sam evans

Sam Evans discovered something about himself recently: he was great at pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He’d been faking being normal for so long, that everything started feeling like second nature. He was there for his friends, his girlfriend, his family, everyone, being as normal as he could be. Sure, he’d lashed out a few times, but no one really suspected much. It’s not like they ever really would. Most people in this town were too caught up in their own problems to see behind his mask, not that he ever wanted them to. Because people finding out meant having to let go of what was keeping him together.

Even teetering back and forth on the line of addiction, Sam was truly in denial. He’d tell himself every time, that it was temporary, that he had the power to stop, even if he didn’t. That the feeling of snorting a line didn’t send a rush through his veins that he never wanted to end. That the slightest annoyance didn’t make him want to pop a Xanax in his mouth. He’d been pretending for so long, that he wasn’t sure if he really knew who he was anymore. He was so beyond broken, so damaged, he couldn’t even tell the girl he loved. Peyton.

Everyone had told him he was ridiculous for saying she was so much better than him, but Sam knew it was the truth. Anyone would’ve been better than a druggie, stripper Serpent. Which is why he couldn’t lose her, not now. Not when his own brother was mere steps from becoming a Ghoulie. Not when Stacey had been sneaking around with guys that were 5 years older than her. And not when his mother tried to steal his gun and end her life in front of him three days ago.

But no one knew that. Maybe the small parts, but Sam had bottled the rest up and thrown it in a hole with the rest of his secrets. He remembered telling someone things were getting better, and maybe they were in that moment. There was an eerie pause in the chaos that Sam had mistaken for his hopes, only to be hit with it all over again. Stacey’s nightmares hadn’t stopped, she just no longer spent the night in her own bed half of the days. His mom hadn’t gotten herself out of bed to start living again, she’d gotten up to look for ways to die. He’d been distracted, too caught up in his own happiness to see what was really happening.

Sam had seen too many tears, but none of his own. Sometimes he just thought he’d forgotten how to cry, like processing his emotions just wasn’t something his brain could do. He could feel so terrible, so down, but never cry, never show it to anyone. Besides, he’d already seen what happens when he puts himself first, that couldn’t happen again. It’s not as if Sam didn’t want to cry, he did. There were these random moments of the day that everything would come back to the surface, and he wished he could just let everything out. But he couldn’t, he literally couldn’t, and he didn’t know why.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam knew he wasn’t okay. That he probably would never be okay, but he was doing everything in his power to keep that thought hidden. So, he was doing what he did best: pretending it wasn’t there.

It wasn’t outlandish to say that Sam had a savior-complex, in fact, it might’ve been one of the more accurate ways to describe him these days. There were still shreds of his goodness in his heart, but they came out in strange ways. It was almost as if Sam was projecting his own problems onto everyone else, thinking that if he couldn’t be saved, he’d do everything in his power to save everyone else. It was as if his brain had short-circuited at the word ‘help,’ ignoring who he really should’ve been saving in the first place.

Which is why Sam found himself in one of the dark alleyways of Southside Riverdale, waiting his dealer to show for the third time this week, after finishing up at the gym with Dare. He just kept running through his stash, resorting to the drugs every time his emotions came into question, which happened more often than he realized. But even with the Xanax and the cocaine, Sam still couldn’t lift the weight on his shoulders these days. He felt like a failure, as if he was failing everyone around him. His mom. Stevie. Stacey. Peyton. Even Eliana. Sam was tired. He was tired of having to feel, all the time. Because as great as being happy was, he realized that it never seemed to last. If it were up to him, at this point in his life, he’d rather just feel nothing at all.

By the time Eric showed, Sam was just about ready to smoke, snort, or swallow anything he’d brought with him. They made small talk, the usual stuff, how he was, what he was feeling. Sam wasn’t stupid enough to think Eric cared about his wellbeing, more like he’d just like to get more money out of the guy. Not that it was a problem for Sam. He’d been good about saving since he started working at the club, putting away whatever money that wasn’t for bills or for Stevie or Stacey away, in a little hiding spot. It wasn’t hard, seeing as he’d make a decent amount every time he worked. Sam could’ve even moved to the Northside with how much he’d saved, gotten him and his family an apartment. But something in the back of Sam’s mind was telling him to not do it, to pretend like he didn’t have nearly as much money as he had. So, he didn’t tell anyone, tens of thousands of dollars collecting dust in his hiding spot.

Sam was feeling pretty antsy, ready to get something in his system. He’d ran out of his pills this morning, and the coke last night. Which is why his mood was shot when Eric casually slipped in that he hadn’t been able to get a shipment of cocaine in time for Sam. I mean, sure, it still hurt like hell every time he shot a line up his nose, but at least it gave him someway to ease up, even if it was just for a few hours. So, he put his annoyance aside, and asked Eric if he had anything else. Something to help his get out of his mind for a bit. Which to then, the other man pulled a glass bottle out of his jacket pocket, something Sam didn’t really recognize. Eric went ahead and told him about it, that it was something called angel dust, better yet known as PCP, that it had to be injected in the form he had and could pretty much make him numb to any pain. At the time, it sounded great, it sounded perfect, actually.

But Eric forgot to mention how dangerous it was. How Sam bought one of the most dangerous drugs in the world. How this magical drug could kill Sam in seconds if his body didn’t respond correctly to it. That Sam would get hooked, faster than he did on the pills or the coke. That it would make Sam into a completely different person.

So, as Sam made his purchase, he stuffed the pills, the bottle, and the pack of syringes Eric had given him into his pocket, making his way back to the trailer. It was way past midnight, so fortunately, he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone. His mom had practically slept through the entire storm, and Stevie and Stacey were way too cold to sneak out anywhere, which meant an early night for everyone, besides Sam of course.

Sam made sure to be quiet, going into his room, peeling off the layers he’d put on tonight, and taking the contents out of his jacket. He took off the rest of his clothes, changing into a pair of sweatpants, finding his way back to his bed. The peace was nice, so he took in the moment, sinking into his bed and popping a pill in his mouth. It was rare, to have a quiet moment to himself, which is why he wanted it to last. He glanced over at the nightstand, where the glass bottle and syringes still lied.

Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing, but did he ever really? Sam just felt so lost, so hopeless. So depressed. There wasn’t anything, or anyone, that could really fix that. Being with Peyton, was nice. She was beautiful and intelligent, and there for him, and he knew he loved her. They were there for each other. Hanging with Eliana, was nice. She might’ve been the only one who had an idea of what he was going through, and she didn’t run away when she’d found out how terrible his life was. Helping Marley and Blaine, was nice. It was nice to at least pretend that his life wasn’t a mess and get his mind off what was going on.

But it wasn’t enough.

Sam swallowed hard, reaching for the glass bottle and a syringe. Was he seriously about to shoot up a street drug that his shady dealer sold him? Had he learned nothing from the countless action movies that showed the horror of sticking liquid death into your skin or the informational videos Southside High students were forced to watch in health class? Despite it being the furthest from true, Sam didn’t think he had anything left to lose. He forgot about his brother and sister, his girlfriend, his friends.

He forgot that his girlfriend had told him she loved him tonight. He forgot that there were people in this messed-up, tragic world who wanted to support him. He forgot that he was all Stacey and Stevie had left. He’d forgotten it all, his mind void of any thought, any emotion.

Sam let out a sigh, bringing the syringe into the bottle, watching intently as the liquid filling into the syringe. Now came the hard part. His hand steady, he brought the needle up to the inside of his elbow, trying to focus himself on finding his vein, poking the needle at it before swallowing again and pushing the needle through his skin, pressing down on the syringe and letting the liquid flow into his bloodstream. He winced at the feeling. He’d always hated needles.

As the syringe became empty yet again, Sam removed the needle from arm, setting both it and the bottle back on the nightstand and lying down on his bed.

At first, Sam didn’t feel anything. He almost wanted to try again, thinking he’d done it wrong. But the moment he sat up to do it over again, the effects came rushing through his body. He sunk back into his pillow, the waves of calmness rushing over him. He felt… numb, and it was the greatest feeling of his life. Sam’s eyes looked up at the ceiling, letting his mind get lost staring at the blank wall. He could hear every little sound, his ears focusing on the small breathes that came out of his mouth. The room was dark, yet everything looked so bright, as if it was glowing. It felt like his body was in a trace, unable to move at first, his mind wanting to bring his hand up to his face, but his body wasn’t responding. So, he lied there, staring off into space for what felt like hours, even if it had only been 20 minutes.

As Sam’s gaze met his ceiling light, it was then when the second wave came on. The lights, they looked like they were flickering, which send him jolting up from his bed. He hadn’t even realized that he was sweating, his chest feeling wet. His breathing got heavier, his ears pounding from the white noise that he could've sworn was so loud the entire trailer park must’ve woken up from it. He wasn’t calm, the calmness had subsided and everything about Sam felt cold, calculated. From the minute he stepped away from his bed into the bathroom, every movement he made felt purposeful, as if he could feel a dark shadow moving behind him. He was quick to turn on the shower, leaving the water cold as he liked it.

Stripping himself of his sweatpants and boxer briefs, Sam stepped into the freezing water, letting the liquid trickle down body. His eyes could see the water hitting his body, but he felt… nothing. It was the strangest, yet the most exhilarating thing he’d felt in so long. It was a powerful feeling, to be completely numb, from mind to toe, untouchable. Just the thought of it was turning him on, and before he could really process anything, his hand had found its way to his dick, the cold water doing nothing to stop his erection from forming. Sam’s mind was on Peyton… and maybe a few other girls.

Every girl he’d even just talked to in the past few days came into his mind as he stroked his member. Peyton. Eliana. Quinn. Marley. He’d always been into both sexes, but there was always a little something about women that could really get him going. One stroke for Peyton July, the love of his life, the woman that was his everything. One stroke for Eliana Lopez, his past hookup who he’d always secretly thought was sex on heels. One stroke for Quinn Fabray, the girl he’d never have, but could always imagine. One stroke for Marley Rose, someone he cared about, a former crush, and a dear friend of his.

That was the thing about the drugs, they could turn him into an entirely different person without him batting an eye. The kind of guy that could think about other girls while jerking off when he was the boyfriend of someone he was blissfully in love with. Sam didn’t have control over what was happening, over his mind or his body. The drugged up version of himself was perfectly content doing everything that sober Sam would’ve punched himself for. Sober Sam hadn’t even looked in another girl’s way since things were official, but high Sam couldn’t help but have his mind in the gutter.

He wasn’t really keeping track of time, only stepping out of the shower his hard-on had dropped to a semi. Sam wrapped a towel around his waist, wiping the fog off of the mirror as he stared into it, running his hands through his wet hair and slicking it back. As the fog subsided, Sam took a second to look at himself, leaning his hands on the sides of the sink. He was in the best shape of his life, despite having every reason not to be. His abs were more chiseled than normal, and his biceps bulged naturally, mostly due to the fact that besides the drugs, exercise was his outlet to let everything out. He was hitting the gym for often than ever, every day of the week, sometimes multiple times. He couldn’t help it. This anger was stuck inside of him, and no matter how hard he punched, or ran, or lifted, it wasn’t going anywhere. He did it best to keep it contained, to keep his actions in check, hence the excessive working out.

As Sam looked in the mirror, he felt calm, eerily calm. But with that calmness came the cold, calculated manner from before, dictating his thoughts instead of his actions this time. He thought… about his father. How if he ever saw the man again, he’d put him 12 feet under before Dwight could ever see his family again. Because a man like that, a man who abandons their own, doesn’t deserve any pity or help. His mind took that thought, and conjured up a little dream, removing Sam from reality, placing him into a world of his own.

It was the same alley. The alley Sam had been sneaking out to, to buy his drugs. Except, instead of his dealer in front of him, it was Dwight Evans, smiling, as if he had returned home to save his family, from the mess he created himself. And Sam stood in front of him, a frown on his face. As he stepped towards the man, he used to call his father, he suddenly found the two of them in the White Wyrm, the bar empty with no one except the two of them. In Sam’s usual spot lied his knife, and his gun. Dwight stood there, taunting Sam with his eyes, as if he was telling him that Sam wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t strong enough to do something to his blood. And Sam’s body flared up in anger, reaching for both the gun and the knife, deciding to prove his father wrong once and for all. And when Sam turned around, he found him and Dwight in the small living room of their trailer home.

Sam stared his father down, stepping towards him with the two weapons in his hands. He set the gun down on the table. Dwight didn’t deserve a slow death, he deserved a painful, agonizing one. So, Sam forced his weak father onto the couch, sitting himself down on the table, grabbing the first aid kit from the kitchen. And for what felt like hours, Sam removed Dwight’s fingers toes ears, and eyes, wrapping each of his disfigurements with heavy gauze so he’d have a living person to shoot by the time he was done. He relished the sound of Dwight’s screams, not caring who heard him. All they did, was make Sam more blood hungry. His face was stone cold, his body and hands covered in Dwight’s blood, who was barely living by the time Sam was done with his torture. Sam stood up again, whistling out a tune his father sang to him as a baby, grabbing his gun from off of the counter, one that had been a gift from Dwight.

He took his time walking towards his father, who was just about gone. Sam raised his gun to the Dwight’s temple, staring down at his practically dead, disgusting body, the both of them silent, the deafening noise of the gun going off the only sound. Sam was covered in the remains of his dead father, who was limped over the couch. Staring down at him, Sam tipped him over, letting him fall to the ground before raising the gun to him own temple against his will, the sound of another gunshot heard before everything faded to black.

Sam’s mind fell back to reality, realizing his gaze had dropped to the bottom of the sink. He slowly brought it back up to the mirror, only to realize everything was entirely the different. Sam was no longer looking at the face of himself, but instead his father, as if Sam was a reflection of him. The moment his eyes were able to process what was happening, was the moment that his calm, peaceful aura fell apart.

Everything around him went haywire.

The lights flickered in the bathroom, not in the same way as before, this time erratic, the small room going in and out of darkness with each moment. Sam couldn’t take his eyes away from the mirror, the haunting image of his father in front of him. His mind began to create noises out of thin air, the sound of Peyton’s laugh, the moan of Eliana’s, the deafening screams of Stacey. The sounds clashed together, making his head spin and made his heartbeat race. His breathing had deepened, sounding more like pants that only added to the multitude of noises he was hearing. The room… the room was spinning, yet Sam couldn’t take his eyes off the mirror, completely in a trace as he stared into the face of one Dwight Evans. It felt like he was going a million miles an hour, every bad emotion Sam sought to suppress coming to the surface. The anger, the fear, the doubt, everything he’d mastered hiding. And in a flash, he snapped, the entire room evening out as his fist came in contact with the mirror in front of him, shattering the glass to the ground and the image of his father.

Sam should’ve felt panicked over what had happened. Freaked out over this drug he was on that was making his world fall upside down. But he wasn’t. Once again, Sam felt nothing, as if the entire scene hadn’t just happened. His hand was bloodied, covered in cuts and small shards of glass were likely still embedded into his fist, yet he felt nothing, washing over his hand among the ruins of his mirror as if it was a normal Thursday night. He simply stepped over the glass and walked back into his room, unconsciously whistling the same tune from his dream, dropping his towel on the floor and putting on a fresh pair of sweatpants. The whistling stopped for a moment as Sam heard a knock on his door, opening it up to find Stacey, asking him if everything was okay.

It was uncanny, given that Sam was supposed to be the one asking her that, not the other way around. Stacey told him that she’d heard something break, causing Sam to simply shake his head, hiding his bloody fist behind his back, telling his younger sister not to worry and to head back to bed. He would just have to be more careful about where he had these “episodes” next time.

Sam got back into bed, his mind void of thought once again, helping him ease into a deep sleep, despite the multiple cuts that were obvious on his fist. It was the first time in months he’d gone to bed without thinking about anything, and it was amazing. Sure, the drugs weren’t perfect, but it’d be the best solution, yet, so Sam would run with it for all of its money’s worth. Besides, there wasn’t anyone to tell him what he was doing was wrong, and he’d make sure he wasn’t caught with it this time around, that way no one would get hurt.