How Long is Forever, Arnold?

Hmm…I seemed to have forgotten my disclaimer the first time I posted this story, so I shall put the disclaimer up this time, the disclaimer that will serve for the entire story. And wow, it's been ages since I've updated…yikeys…

Standardized Disclaimer: I, Chinyere, under my pen name, Chinyemagne, hereby acknowledge that I do not own Hey Arnold! nor the characters that are referenced within, nor am I a hired writer with permission to use their names on this site. However, there is a likelihood that original characters will be created and portrayed within this text. Thank you.

Prologue

From a distance, all one could see of the room was that which fell under the dim light, flickering from behind a door half closed, half opened. The flickering circles of light seemed to dance to the rhythm of the music of a small portable stereo, which sat on the hardwood floor next to the door through which the light was coming. The volume of the stereo was set to almost the minimum volume, almost the point at which no human ear could detect sound. It was barely audible, but audible enough to eat into one's subconscious mind.

And from these flickering golden circles of light, one could see a shadow, seemingly dancing along with the lights; the shadow of a figure that sat behind the door, half opened, half closed. If one should peak around the corner of that door, one would see the object casting the irregular, undulating shadow. One would then notice that the object casting the odd shadow was human.

Dressed plainly in that which could be called pajamas, comprised of an old t-shirt and a pair of pink and white polka dotted boxers of origin she'd rather not disclose, the figure, clearly female, could be seen kneeling behind that door, now presumably the door to a closet of sorts. A young woman, with golden locks of hair hanging from her shoulders in two distinct ponytails, with large blue eyes, stared up at what is presumably her creation. From her perspective of the piece, all one would be able to see is a relatively smooth yet dull surface, the whole creation being undistinguishable from such a perspective.

This woman squinted at this small portion of the piece, sucking in her lips and chewing them occasionally in the midst of her concentration. After a few moments of almost utter silence, save for the portable stereo running a commercial in the background, the silence was broken by a frustrated grunt from the young woman, the object of our observation, and she melodramatically fell to the ground. If one were to back up from the scene, one might now see the full contents of the closet in which she occupied.

Behind, above and below the clothes themselves, which occupied little of the closet's space, were several artifacts that may be appealing to one's eye. Below the hanging clothes were several sculptures, constructed from various mediums, all representing various levels of care and completeness. Of the crudest was one constructed from assorted colored clay, long dried and cracking in brittleness, with a large distortion across the front of the figure. Of the most appealing was a statue of sorts shaped like a human figure but plastered as a collage with colorful pictures and cutouts. Above the hanging clothes, in shelves, were several volumes of books, some written and some read, of varying sizes and color. Behind the clothes were hidden manifestations in visual art form, effectively never seeing the light of day.

If one were to focus back on our subject, one might notice the tears welling in her eyes as she lay on the hardwood floor, not concerned in the least with the sound her melodramatic impact had made. She lie there for a while, sobbing softly, letting the salty tears flow freely from her eyes to the sides of her cheeks, and onto the floor. After a few moments of sobbing, she finally picked herself up, rubbed her eyes, and glared back at the piece in which she had been working. After an abrupt laugh, and a final wipe over her eyes, our subject finally spoke.

"Damn. You'd think I'd have enough inspiration from all of this---what happened---to be able to finish," she said, scooting herself closer to her work, picking up a chisel, and altering a piece of the sculpture. As she worked, the song on radio began to etch into her mind, and gently her mind was lulled into increased comfort as she continued her work…

Pray God you can cope

But I stand outside this woman's work

This woman's world

Ooh, it's hard on a man

Now his part is over…

Before, however, she was completely lulled into comfort, the antics of her parents disrupted her restful state. Suddenly at another door, which can be seen to the left and behind our subject, knocking could be heard. At first startled by the knocking, our subject only glanced at the door before deciding it was less important than her task at hand, continuing with the chiseling. Before long, a voice could be heard from behind the second door of interest.

"Helga, I know you're in there!" the rough voice bellowed, though coming off slightly muffled, from behind the door. Helga nodded in response to the statement, before digging deeper into her closet and finding another tool in which to manipulate her work.

She chuckled lightly, as if showing her indifference towards he behind the door. "Very astute observation, Dad. Yeah, I'm in here alright," she replied, rather softly, as she continued to focus on her piece.

Another voice could be heard from behind the door, it being more muffled and soft that the first. "What your father means to say, Helga, is that we were wondering if you were alright. I mean, you've been up here for quite some time, and we hadn't heard a word from you, and after all…" the voice said, before trailing off.

"I'm fine, Mom," Helga said, shaking her head at her mother's attempts to be coherent that late at night. "Don't worry about it…I'm just doing something I have to." On that note, after the footsteps could be heard as the couple left down the hallway, the virtual silence returned.

Again left to her own devices, Helga was able to concentrate on her work again. As she fingered the contours of her sculpture, she gradually slipped back into the mode of ease, of extreme comfort. And as she did this, her mind began to reel, rewinding to a day that had passed for everyone else much like that day had, merely a year before. Her mind rushed past everything, and immediately she was a year younger. As her mind traveled back into time, she let her concentration slip and she removed her hand from the statue. Before she was completely lost in an uncontrolled flashback, the words of the continuing song became etched into her mind.

I should be crying but I just can't let it show

Should be hoping but I can't stop thinking…

And within an instant, she was there.

Borrowed Works: Maxwell for This Woman's Work