He's Gone
A/N:
Since I'll be on vacation next Sunday, I decided to give you guys a little somethin' extra to make up for not having Chapter 9 out that weekend.Special Notes:
This story includes a full name for Arnold. In tribute, I named him after James Mackintosh Qwilleran of The Cat Who… books since, to me, Arnold's future job may either be becoming an archeologist or a newspaper reporter. Also, I am assuming that the year Hey Arnold! takes place in is about 1997. So if you don't like it, tough.Disclaimer:
Hey Arnold! isn't mine. And to those killjoys who like pretending to be lawyers, PGod, Fate, whoever's out there…
…that wasn't fair.
He's gone. In one split second, he's gone.
One of the paramedics who had tried to save him told us what happened the day afterward:
A weak blood vessel in his brain that there was no way to detect had exploded.
I can still remember that moment when he was snatched from us…
~One Week Ago…~
"Arnold, could you please go up to the board and work out this problem?" Mr. Simmons asks.
"Sure."
He rises from his seat and walks over to the chalkboard. He reaches for a piece of chalk, grabs it, and raises it to the write on the board. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I see Helga watching him closely as she sighs. Perhaps she has another poem in mind today.
I turn back to the chalkboard, ever studious, and then it happens.
Just when he's about to start writing, his head snaps back, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. His body is as stiff as a board.
"Arnold, are you all right?" Mr. Simmons asks, concerned.
He doesn't answer. He simply collapses to the floor.
Everybody's screaming. All I can do is stare at him lying on the floor. Mr. Simmons rushes over and tries to take a pulse, then begins performing CPR. Mr. Wartz comes in to see what the fuss is about, and Mr. Simmons actually screams at him to call 911.
All I can say is, "Those eyes…Those eyes…"
Those eyes are lifeless. They are still open wide, but there's not a hint of soul behind them.
The paramedics arrive a few minutes later. They pick up where Mr. Simmons left off, trying to save his life.
It's all in vain.
He's gone.
~Present Time…~
According to the paramedic, Arnold was dead the second that he snapped his head back. He was beyond help even before he hit the floor.
The worst part is, there was nothing that could've been done to save his life. That blood vessel had been, in a way, a time bomb. If it hadn't exploded at school, it would've gone off some other time…
…and it took the life of a good friend with it.
His death actually made the newspapers, surprisingly enough. One of the newspaper reporters had been following his story for quite some time. She had done all the reports on his parents and a few reports on him when he really stood out from the crowd in the biggest possible ways: like bringing down Scheck.
"Child Humanitarian Dies at Age 9"
That was the headline. He actually made the front page.
In the article, she wrote about his history and what he'd done for people in this city.
She interviewed all of us along with Dino Spumoni, Mr. Green…
…even Scheck.
This is what he told her from his prison cell:
"I just wish I'd been there to see it. I wish I could go to his funeral. I want to spit on his grave!"
Aside from that quote, the article she wrote on him was far more beautiful than any obituary or eulogy could ever be. His grandparents thanked her profusely for it. I still have a copy of it to help remember him.
The term "Child Humanitarian" has pretty much become Arnold's second name, though he'll never know it. People who didn't know him when he was alive have come to respect him now that he's dead.
There was a moment of silence at school a few days after Arnold's death, and I know I heard far more than just Helga and me crying.
Starting with the animals at the boardinghouse, mournful howls and yowls filled the air when the news arrived to them. Apparently, it was their only way of saying "goodbye" to someone who had cared so much.
So here I am now: at his funeral. I'm staring down at his newly dug grave at the end of his funeral.
Some people think that by looking at the grave, it'll make it easier for them to say "goodbye".
I think it makes it harder.
I remember how he looked in his casket. He looked so peaceful and relaxed. His eyes were closed, like he was sleeping. His hands were folded neatly over his chest…
I half-expected him to wake up, sit up, look at me, and ask, "Why are you crying?"
But he didn't. He couldn't. His spirit's gone. His life is gone.
In his place is a fresh grave with a marble gravestone (paid for by Dino Spumoni) marked with these words:
Arnold James Mackintosh Qwilleran
February 29, 1988 ~ April 30, 1997
Beloved grandson and devoted friend
He was clever, wise, and loyal until the end.
His memory shall be cherished forever.
Rest in Peace
Momentarily I wonder what happened to his soul. I don't think he really had a religion, so did that mean he went to Hell like most people think will happen if you aren't "saved"? Or did he do so much good in life that he was spared?
I hope it's the latter. It doesn't seem fair that he wouldn't be rewarded for all his good deeds just because he wasn't part of a certain religion.
It's a good thing that I'm at the end of the line because I can't say "goodbye". That's an ending, and I don't want to see my life without him beginning.
Are you satisfied, Fate or whoever?!
Has taking his life away made you pleased?!
"Arnold," I whisper hoarsely, "I-I can't say 'goodbye'. I just…can't say it. I mean, yes, you're gone, but I just can't tell you 'goodbye'. I don't want you to be gone forever."
I turn and walk away, not wanting to stay a moment longer. I have tears in my eyes. I walk alone, avoiding other people.
Some mysterious hand ultimately draws me to the Sunset Arms boardinghouse. It stands alone and silent, as if in mourning as well.
I stop and stand there, gazing at the new bronze plaque on the building.
Mayor Dixie (with some pushing from Mister…no, Councilman Green) had made the boardinghouse a landmark. She had a vote about it and, surprisingly, more than enough people voted that it become a permanent part of the city in his memory. After all, he had done the city countless services, not the least of which was by saving a large group of people from losing their homes and stores to Scheck's wrecking ball.
The plaque has these words:
This building is a city landmark, never to be torn down.
For within these walls lived a soul who continuously went
above and beyond the call of duty, who saved a neighborhood,
who saved lives. May his name never be forgotten:
Arnold James Mackintosh Qwilleran
February 29, 1988 ~ April 30, 1997
As I stand here, I slowly realize that he may not be gone forever. He'll be there waiting for us on the Other Side. I gaze up at the window to his attic room that I know will never be rented out to a high-paying boarder.
"I couldn't going to say 'goodbye' to you before, and I'm not going to say it now. I'm just going to tell you that…I'll see you soon, okay?"
I wince. That came out wrong. It sounds like I'm going to kill myself or something.
A small breeze whistles past my ears, and I know I hear a voice on it.
His
voice."Not too soon. Okay, Phoebe?"
I look around and there, in the shadows, is a form I know well. It's like part of the shadows has morphed into him, and I know who's behind it.
"Not too soon, Arnold. Not too soon."
Before my eyes, the shadowy figure nods and morphs back into the darkness.