piece of paper and three crayons lying in front of her on the table. Freddie enters the room and wonders where Sam's managed to procure them from. Then he gives up, because Sam's always been resourceful, and there are too many options. She's always been talented at getting her hands on whatever she wants, whenever she wants, wherever she wants. Freddie sits down in his seat.

Sam doodles absently on the piece of paper. She has a crayon tucked behind her ear, half-hidden in newly short hair, the hair Freddie isn't used to.

The crayons are yellow, pink, and blue.

For a second Freddie wonders why it's pink and not red. Yellow, red, and blue are primary colors, Freddie knows from his semester of art class sophomore year. He sucks almost as bad as Carly at all things artistic. Spencer had helped him out. But then Freddie traces red to red things to blood to blood, everywhere, spilling and leaking and a desperate croak and a loud crack, a gunshot and "Stop, God, shut up, shut up"—

Sam draws flowers. One flower in the right bottom corner she pauses on. She fills it in with the pink, pressing down on what's left of the crayon to make the flower a deep, dark pink. It's as close as she can get to red, Freddie knows.

He leaves after only thirty-two minutes.

Later, Freddie's hands freeze over his keyboard. He shuts her stereo off, cutting the loud music short, and the silence seems to echo around the apartment far more than the songs ever had. He trudges over to the kitchen and fishes his phone out of the sink. It had been dry, so his phone has a new, small dent but it otherwise unharmed.

Grateful, Freddie taps out a number from memory and presses the phone to his ear.

The ringing stops but the person says nothing.

"Mom," he says in a tiny, scared voice. "I'm sorry."

She sighs heavily. "I know, Freddie. I am too."

They both listen to each other breath for a while.

"I just wish things were different," his mom says finally.

Me too, Freddie thinks. But he says, "So, about that retirement center you were looking at…"

Sam's in an odd mood. She appears almost as defeated as Freddie feels. They sit together, staring at the table, and Freddie contemplates how the only difference between them is that Sam's the one physically chained to the chair, wishing she could leave, and he's the one who voluntarily chains himself to the chair, once every week, wishing, wishing, not even knowing what it is he's wishing for.

"Why do you it?"

Startled by the sudden question, Freddie looks up. "Do what?"

Sam's staring off into the distance, her eyes unfocused. She's not on any medication, just lost in her mind. What a mind it is, the current therapist says. Sam's displaying several anomalies in her behavior that indicate symptoms of many disorders. The therapist is trying to narrow it down. He says it could be a while. Freddie's got time. That's all Freddie has, nowadays.

"Why do you keep coming back?" Sam asks quietly.

Freddie asks himself that, every time. The answer is always the same and instantly comes to lips.

"Because," he states. "This is where I want to be."

They're both kids and Freddie's sitting there, waiting for Sam to stop leaning forward and shout, "Gotcha!" But she doesn't, she just keeps advancing, and Freddie's not really focusing on the fact he's about to receive his first kiss. He's trying to get over the fact that Sam—Samantha Puckett—is about to willingly kiss him.

He finally accepts that he's not hallucinating when her lips meet his.

Freddie still counts hallucination as a possibility, because there's no way kissing Sam could feel so good. It's only a few seconds, not really time move their lips around like people do in movies, but it's long enough for Freddie to register that he wants to do it again. Then they're both withdrawing and Freddie's pleased to see Sam looks a little shaken too.

After that, 'Fredward' always sounds slightly affectionate. No one else notices the difference, but Freddie smiles a little and his protests to it are token; and Sam stubbornly keeps using it, pretending badly that she doesn't notice the difference at all.

Sam's in a normal mood. She smiles at Freddie when he appears, and for a split second he can pretend everything's normal, that this is Sam, his Sam, and that they're at home and everything's fine and nothing's happened, nothing's changed. Then he notices Sam isn't cuffed today and the urge to play pretend evaporates. She looks comfortable, legs crossed and elbows on the table.

Freddie asks, "How are you today?"

He's barely sat down.

She asks, "How is Millbrook?"

He's out the door, anger barely restrained.

Next time, Sam apologizes. Freddie accepts. Sam doesn't ask about Millbrook again.

Freddie's offered a job on the East Coast, all the way in New York City.

He's only been there once but he'd loved it. The fast paced, no-nonsense lifestyle had appealed to the busy-bee worker inside him. But he hadn't even needed time to consider it. He'd said thanks but no thanks, he was perfectly happy living in Seattle. In high school, Freddie had dreamed of escaping Seattle, maybe going to California or even east. But then Freddie had found Sam and had found he loved her and he knows where he belongs.

"Why?" Sam stands in front of him, challenging. She holds the letter offering him the job in her hands. She's clutching it so tightly it's folding in her hands. She doesn't notice. She stares up at him and asks again, "Why didn't you take the job?"

Freddie looks down at her. He'd left the envelope carelessly on the counter, with all the other junk mail he'd meant to trash before he got dinner ready. He doesn't know how Sam had found it. He does know that she needs this answer, that she's not just asking him about the job. She's asking him about why he sticks with her, why he puts up with all her crazy, why he loves her, why he stays.

He looks down at her, places his hands on her shoulders, and leans in so close their noses are brushing. "Because there's only one place I want to be," he whispers to the woman he loves. "And that's wherever you are."

Sam closes her eyes, holding back tears. Then she opens them and, of course, starts teasing him about how corny he's being. Freddie steps back and rolls his eyes, grinning, as Sam starts ragging on him about how stupid he is, he loves New York, he should've taken the job, she wouldn't have minded. Freddie shuts Sam up by kissing her, and her arms instantly wrap around him.

Later on, she tells him matter-of-factly, "I go where you go."

Then she adds, "I love you."

And that's when Freddie, brimming with happiness and love and joy, says, "Let's get married."

They don't have rings and they don't have much money, but they have the support of their friends and they're giddy with love; what more do they need?

Sam's mood is almost contrite this day. Freddie sits down in the chair. It takes him longer than it used to, his joints no longer running so smoothly. Sam's hair is growing about, somewhere around her shoulders, and it's fading, turning from golden to a dusty blonde that's going to gray soon. Freddie knows how his hair looks, turning salt-and-pepper. He'd tried growing a beard but it had made Sam have trouble recognizing him, so he'd quickly shaved it off.

He rubs his smooth chin while Sam stares at him, her head tilted to the side.

"I'm not crazy, you know," she says. "I'm just a little different."

Freddie knows. Oh, how he knows. Sam's always refused to conform to society's standards, gone against the flow, has always been unafraid to be herself. But there's a line there, somewhere, and Sam had crossed it in her haste not to be labeled average. This too Freddie knows.

"I'm not crazy," she repeats. This time it's quieter, as if she's reassuring herself.

Freddie agrees, "You're not."

The legal documents disagree, "Yes, you are."

No where in his first book do the words "unstable", "crazy", or "insane" appear. He'd edited all those words out during his fit of depression when Sam had first been found guilty and dually imprisoned. His editor had not commented on it, for which Freddie is eternally grateful.

Sam's in a rotten mood.

When Freddie appears, she automatically screams at him. "I hate you! You did this to me, you bastard, this is all your fault!" she yells at the top of her lungs.

She's handcuffed and two guards are trying to subdue her, because she's thrashing around, violently. She's not hurting anyone but herself. She doesn't appear to care.

"You did this, you know and I know! I hate you and I hope you rot in hell!" Then she bursts in to tears and stills, letting the guards gather her up and take her away.

Freddie stands aside to let the guards and the quietly weeping Sam go. Then it's just him, standing in the doorway of the empty room, the chair and table inside. He's alone. He silently shuts the door and leaves.

It's a Tuesday night and Freddie comes home exhausted. He's trying to find a steady job while he's working on his book, but the job hunt isn't going very successful. No one's willing to hire a freelancer right now, not with the economy how it is, and Freddie's hope is running out. Sam and he are alright surviving on her income, but she's doing grunt work still at the firm that's hired her. She's working her way up slowly, as is the way of the lawyer world. Sam is determined and vicious, though, so Freddie privately thinks in another three years Sam will be a partner at a firm, winning cases with ease and ordering around new graduates with an iron fist.

He hangs his coat on the hook and toes off his shoes. "Sam?" he calls out to the apartment. He receives no reply, which is odd. Usually Sam calls back, a greeting or a funny joke or a rude retort that makes him laugh. Sam always makes him laugh and Freddie loves it.

The kitchen's empty and Freddie sets his keys on the counter, going to the fridge. There's a plate of pasta wrapped, Sam's scrawl in Sharpie covering the tinfoil. 'Fredward's Slip' it reads, and Freddie grins fondly. He tears the foil off, inspecting the dinner that seems to be more meatball than pasta, and heats it up in the microwave. He considers calling Sam, to find out where she is, and thinks about getting his phone from his pocket.

He abruptly remembers she had mentioned going to the apartment next door to visit Millbrook.

Freddie sits down on the couch and watches the news, eating his dinner. He decides to go to Millbrook after he's done. He hasn't seen Millbrook for a while. Sam usually goes over to Millbrook's. She invites Freddie but he always turns her down, not wanting to intrude on her friendship, so eventually Sam stops asking. He knows it's rude to impose but he hasn't spent much time with Sam lately. So when the news starts repeating and his plate's empty Freddie turns the TV off and puts his dishes in the sink. He grabs his keys and walks out of the door and into the hallway. The next apartment down, Millbrook's, is a place Freddie's only been once or twice. But the front down is cracked open, like someone had forgotten to close it.

There's a small bell ringing warning in Freddie's head, but he shoves it away. He guesses that Sam had ordered pizza or Thai and had forgotten to close the door after grabbing the food from the delivery man. She always does that. Freddie smiles fondly and he pushes the door open enough so that he can slip in. "Hello?" he calls out. It's dark in the apartment, but he assumes it's because they're watching a movie or TV; they could even be playing with glow sticks. Freddie's not really sure what Sam does when she comes over to Millbrook's. Sam never mentions it and Freddie's never thought to ask. He trusts Sam.

The feeling in his gut worsens when he goes into the kitchen and it's spotless. No sign of Styrofoam carry-out boxes on the counter. In the dim light coming from the living room Freddie can almost make out traces of sugar scattered over one part of the counter. The feeling in his gut throbs and Freddie continues on to the living room and that's where it happened, of course, and at first Freddie's again struck by how similar this apartment's structure is to his. And then Freddie's mind finally accepts what he's seeing and it's Sam, standing with an utterly blank expression on her face, her shirt torn and a gun in her hands; Millbrook lying on the floor, in a puddle of red, red blood, his face horrific twisted and frozen forever. There's a smell lingering in the room, terrible reminiscent of the college parties Freddie had avoided, coming from the ashtray on the coffee table.

Freddie gasps and his heart stops. No, no, he thinks, as everything slots into place. Sam's frequent visits to Millbrook when the stress level of her job is at its max; Sam's quiet avoidance of details about Millbrook's job and life; why Millbrook is so twitchy and why he had befriend Sam, who is a lawyer and who dabbled in drugs in high school and some in college; and Sam, who said she'd stopped who promised she'd stopped; Sam, who hadn't stopped, who hadn't wanted to face Freddie's disappointment so instead had hid her guilty pleasure, her secret stress-reliever, and accepted the dangerous friendship of a drug dealer; Sam who'd always been moody, who'd been acting a little too off lately.

"Sam?" Freddie says, and his voice breaks on the name.

She looks up at him and emotion at last floods into her face. Horror and shock and disgust and more—they all pass and Sam sinks to her knees. She drops the gun too close to Millbrook and it lands in blood. Sam almost falls over but catches herself, her hands turning red, and Freddie feels like he's going to be sick. Sam's muttering to herself "no, no, no, no" over and over again until it's all Freddie can hear and he doesn't know what to do.

But something inside him is strong and resilient and reaches for the phone. Freddie Benson calls the police on his wife and on this mess, because that's how he'd been raised and that's what Sam needs.

And that's all he can do for her. He hopes she can understand someday.

Years later, when Freddie is bent and wrinkled, when he has to support his weight on a cane that turns into a walker that turns into a wheelchair, a guard will pull him aside. The guard will be relatively new to the job, maybe two or three years in; new enough to not now the story in detail, new enough to be curious enough to ask. And Freddie will look upon the guard's fresh young face and be reminded of himself, long ago. For whatever reason, Freddie will feel compelled to answer this young stranger.

Freddie will shakily lift up his left arm, ignoring its slight trembling, and he will not look at the spots or the wrinkles or the scars the IV from his last weekend in the hospital has left.

He will look at the glinting flash of light the ring on his fourth finger. He will remember it has a counterpart.

He will turn to the new young guard, and Freddie will think of her.

And he will say, like he did years ago, "Till death do we part."

Freddie will keep his promise.

FRED BENSON'S "THE FIRE ESCAPE BALCONY" A HIT

by Heather Shield

Today Mr. Benson's second novel was released to a stunning reception. Fans of his first book flocked to the second, even though Mr. Benson has cautioned that it is very different from his first novel. Different it may be, but "The Fire Escape Balcony" is no less thrilling than his first book, though it deals more with modern times and issues. Mr. Benson's second novel centers on a troubled young girl who grows up in a broken home. She finds refuge in a new friendship with a secluded and socially awkward boy in the apartment above hers. The people around them disapprove of the friendship, so the girl and boy use the fire escape of their apartment complex to hold clandestine meetings. As the children grow, their friendship and problems do as well. 'The Fire Escape Balcony' is a new piece of fiction that doesn't seem new at all; it relates to common household issues and even manages to, throughout it all, come off as a truly great romance.

It is rumored that Mr. Benson wrote the book about he and his wife. Mr. Benson is married to Samantha Puckett-Benson for over fifteen years. As teenagers they, along with their now-estranged friend Carly Shay, created and starred in the popular web show "iCarly". Twelve years ago, however, Mrs. Puckett-Benson shot and killed Millbrook Adams, who after an investigation was revealed to be a prominent drug dealer with a long rap sheet wanted for several charges of possession, assualt, and stolen identity. Mrs. Puckett-Benson had befriended the drug dealer and is thought to have accepted various unknown drugs from him during their friendship. It is suggested that these unknown drugs helped undo the stability of Mrs. Puckett-Benson's mind, which was already suffering from mild bipolarity and severe mood swings. She struggled with addiction in her youth, but with the help of Mr. Benson, who was her boyfriend at the time, she supposedly had overcome it. Mrs. Puckett-Benson was tried and found guilty of first-degree murder, though she pleaded insanity and was granted leniency. Mrs. Puckett-Benson is to be locked away for over fifty years, more if her mental state deteriorates.

Mr. Benson has remained ever faithful to his wife and has not divorced her, nor does he plan to. Once a week he visits his wife for at least an hour. He has asked that the name of the prison his wife is being kept at remain anonymous. He is quiet on the subject of Mrs. Puckett-Benson and rarely talks freely about her. But "The Fire Escape Balcony" has prompted him to speak more about her. Mr. Benson neither confirms or denies the rumors that his novel is about he and his wife; he has admitted that their first kiss occurred on a fire escape, and that memory was what first sparked the idea for his second novel.

"I've loved Sam for the majority of my life," Mr. Benson, age 39, said in a recent interview about his life. "Absolutely nothing will ever change that."

"The Fire Escape Balcony" deals with depressing and often hopeless situations. But throughout the book there is always an undercurrent of hope—hope that things will improve, hope that people will come through, and hope that love will conquer all. That is the message Mr. Benson sends with his second novel, and it, along with his book, has been embraced by millions across the nation. We will all eagerly await Mr. Benson's next novel, and we wish him and his wife the best.

(An Excerpt From "The Fire Escape Balcony":)

Dedication:

This is for my Sam.

I'll always be your Fredward.

The End.