Maybe he was a little bit selfish. Maybe there was a part of himself that he didn't like to think of, a part that had gone a little crazy over time, in the short, delicate time of his nine-year-old life.
Maybe he was a little crazy, maybe it wasn't just for show.
He would lie in bed and try to sleep, and try to ignore the dark thoughts in his head. He tried so hard to block them out. He compensated for them every day; he managed to achieve utter positivity in the face of gruesome dread. Arnold managed to remain a clam, detached figure of advice and peace, an everlasting ray of hope. He was to everyone what he himself lacked, he replaced what he desired with himself and fulfilled everyone else's need, and somehow, it made him feel better about not having it, the unspeakable thing he desired.
No one though, not one person, made him feel as good as her. She needed him. Really needed him. He could feel it every day when he looked her in her sad little guarded eyes; he could sense it when she drilled her longing gaze in the back of his head. He was her little bright light of hope, her safety net, and her warm source of comfort that made her feel whole when no one else did.
He loved every second of it, but he loved it for selfish reasons. Reasons that twisted his stomach and made him wonder what was wrong with him.
For you see, Arnold was hurting.
Arnold was alone.
Arnold had no bright light of hope holding him, no father to strengthen him, no mother to love him, no sane guardian to teach him right from wrong, to let him be a kid.
Arnold was an adult. Arnold was expected to take care of himself, to do his homework without being told, to listen to his grandparents no matter how absurd their request were, to never expect any real advice from anyone other than his odd, abnormal mind.
He always knew what to say and what to do. He imagined that it was what they would have said to him, if they were around.
So, somehow, it made him feel better about himself, about his slight insanity and selfish needs and lonely life, to focus on the one person who was so injured and pitiful and needed him more than anyone else in the world.
Helga G. Pataki, and her desperate little cry for help, kept him going, kept him needed.
While he was pretending to be normal, pretending to be stable, pretending to be just another kid in the block, he could provide Helga with the picture of love she had always longed for, and if he could keep her focused on that…
If he could keep her focused on him…
Then he didn't have to think about his dead parents or forgetful grandparents or his detached house borders.
All he had to think about was poor, poor Helga G. Pataki, and how he would just have to keep being nice to her, because she needed him, above all else, above everything in the entire world…
And, truth be told, he needed her to need him, because Arnold was selfish, and Arnold was crazy, and Arnold was an adult.
And when Helga needed him, he was selfless, he was kind, and he was just a kid with a weird-shaped head.
So she needed to keep needing him, she couldn't ever get too close, he couldn't ever stop their little game they played of almost there, almost in love, almost together, forever, for the rest of their lives…
Because forever was never forever. Forever would drive him crazy, because forever could end in a second, and Helga needed him, and he needed Helga to need him.
He needed Helga to need him.
Arnold needed his mom and his dad, and his grandparents to be sane and attentive guardians, and to have the weight of the world off of his tiny, nine-year-old shoulders.
But his parents were dead, and his grandparents were crazy, and he was crazy, and there was yet another person in town who needed his all knowing advice…but that was ok…
Because Helga needed him.
After go head over heels for Arnold and Helga, I came to the conclusion that Helga's not the only one with a few problems...just had to write it out. Feel free to not understand any of it. X3