A/N: Hello again! Get ready to dive into the deep end with this part: it begins with a flashback of the FTi incident, told from Helga's POV. Just in case you get confused and think you're not reading the correct fic :) Enjoy!

"Love and relationships are truly one of the most paradoxical aspects of being human. For it is in love that we find the greatest of strengths and the deepest of sorrows..."

-By that wonderful poet, Anonymous.

"You did all this for me?"

The words reverberated over and over in Helga's mind, evoking an exquisite, tingling bliss which seemed to flood her entire being. She cast aside all other thoughts and concerns, losing hold of her surroundings as his face swum through her memory—all astonishment and wonder as he looked at her.

He had never looked at her that way before.

"You love me?"

Strained as the words were, as shocked as his expression appeared to her at that moment, Helga could not help but relish it. She still savored the sweet aftertaste of their kiss—could still feel the soft pressure of his lips against hers, could still feel the contours of his smooth, soft face just as they had been when she had caressed them. She still held close the jubilation which had inflated and sustained her over the past few hours, threatening to overwhelm her with its dizzying, blinding intensity.

Suddenly she became aware of Arnold, standing mere inches away from her. Her breath was sucked out her mouth in a quick hiss. The glorious vision which had dominated her thoughts was rapidly dispersed as the real, living, breathing Arnold now occupied her senses. She watched him, transfixed, her ears hungrily seeking the soft noise of his every exhalation, her eyes following the gentle heaves of his chest as he breathed.

He was so close. She could have reached out her hand and touched him—could have drawn him close to her and felt every beat of his heart for herself, could have risen and fallen with his chest as he breathed. She could have leaned forward and once more pressed her mouth against his, as she so hungered to do—

But something prevented her. A foreboding, unforgiving something stole out of the recesses of her mind, creeping in through the cracks of her passionate joy and slinking into the forefront of her mind. Silkily, it entwined itself around her thoughts.

He doesn't love you. It whispered, and the words sent a creeping chill through Helga. How could he ever love someone like you?

Helga closed her eyes, endeavoring to shut out this something, force it back into the uncharted depths where it belonged—but to no avail.

Don't delude yourself. It hissed. He didn't kiss you back. He didn't respond to your declarations of love...he shrunk from them.

Shrunk from you.

The words threaded their way through Helga's heart, twisting themselves into knots, constricting her, choking her.

You gave him everything tonight. You let loose your greatest passions, your deepest fears...The voice continued, inexorably. And what does he care for them?

The grip on her heart tightened. Helga held her breath, her face bloodless.

Nothing...

Arnold had finally noticed her presence by his side. He had stepped away quickly, anxious to increase the distance between them. His face was nervous, uncomfortable—almost frightened.

You disgust him.

He's scared of me, Helga thought miserably. He's repulsed by me.

And you can never take it back...

"Pretty crazy day, huh."

Helga could barely speak; she was too oppressed by the despair which had suddenly burst through her, coursing through the happiness she had so recently cherished, washing it away. All she could do was scramble at the only idea which presented itself in her distracted mind.

Take it back. Take it back.

"Yeah, we—eh—said a few nutty things back there."She stammered out, gripping her own shoulder.

"Yeah."

You're nothing to him.

His face was wrinkled into lines of discomfort. He stood before her, awkward and unnerved.

You never will be.

"Yeah, well—uh-umm—about all that stuff I said, Arnold." Helga began, desperate to undo the steps she had taken, longing to pretend it had never happened. "I uhh-uhh—"She was a fool now. A stumbling, stuttering fool. "I mean, it was crazy talk there and—"

Arnold interrupted her. It was clear that he was just as desirous to get the conversation over with as she was. "Yeah, with all the excitement we just—we just—kind of..."

"Got carried away?" Helga supplied fervently, praying that she could master herself enough to control the situation, to prevent the steps she had taken from escalating too far.

Arnold looked at her steadily. She wanted to quail under his gaze, to retreat into a corner where she could hide from him—hide from reality, hide from the knowledge which gave him so much power over her.

So much power to hurt you.

"You didn't really mean all that, did you?" He asked, finally. "You don't really love me, right?"

So this was it. Here was her opportunity, her chance to cancel out the events of that day, deny the existence of the vulnerability she had laid before his notice. She should have been ecstatic. She should have jumped at the opening eagerly, enraptured by the possibility of annulling all her regretted words.

But she felt none of these things. She felt cold and empty.

"Right." She managed.

"You were just caught up in the heat of the moment, right?" Arnold continued, pressing her. It was as if he wanted her to make as absolute a denial as possible—as if he wanted her to object so strenuously to the truth of her confession that he, too, might believe that he had imagined it.

He just wants to get away from you.

"Right."

"You actually hate me, don't you?"

Hate him? Oh God, how was she going to bear this ruthless inquisition? Hate him—hate her beloved, her darling Arnold, the only person in the world that she had ever been given reason to love! Hate him, when only minutes before she had been buoyed up to the high heavens, swept away by the power of her own ardor for him? Hate him?

"Of course I hate you, you stupid Football head! And don't you ever forget it! Ever!"

Helga screamed these last words as a terrible, raging pain welled up inside of her. How had she tricked herself into thinking everything was going to be all right? Didn't she know that the instant she had lifted her mask she had changed everything? And now she was back, back under the disguise she despised, back to the eternal frustration of having to live out her colossal love for him through anger and bitterness—it was too much, it was too much!

"Okay, Helga."

And she could no longer look at him. She turned away quickly and walked off, the last image of his wan, slightly smiling face flashing before her.

Did he believe her?

As she walked out of his line of vision, Helga was seized by an overpowering, crashing cascade of emotions. They racked her body relentlessly, one moment sending her into tumults of joy, and in the other, pitching her into dead-black abysses of desolation. She hardly knew why she was ecstatic, could scarcely discern the reason behind her furious anguish.

For hours she walked this way, struggling against the torrent of conflicting emotions she could barely place and did not dare to control. Elation and jubilation, fear and loathing, ecstasies of depression each briefly took their hold over her, mastering her, forcing her into submission. The hours were minutes as she lost track of time, hardly aware of anything around her.

When the storm, at last, subsided, she felt hollow and spent. She found herself looking up at her own house, standing silently and imperiously over the street, casting a dark shadow over her.

The clouds of feeling had dispersed, and Helga blinked against the clarity which was reforming in her mind. Neatly, her thoughts fell into place, order rising out of the chaos of her once racing heart.

Arnold knew everything.

"Okay, Helga."

She knew it from the way he had smiled at her, even as she raged at him. She knew it from the gentleness in his eyes as he had offered her a way to extricate herself. She knew it from the pity in his gaze as he watched her rescind her confession.

She had briefly, brilliantly, blinded him with that part of her which she guarded most closely, staggered him with the force of the love which, until then, had been contained. Helga knew that her love was the only thing that could ever recommend her to him. She wasn't pretty, she wasn't popular—she could in no way contend with the dozens of girls around him who daily offered their assets on display. The only thing which made her stand out against the crowd, the only attribute which made her exceptional, was the extent of her love for him. And her chance—her one and only chance to prove to him how she felt, to show him, clearly, just how much he meant to her—she had screwed up. Completely.

"Of course I hate you, you stupid Football head!"

She could have stood by her confession. She could have valiantly defended her feelings, asserted her right to love him, proven the strength of her love for him by steadfastly standing bare before him, devoid of camouflage. Her love was the only thing that could have made him love her. He should have admired her for it, been awed by her. He should have been amazed at her power to live for him—yes, she had done everything for him! She had always done everything for him! It was her chance to show him everything, to steamroller him with the earth-shattering reality of her sacrifices for him, her dauntless determination to dedicate her every breath to his betterment!

But she had chosen to hide, hide like the measly coward she was, retreat once again behind her mean, petty exterior.

He didn't admire her. He wasn't awed by her. She only showed him weakness, when she could have shown him strength.

He pitied her.

"You didn't really mean all that."

So weak, so ashamed, that he had offered her a retreat, free of ignominy and judgment.

She had been given a choice. She could have kept her mouth shut and continued to live safely—or she could have dared to risk it all, to throw herself heart and soul into the pursuit of that which was most dear to her. It was all or nothing—but the few, impulsive strides she made towards her happiness had met with repulse. She had urgently attempted to retrace her steps, but there was no going back—and now, there was no going forward. She was stuck in limbo, her weakness on display, her power to act snatched away, perhaps forever.

She had used her chance—seized her opportunity and allowed it to fly away from her. She was down to nothing. She had no more cards to play.

All was lost.

"Helga? Aren't you getting off?"

Phoebe's voice tore Helga out of her memories. The bus had shuddered to a stop outside her street, and people were getting off.

"Yes, of course Phoebe." Helga mumbled as she gathered up her things and raised herself off the seat. Phoebe watched her with concern.

"Are you okay, Helga? I know we didn't get a chance to talk much today, but you've seemed pretty quiet..."

"I'm just peachy." Helga said shortly, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

"Whatever you say, Helga." Phoebe said, her eyebrows raised.

Helga glared at her for a moment. How often had she heard these words? Why did Phoebe always try to make out her feelings to be more than what they appeared to be? What right did Phoebe have to try and weasel out her thoughts when she rarely took the time to talk to her anymore? Hadn't she ceded her rights to openness when she openly shown her preference for another's company?

The driver cleared his throat. He was looking at her through his rear-view mirror.

"Got to go, Phoebe." Helga muttered, starting down the aisle.

"See you soon, Helga?" Phoebe asked, half-standing so she could still see Helga over the front of her seat.

Helga turned around slowly and gave her friend a swift, hard stare.

"Let me know when you're not busy smarming up to Geraldo." She said evenly, pretending not to notice the hurt expression on Phoebe's face as she turned away from her. "Maybe I'll have time for you then."

As Helga stepped out and walked down the street, she noticed Phoebe's downturned face pressed against the window. She didn't feel guilty about upsetting her—after all, she wasn't really upset. She had chosen Gerald over her. It was as simple as that. What did it matter that Helga had nothing, and Gerald had everything? What was it to Phoebe that Helga had no one else to share her time with, while everyone vied for his attention?

Nothing, of course.

If Phoebe really had cared about their friendship, she could have spent more time with her. She could have bothered to talk to her once in a while instead of rushing off to her precious Gerald at every chance she could get, leaving Helga standing alone and friendless. She was tired of excuses, tired of the endless stream of "I'll talk to you later" and "We'll catch up next time." There never was a next time, always just a deferral.

So it wasn't her problem that Phoebe was upset by her rebuff. It had been her choice, and she had to live with it. Besides, it couldn't have really hurt her. Phoebe didn't care about her enough for anything she said to impact her for long.

No one did.

"Miriam, I'm home."

Helga shut the door behind her and shook off her shoes, throwing her backpack against a chair in the living room.

There was no response.

Probably sleeping. Helga thought, annoyed. Her stomach rumbled menacingly, and for the tenth time that day, she was reminded of how hungry she was. Miriam had forgotten to add money to her school account—again—and she'd only had enough change to buy herself a bag of chips.

Helga stalked off to the kitchen. The sinks were full of unwashed dishes, and the table was strewn with bits of food. An open bottle of Tabasco sauce lay on its side, its contents spilled over a portion of the countertop and slowly dripping onto the floor. Helga ignored the mess; the disarray had become common enough over the past several years.

She threw open the pantry—but it was bare. The refrigerator, likewise, was empty, save for a carton of eggs and an expired jug of sour milk.

"Why do I even bother asking you to go shopping?" Helga snapped aloud, slamming the door of the pantry shut and reaching for the eggs. "You have one job for today, and you can't even manage that..."

Helga opened the carton. Three of the slots were filled with broken egg shells. The rest were empty.

"God damn it, Miriam!"

Helga threw the carton into the garbage and slammed the top of the can down, incensed.

"Where the fuck are you, anyway?" She fumed. Her insides churned loudly, demanding alleviation, heightening her anger. "MIRIAM!?"

Still, there was no response.

Helga stormed out of the kitchen and ran around the house, yanking open doors and bellowing for her mother. She needed someone—anyone—to be there—someone she could blame for the frustration building up to enormous pressures in her chest—someone who could take the brunt of her furious attack, who could ease the impossible burden of anger she carried—

But there was no one.

"Well, who needs them?" Helga spat as she made her way up to her room, her breath labored as tore up the stairs. "I don't need any of them, not my pathetic excuse of a mother, not my blowhard of a father, not my dear sister Olga—"

Helga darted into her room and threw herself on her bed, still seething, her teeth set into a livid grimace. She contorted her face and dug her fingers into her pillow, squeezing it until her knuckles turned white. Her hands quivered; her entire body trembled as she lay there, shaking with an insuppressible passion.

Why did everything have to overwhelm her at once? It was more than she could bear to go back and forth between different levels of hell, ricocheting to and fro like a pinball, viciously assaulted from all sides. First her family, then Phoebe, then Arnold—

Helga buried her face in her pillow.

Arnold, Arnold...

It always came back to Arnold. She could bear the rest—she always had borne the rest—when the thought of him had sustained her. What was hunger when she fed upon the hope that she could one day claim him as her own? What was the negligence of her mother when she could recount every instance of his sweet, attentive kindness? Had she ever felt friendless when he was near her, the sunshine of his company radiating onto her, brightening every prospect?

Helga's tremors slowly ceased as she thought of him. Her clenched fists relaxed, and her body relieved itself of tension. How strange it was that the thought of him—the remembrance of those very same features which tormented her, thrusting her forward on an endless cycle of disappointed hopes—could be so comforting. How delicious it was to find solace in knowing that all her ideas of perfection were invested in one person, and that despite the cruelties and inadequacies of the world, she knew someone who had never known anything but compassion and excellence.

Wasn't that solace worth all of the suffering she had experienced on his behalf?

A sudden, poignant desire for Arnold rose up inside of her. At that moment, she needed him—needed the brilliant smile which beckoned to her in every dream, needed the soft, quiet gentleness which supported her in every difficulty. Only rarely had he been able to comfort her in person; there were only a few treasured moments in her memory in which he had really come to her aid, sought her out to ease her worries. But even when he wasn't there—even when he hadn't the slightest thought of her, nor a notion of the challenges she was buckling under—she could always find him. Without his knowledge, he had been her voice of reason and her beacon of hope, her consolation and her deliverance from care. Unawares, he had been with her throughout her entire childhood.

Helga rose off of her bed and walked to her closet, softly opening the door and stepping over the threshold.

She could always find him in here.

"Arnold..." She whispered, as she knelt down and gazed before her.

At the back of her closet, there stood a tree.

It was not a tree that you might find in nature. There was no bark on its trunk, no leaves on its branches.

But a tree it was.

Where there ought to have been a trunk, there were stacks of cardboard cylinders which reached from floor to ceiling, meticulously glued together. Branches stuck out at every interval, layered with sheets of paper—poems and diary entries, newspaper clippings and photographs hung from them in place of leaves. Arnold's face met Helga at every angle, his face frozen into his signature smile—moments stolen out of their childhood. His preschool picture giggled at her as he fiddled his blue cap in his chubby hands. A 5-year-old Arnold sat waving on a swing in the park. Arnold and Gerald grinned at her on their first day of 2nd grade. He stood at the front of the photograph on the last day of elementary school, his arms around Phoebe and Eugene. There he was, playing volleyball on a beach in the summer before 8th grade. There he was again, his hair combed back during their junior high school graduation dance, blushing slightly as he stood next to a pretty, laughing Lila—he had been happily oblivious of the sullen blonde who stood, half-concealed, her face averted, in the background—oblivious, even when she had darted out of the room as soon as she had seen him—oblivious that the chain which she had gripped so convulsively around her throat was no mere ornament, and that she had been wearing it—wearing him—for nearly her entire life, so that although he could not see her face, she could always see his—oblivious, that no matter how distant they were from one another—however far she was from his thoughts—that he was always with her.

All the years that she had spent with Arnold stood before her, a daunting tribute to her daunting love.

A poem hung in a picture frame at the very center of the trunk, supported by a very thin, very worn piece of pink ribbon. Helga didn't have to read it to know what it said. She spoke it as she stood there, her eyes closed, breathing very slowly, as though some powerful force was radiating from the tree—from those words—supplying her with strength.

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken..."

Helga could feel unwonted tears forming beneath her eyelids. Her eyes flew open; she began to blink vigorously, furious at herself for the sudden upwelling of visible emotion. She set her teeth and continued on forcefully, her voice rising, her words throbbing with intensity, determined to prevent herself from spiraling into weakness.

"It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

She spoke these last words with such passion that her tone bordered upon desperation, and when she finished, she sank to her knees, her eyes fixed, wide and unmoving, on the tree before her. She did not stir; not a breath could be heard in that small room—but it reverberated with a sort of indefinable ringing—as though with the silent echoes of her last words.

All was the same—all was still, time itself was stagnant—as she sat before her makeshift tree.

Darkness had already fallen by the time she was finally stirred from her spot on the floor by the sound of the front door.

Miriam.

Helga was snapped out of her reverie immediately. She bolted upright and darted out of her closet, shutting the door behind her, casting her shrine into darkness. The anger which had erupted out of her that afternoon began to bubble feverishly in her chest; away from Arnold, away from the sanctuary of her room, there was nothing to contain it. She could hear muffled voices in the hall as she bounded down the stairs.

"Miriam, where have you been?" Helga demanded as she reached the bottom and found her mother taking off her shoes in the hall. "Why weren't you here when I came home?"

"Ohhh, hi, Helga..." Miriam began, drawling out the words. "Well, it was the most awful thing, really...And so strange..."

"I don't need to hear how strange and awful it was, Miriam." Helga said sharply, interrupting what she knew was going to become the start of long-winded, incoherent rambling. "Everything that happens to you is like that. So just cut to the chase and tell me what happened."

"Well, honey." Miriam said. "I was—well it's so hard to explain it, it was just so strange!" But catching her daughter's furious eye, she hastily continued: "Well, I was going to pick up groceries this morning, as you know I always do on Tuesdays..."

"I can't remember the last time you actually bought groceries on a Tuesday." Helga muttered, but Miriam appeared not to hear her.

"Well at least it was supposed to be this morning, but it actually turned out to be an afternoon grocery trip, because I—well, because for some reason I was feeling a little bit under the weather when I woke up..."

Helga remembered the bottle of vodka that she had seen in Miriam's hands that morning—but she didn't say a word about it. If she went down that path—as she had tried to do, so many times before—she knew how it would end. There was never any point.

"Anyway, I had my keys, I had my purse, and I went to the car. And I was just driving along—" Suddenly Helga had a very nasty suspicion about where the story was going. But no, not again, it couldn't have happened again, please don't let it have happened again— "And then suddenly, just completely out of the blue, a pole came up in front of the car! Out of nowhere, honestly..."

"A pole?" Helga snapped. "A telephone pole, Miriam? You have GOT to be kidding me, Miriam, you did NOT drive the car into a telephone pole."

"Well, honey," Miriam said, fidgeting a little bit with her purse. "Like I said, it did just come out of nowhere, I couldn't exactly help it."

"You couldn't HELP it?" Helga said loudly. She clenched her fists tightly in a vain attempt to control the anger now rising up into her throat. "Miriam, it's been the same freaking story every single time you've wrecked the car. You just keep saying "I couldn't help it," "It wasn't my fault." Maybe if you were more than half conscious when you drove you wouldn't have this problem—"

"Now Helga," Miriam said nervously, "Now the car isn't wrecked, honey, it just needed some repairs. It's going to stay at the shop for a few days, and I'm just late because I had to wait for B to drive me home..."

At this juncture, Bob threw open the front door and stomped into the house, his expression stormy. Helga whirled around to face him.

"I told you this was going to happen, Bob!" She shouted at him. "I told you that if you didn't do anything, this mess was just going to get bigger and bigger, and you just didn't listen to me. How many times does she have to crash the car before you realize that we have a problem here? The woman can't drive to a grocery store without running into a fucking electric pole!"

"Watch your mouth, Olga." He barked back at her, the muscles in his face tensed. "Don't you think I have enough to handle without all this? I had to go and take precious time out of my day to deal with this, and I don't want to have to come home and listen to your nonsense. I put food on the table—I'm the reason there's a roof over our heads! You better remember that before you start telling me what I am supposed to do!"

"Oh, so now you don't even care about what's going on, all that matters to you is that YOU have to take precious time out of your oh-so precious day, right? I bet you don't even know how many times her license has been revoked or how many hours of community service she's done—maybe you don't remember what they said would happen if she gets caught again—or maybe you just haven't noticed exactly how fucked up it's gotten at home ever since she took a dive off of the deep end—"

"Now Helga, really, I told you that there was nothing to worry about." Miriam put in uncertainly, but she was quickly cut off by her husband.

"Why don't you just stay out of things that you don't understand?"

"What is there not to understand?" Helga shouted back at him. She could hardly breathe, she could barely see, with the rage which came pouring out of her. "You always tell me that I don't understand, that I should stop screwing around with things that don't concern me, but you know what? Who else is there to care about it? Who else has to deal with all of the consequences of this shit? You're never home, you don't seem to give a damn about anything that's going on here or what anybody here is doing—"

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Bob bellowed at Helga. Miriam shrunk from him, pushing herself against the wall. "You don't know anything! Why do YOU have to be such a mess, why do YOU always have to be more trouble than you're worth? Olga would never question what her parents were doing! Olga would never butt in where she wasn't wanted! Olga wasn't a complete basket case who never did anything but talk back and get dragged into therapy and—"

Helga didn't stay to listen to the end of his sentence—she couldn't bear to spend a minute longer in front of them, couldn't bear to see their faces, couldn't bear to be anywhere near the people responsible for making her life a living hell. She let out a terrible shriek and tore upstairs, the deafening pounding in her ears blocking out the shouts of her father and the tremulous calls of her mother from downstairs.

She slammed her bedroom door shut and barricaded herself in, shoving desk and bookshelf and chairs against it until no one could possibly break through. The exertion distracted her from her pain, but as soon as she was done it came back in full force, and it was agony to be alone with it, agony to have it pressing in at her from all sides—so she kicked at her furniture until her toes were numb from bruising, she seized books and lamps—anything that she could reach—and she threw them against the wall, over and over again, until they all lay in thick piles at her feet. She screamed into her pillows, biting at them so hard that her teeth broke through the fabric. It was too much—it was just too much—she couldn't bear it any more, she couldn't bear dealing with the constant worry and frustration and fear—

The lease of her desperate fury seemed interminable.

And yet, as all things do—it ended. As the moon rose high in the sky, her muffled shrieks became softer and softer, until only disjointed mumblings could be distinguished from the folds of her blankets. The frenzied motions of her hands slowly stilled themselves, and her arms hung limply at her sides. And then, for a while, there was silence.

When Helga finally rose, her face was pale. Her movements were slow and deliberate as she made her way to her closet. Painstakingly, and with great purpose, she turned on the light and closed the door behind her.

The tree wavered before her unsteady gaze.

And without warning—without precedent—Helga collapsed in front of it, her entire body heaving with sobs.

It was difficult to make out what she was saying through the heavy stream of tears; she hardly knew what she said herself, she was too overcome by the torrential power of the emotion which, for many years, she had been a stranger to—but had taken hold of her at long last. Only one word was audible—only one word could be heard, repeated over and over again, in between the incoherent moans issuing from the heap on the floor.

"Arnold..."

Thanks to everybody for reading! As always, I really hope you enjoyed it. Please R and R, we writers are lost without feedback! :)

The poem in the chapter is Sonnet 116, by William Shakespeare.