Hey Everybody! So, New story! Woo! :) I know I should be working on my other story, but I this idea came up and I just couldn't resist. So enjoy, I guess.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hey Arnold!

It was so easy. It was almost too easy. In the end, I always get what I want. And I had wanted this so badly, for so long. This desire was so taboo, even to me, so I knew I wouldn't be able to tell any of my friends. They wouldn't understand anyway, not with their simple minds.

Simple, just so simple. So then why do I sometimes wish to be like them for a day? Maybe its just another experiment, or maybe its to soothe my unending reign of questions, even if only for a bit.

Like, what is it like to not have to pretend to be someone, to not have to act like my life is one big unending game. To not constantly be in need of a distraction. To not want to do what I have just done. To actually be sad. And to be able to regret things.

No.

I don't want that. There is nothing wrong with me. I'm just smart. I'm so smart that I've surpassed the norm standards of this community. Therefore, I have advanced thoughts. Feelings just hold people back. And I can't honestly say I regret anything, because I know that at one point I really wanted it. And, I always get what I want.

So I do need distractions. And life is a game. And my games always go exactly as planned.

By this logic it's only a matter of time before the cops show up.

They should be here in a few minutes to be precise, as long as everything went according to plan. As long as he noticed she was missing. Knowing him, he would have gone straight to her room after she didn't answer the persistent phone calls and text messages he had sent her. How could she? I had her phone.

He had stupidly helped in demise, by sending updates of the cops actions being took, thinking he was reassuring her, encouraging her to survive. Instead, he only reassured me that he had indeed found the note placed on her bedside table, the one made purposely for him, the one telling him exactly what was going on, and the coordinates of where he could find us.

Oh Arnold, Helga was right, you are dense. Yet it must suck to be him. No parents, an odd shaped head, grandmother passing a year ago, and now, his girlfriend of 6 years, dead.

Looking down, I couldn't help but smile at my handiwork. Her body was lain against my lap. She was mangled almost beyond reconization.

Her death was a long and painful one, drawn out so that she had been hanging at the edge of her life for a little over 13 hours. Her body was marked with long, deep wounds, made from a razor. And I recalled the rush I felt as I drove that razor deep into her, ignoring her muffled screams, I would pause between each slice to let the blood drip out. Watching with eager fascination, as it would slowly run down her pale skin.

The blood. Oh how I loved it. The absolute rapture I feel when I see it is incomparable. I love everything about it. It's thick watery texture, the copper smell, but most of all, I loved the color. I love how the color of freshly released blood is like no other color. How so unearthly it looks against human skin.

It was blood that had caused all of this. It was in no way, truly my fault.

BOOM.

Looking towards the sound, a smug smile poised itself on my face. The cops were here. Right on time.

That same smile kept itself plastered across my face as they pinned me down and searched me. It only grew when they pulled the plastic zip lock bag filled with golden hair from my pocket. The only thing that had been spared from the shower of blood that had encased the small storage shed on the outskirts of town. It brought back fond memories of how I prepared Helga to die.

While she was still knocked out, I had bathed her, and then removed all hair from her body and put it in a bag. Her clothes were burned, save for her signature bow, which I tied around her neck. I mark exact places needed to be cut for a sure death with a blue permanent marker.

The cops placed me in the back of a patrol car. The detectives snapped pictures for evidence. It wouldn't be needed. I'm not going to deny anything.

I had been captured. Just like I had captured her.

I drugged her drink that night. Just enough so that she would be able to walk with me to the old shed. Once there I knocked her out with a towel dipped in clorophorme.

Arnold was my only visitor while I was in the prison's holding cell. He was an absolute mess. But that didn't stop him from asking me his questions. He had so many of them. Why? How could you? Wasn't she your best friend?

I could only laugh in response.

Of course she was my best friend. I think she was the only one who ever truly cared. And though I never told her, I think she knew I loved her. Because in her final moments, she mustered up all her strength, just to tell me, "I love you. you psychotic bitch."

And I knew she meant it. She had a look of understanding in her eyes. I smiled back at her and ended it right there. I had both killed and saved my best friend. And I had satisfied my craving for bloodshed.

But it will be back. So I must now finish my little game. By the time you find me, I'll be gone. Take this letter as proof of my deed. So as my final statement I say this,

"I regret nothing"

-Phoebe Heyerdahl

So? What do you think? Crappy? OK? Leave a review and let me know.