Helga grumbled as her phone alarm went off. She sat up quickly and winced at the pain that shot through her upper body. She hissed through her teeth as she got out of bed. "Damn it." she muttered, before slipping out of her pajamas and walking to her closet. Helga looked at her array of clothes unhappily. She needed to do laundry, badly, but she wasn't in any mood to go pester Miriam for a trip to the laundromat. At least not today. She selected a pair of dark blue jeans that didn't look too bad, but it was a shirt she was worried about. All of her hoodies and decent long sleeves were in the hamper, and Helga might be a lot of things, but she certainly didn't like to smell. As she thought, her eyes caught something in the corner of the closet. Frowning slightly, she pulled it out. It was a long sleeved, red and black plaid shirt.
Helga stared at it for a moment before realizing what, and whose it was. She promptly dropped it as though it had burned her. "What the hell am I doing with one of his shirts?" she wondered aloud. Then it hit her. She had actually stolen the shirt a long time ago, but that stupid football head was so dense, he never noticed it missing. "Typical..." She muttered. She eyed the shirt grumpily. In truth, she had only recently stopped wearing it to bed as a nightgown. The memories had become too much. Helga only remembered too well how much she had cried while holding that shirt in her arms. No matter how many times she washed it, it still smelled the same. Like sunlight and eucalyptus. Like Arnold. Those first few weeks were well... they were what Helga called the Dark Days. She couldn't sleep, she barely ate, and she basically withdrew from everyone. She knew that she had messed up, had destroyed one of the only positive relationships she had. But its not like she could actually tell Arnold the truth. It would only mortify him, and cause him to do something stupid. Like defend her or something. Helga snorted. As if Arnold could defend her, or himself from the hell in her life. She eyed the shirt again. For some reason, she bent and picked it up. She held the soft fabric to her face and inhaled. A sudden wave of calm washed over her, followed by a prickling in her eyes. Wiping them away with her hand, she smiled to herself. "Oh, what the hell. Its not like he's going to notice." Once she had located a black tank to go under it, she shrugged both of them on, and looked at herself in the full-length mirror.
Helga was tall for girls her age, but most of the boys were either her height or taller anyway. She was lean, but strong. Her golden hair fell past her shoulders almost to her waist. Gone were the pigtails and uni brow when she was nine, as well as her tomboyish figure. She usually left her hair down, or in a bun. With her long hair, big blue eyes, pale skin and slim body most boys would drool over her, if they weren't afraid she'd knock their teeth out. For that reason among others, Helga never considered herself attractive. She tilted her head to the side and considered her appearance. Smiling slightly, she pulled her hair over her shoulder and began braiding it. She never did braids. Ever. It was too girly, too cutesy, too...well, Lila. Helga grimaced as the red-haired girl entered her thoughts. But to hell with it, it was already shaping up to be an odd day. "Must be the shirt." Helga thought to herself.
When she was done, she turned to the side and admired her handiwork. "Not bad Pataki, not bad at all." She said to herself. She then turned and headed to the bathroom. Once there, she went under the sink to get her hidden makeup pouch. Helga grimaced at the bottles and tubes of stuff. Helga abhorred makeup. But it was a necessary part of her life now, if she wanted to keep her secret. Helga carefully unscrewed the cap of some foundation, dabbed a bit onto a sponge, and proceeded to cover up the dark purple mark across her left cheek.
Helga's parents had always ignored her. Always found fault with her when they did notice her. Usually it was Bob making all the observations on Helga's character while Miriam went along with it like a sheep. But it wasn't until her freshman year that things had gone from bad to worse. Miriam's drinking had gone to a whole new level. There was hardly a day that she was sober, even for an hour. One day, Helga came home from school and found Miriam on the couch midst several empty liquor bottles. Upon shaking her mother, Helga went into a rage about how Miriam was going to kill herself drinking and before she knew it, Miriam and slapped her across the face. Helga was stunned, by both the pain, and by who had done it. In all her life, Miriam had never, ever struck her. Bob was sometimes quick to slap her upside the head if Helga got too mouthy, but she had always considered it something akin to slapping a dog. It never hurt really, just stung her pride. This however, was different. Helga couldn't ever remember being struck by her mother. And the worst part was that Miriam looked completely sane when she did it. Her face was set and there was a cold look in her eyes that said quite plainly that she knew what she had just done: And she didn't care.
It had just gotten worse from then on. Whenever Helga found herself in the same room as her mother, it was always a war zone. First the insults flew. How Helga was never good enough. How Helga would never amount to anything. How Helga would never, ever be anything like her precious sister Olga. Her remarks on her appearance, her attitude, everything that made Helga who she was; was demeaned, ridiculed, and considered unimportant. And as if those all of those things disgusted Miriam to no end, the punches would follow. At first, it seemed like Miriam was out of it, like she had no control over her body. But soon Helga knew better. She knew exactly what she was doing. The alcohol hadn't numbed her completely. It had given her the clarity and audacity to hit and abuse her younger daughter.
Miriam didn't seem to do it as much when Bob was home, she was more discreet about it. Not that Bob would notice anyway. Something that Miriam was so kind to remind her of last night. Helga scowled at the fresh memory:
"If you died, Bob wouldn't care." Miriam sneered as Helga picked herself off the floor. "He wouldn't even notice you were gone." Her hand tightened around the neck of the bottle she had just struck Helga with. "Oh yeah?" Helga shot back, steadying herself on the kitchen counter. She looked at her mother with blurry eyes. "Who's going to go buy your booze for you when Bob refuses huh? Who's going to keep you sauced enough to not even remember what year it is!?" The words had hardly left her mouth when she was on the floor again, the left side of her face searing in pain. Miriam withdrew her fist and crouched down to Helga's level. She reached out and grabbed Helga's hair and lifting her face to hers. Helga opened her eyes and looked into her mothers bloodshot ones. Despite their dreary look, they were clear, and sincere with every word she spoke.
"You. Are. Nothing. You mean nothing. You are capable of nothing. And I wish you had never been born." With that, she dropped her daughters head and straightened up unsteadily. She then turned around and headed to the couch. During this exchange Bob hadn't even looked up from his newspaper. Helga slowly got herself to a standing position, and walked up to her room.
"Damn," Helga said, trying with some difficulty to make the stupid stuff look more even. Miriam was a lot of things, but man could she land a punch, even when completely wasted. Helga scowled. Its not like she was doing this for Bob's sake, or even her sister's. Olga was in Peru, teaching kids English or whatever, and Bob... well, Bob wouldn't notice Helga unless she was the newest flat-screen TV. When Bob was home, all the abuse and confrontations happened in low voices, with muted slaps and punches. Helga didn't care either way if he saw, but it seemed Miriam did. After all, keeping up appearances was what a Pataki did best. Helga snorted at her last thought. So Bob never knew what happened in his own home. However, if Bob stayed late at the beeper emporium, it transformed into full on shouting, kicking and screaming. Just two nights ago while Bob was out late, Helga made the mistake of brushing past Miriam on her way to the bathroom, and the consequence was being kicked down the stairs. Helga winced again as she took a breath. Her entire rib cage was bruised, but she knew better than to see a doctor. Finishing her cheek, Helga turned her face to examine it from other angles, trying to see if there was anything she missed. The facade had to be perfect. The marks on her body, she covered up with long sleeves. Her head, she covered with old beanies, to mask the bald patches of hair that Miriam had torn out. And her face, the makeup. To cover the dark circles under eyes, to cover the bruises. This was one thing she couldn't let people see. Ever. She did this for all of them: For the gang. For her teachers. For Phoebe. And...and for Arnold. She couldn't let them see her personal Hell. It was the best thing for them. All of them. So, like she did her whole life, she wore a mask.
Hello again. So now we know Helga's secret. I wanted to play with something different, and my thoughts turned to Miriam. We are gonna see her mindset and reasoning further down the road. And for those who might wonder how in the Hell is Helga taking this crap, well...abuse can do things to you. When you've been broken down, it'll happen. Next chapter we will see exactly Helga's rationale behind this. I'll upload next chapter later. Till then, see you later!