Hi, a quick note. I'm more of a reader nowadays, decided to check out what was going on in the Russian HA community, haven't been there for a while and this story/drabble caught my attention, a bit sad, but I liked it so I decided to translate it. I really hope the author of this doesn't mind and I hope you'll enjoy. Please excuse my grammar mistakes if it has any, I'm not a professional translator, English is my 2nd language)
Rating just to be safe.
Disclaimer: Hey Arnold belongs to Craig Bartlett. The original text of this fanfiction is by Straykat. *(Translated from Russian)
Was it fair to call yourself unhappy if everything around you was changing so rapidly? It seems like only yesterday she used to style her hair into usual pigtails while shaking her fist at anyone standing in her way, throwing rocks into the river and suffering from unrequited love. Well maybe not unrequited, perhaps you could call it a secret love. Helga used to think a confession was supposed to solve everything after all. All she had to do was to lend a hand and happiness would fall into her arms.
But a so-called 'happiness' decided to disappear into nowhere dissolving in a speed of light without being given an opportunity to open up just a bit. All what's or rather who was left was Brainy: her obsessive stalker, her eternal refrain and leitmotiv.
Her depression has been replaced by a slight sadness so Pataki stepped forward to a bright future. So, Football-head was gone to San-Lorenzo and he wasn't sending any letters, well, screw him! Screw his ideals and everything about him! They have always been so different to begin with: he was so damn good and kind and calm. And she was overwhelmed with flaming passion like a storm in the sea. They were like two parallel lines which were good only for looking at each other never destined to touch.
Shortman was being written about in the newspapers. Helga's poem books were among bestsellers. But Brainy's deep hoarse breathing could always be heard behind her back. Wherever Pataki went he was next to her. He used to work in some really cheap and dive bars and on gas stations in all provincial cities where Helga was looking for inspiration. Brainy glued together a picture which used to be shredded to pieces where Arnold was surrounded by his many green-eyed descendants. Arnold naively considered she'd reply to this message so he attached this photo to his very first letter.
Brainy was there when her parents left her when she used to rush in impotent rage around her dizzying empty and cold house. He was there during her night vigils waiting for her muse to come, he was there during her triumphant ups and occasional downs. Brainy was always there, although somewhere in the shadow, behind the fence, three tables to the left, two seats back, where she couldn't see him. That's how it went from year to year, from decade to decade.
Helga Pataki is sixty years old, she's a famous poet and still lonely. Her house resembles to an ancient castle with a mossy ivy-covered high walls which perhaps lacks only the ramparts in order to complete the picture. She'd love to put wire on her fence, but then again her neighbors would probably think she'd gone nuts, not that she cared much. Inside the house is warm, a kettle is whistling on a stove, everything's normal. A dark looming silhouette is behind her window. Brainy is clinging to metal bars of the fence, trying to see something through the slightly open doorway. To his surprise the object of his affections wrapped in a shawl is hastily approaching him.
"Just don't think you won and I'm giving you a chance" – Helga said in her usual manner with a scowl on her face. "But I guess it's cold outside and it looks like it's going to rain."
It was the first time he got a chance to get inside her house. While Helga was making tea, he was trying to make out the surroundings. She entered the room and put a cup of steaming tea without any word. She sat down on the chair on the other side of the room, glancing at how coal was crackling cozily in the fireplace. Brainy raised a cup to his nostrils, feeling of being wrapped with the scent of lemon, mint and something else. At this moment he caught himself with a thought that fifty years isn't such a long time if there's something to wait for.