Title: The Good Left Undone

Pairing: Cam

Rating/Warnings: M for sexual situations, self harm, and some obscene language. If any of this (or Cam) offends you, please don't read. This is your warning. (:

Inspiration: The epic song that is impossible to get tired of, The Good Left Undone by Rise Against. It also tells the story of most of my highschool life, so I put this story in context and therefore, you could certainly say this is based on a true story.

Comments: Before you complain, the characters may be slightly to moderately OOC. Why? Because this story is pretty AU, and just because I can make it that way.

Prologue

My name is Samantha Puckett, and I am one ugly motherfucker.

I must be, I realize, as I sit in Hell, otherwise known as Ridgeway High's art room, and no one's bothered to talk to me, so I must be pretty ugly, kind of like the walls caging me in. They're covered with decades of colorful and occasionally frightening masterpieces created by students sitting in these same illegally uncomfortable, bright blue plastic chairs that can only be found in two places in the whole district: this room, and the elementary school. I hate these chairs. I hate this class, mostly because it's now mandatory for all freshman to take one semester of Art, and I feel so lucky that the school board decided to start this marvelous idea the very year I'm a freshman. Art isn't exactly my thing, unless I'm allowed to smash it afterward.

The bell hasn't rung yet, so kids are still slowly trickling into the room like a leaky faucet, and I watch in vague amusement as each reacts differently to the interesting array of scents that reach them as they walk through the door. Faces scrunch and noses twitch at the smell of wet clay, cheap watercolors, and turpentine that I'm finding heavenly in a way. Just to drive the point home, I take a real deep breath to fill my lungs with this possibly toxic air. I giggle softly to myself as I get light-headed with such a high concentration of toxins versus oxygen.

And it's halfway through this little miniature rush that I spot the girl who is certainly anything but an ugly motherfucker, and the name is Carly Shay.

I'm Sam and that fact alone means that I'm rather unliked by the majority of my peers, but I'm pretty good at faking it. And while it may be the first day of school, this year will be no different, and I'm still withholding that in-your-face aura. The bell is near ringing by now, I assume, and nobody that really likes me has trickled in that godforsaken door. I'm desperate not to be lonely this year for even one period a day, so I decide I'm going to talk to that girl, because she's the only one I really recognize in this room as not being a bitch.

"Car---" I start, and then, in all her red high-heeled splendor, she's smiling, and walking faster, right past me, and that's when I realize she's smiling at someone that's not me. She promptly takes a bright blue plastic seat next to that damn Freddie Benson across the table from me, and they've immediately drowned out the rest of the world in their deep-looking conversation. I grumble under my breath as the bell rings long and low, almost like a brick I swallowed, and my eyes dart around the spacious room, searching desperately for anyone to talk to. I feel like a nothing, like a total outcast right now, and that's not what Sam is.

I'm looking around, losing hope with each smiling, talking face my eyes grace themselves across. They all look one hundred watts dimmer than Carly Shay, who sits in the middle of the room chatting and laughing with the practically colorless Freddie, and she's absolutely radiating light and color that's pretty much her own spectrum.

And that's when I make up my mind. I'm talking to this girl if it kills me.

In fields where nothing grew but weeds,

I found a flower at my feet...