-H-

Helga followed Arnold blindly up the dark stairwell, letting her mind wander; half numb, half racing, she couldn't help think what happens next?

When they finally reached…where ever they were going… she walked into the dark room and allowed the darkness to wash over her. Empty, cold, and vast, this black room was exactly what she needed: a nothingness.

At least that's what she thought she needed.

The minute the lights flipped on, she was surrounded. Her senses were flooded; the colors and shapes, the smell of paint, plaster, and industrial fumes that couldn't be name. Arnold had taken her to his own safe haven, the place where he is safe. We are in his art studio.

"Oh, Arnold," She said quietly, turning on the spot. "I…"

But she didn't finish. She walked slowly from canvas to canvas, sculpture to sculpture. Arnold watched her as she passed her fingers lightly over the globules of paint, pressed her hands into the cold stone. What he didn't know is that she was trying to absorb his art. Sight, smell, touch. If art could talk she would listen all day.

"So," he said finally, quietly, and she turned to face him. He had followed her around the entire studio, letting her get her fill. "What do you think."

She smiled softly. "I think they are beautiful, Arnold, just absolutely spectacular. Perfection."

He blushed and shrugged. "well, they are far from perfect, but I appreciate the compliment none the less."

"They are perfect, Arnold," she said fiercely. Why did he have to put himself down like that? "If you made them, I think they are perfect. Got that?"

He laughed. She could see in his eyes that he was less worried about her. She hadn't lost herself this time; she still had some fight left in her, at least enough to keep her sharp tongue and powerful opinions. She got a crazy idea.

"Hey, Arnold," She said, looking around the art studio for what she was looking for. Her eyes scanned the room before they landed on a big black camera. Bingo. "Could you take pictures of me?"

Arnolds eyes widened, "Seriously?"

"Jesus, Arnold," She said with a laugh. "Not like that! I want you to take pictures as proof of what Jason has done to me. It's time for this to end, and I want a solid defense when this happens, alright?"

Arnold nodded and grabbed his camera. He removed the lens cap, circling her, looking at her in a way he never has. He circled her, studied her, looking at all of her cuts and bruises in a new way. Every now and then, he brought the camera up to his eye, snapped a shot, then continued his shark-like surrounding. When he had taken a few dozen photos of her, he lifted the camera to his eye one last time, and hesitated.

"What is it?" Helga asked, looking at the frozen black eye of the lens. Arnold dropped the camera, gazing at her with his head tilted and eyes squinted.

"I was wondering," he said, coming towards her and putting his hand on her face, softly, careful not to hurt her any more tonight. He tilted her face gently, the light beaming down on her warming her cheek. "Could I take maybe…different kinds of pictures?"

"What do you mean?" Helga asked. Arnold showed her the little screen on his camera, flipping through the pictures he had already taken. They were methodical, straight-angled photos documenting her bruising in the most basic way possible. Helga looked at Arnold and smiled, understanding. "You want to do something more artistic, I take it?"

Arnold smiled and shrugged. "Only if it's alright with you. I feel like I could make a pretty powerful series out of your story, you know?"

"I like that idea," Helga replied. Arnold brought out different props; a stool, a sheets of fabric in different colors, a chair, lights, the works. He arranged a few different setups, carefully placing and replacing the fabric. Helga watched him, watching his careful hands, his furrowed brow as he delicately perfected his set. She watched, then unbuttoned her blouse.

By the time he turned to face her, she had her clothes folded neatly on the floor. He froze in his tracks, eyes locked on her face, almost asking permission with his look if he could gaze upon her further. Suddenly, she felt self-conscious. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea…

She wrapped her arms around herself, each hand grasping the opposite elbow. She looked down and away. She been naked in front of him before, sure, but it was always in his darkened bedroom. When they first started this secret affair, it was quick: get in, screw like animals, get out. Even when things got more serious, when they would fall asleep in each other's arms, faces close, she would get up quickly, dress in a flash and be on her way before her husband got home. For the first time, he could get a good look at her, flaws and all. And when she felt his eyes finally tear away from her face, she closed her own to fight back the tears associated with a wave of unknown emotion. Is this really what I want...Damn, talk about a bad time to blush…

"Well," she said, gaining her voice. She stepped forward, past him, discretely wiping the few tears that managed to squeeze their way out with her arm before sitting on the sheet. "What are we waiting for? Let's do this."

Arnold stood there for a while, camera in hand, finger at the ready. He would bring the camera to his face, then drop it again. Move a little, repeat. Helga began getting antsy. "Something wrong over there, football head?"

He looked up at her with glaring eyes, but a smirk playing on his face. He placed his camera on the stool and one hand on his hip. The other reached up, mussing his golden hair. "I just can't figure out how to photograph someone so beautiful, that's all."

Helga scoffed at him, folding her arms protectively over herself again, bringing her legs up onto the little couch. "Yeah, sure, like I believe you for one minute. You've seen the bruises right? My scars? They aren't exactly…"

The flash of a camera pulled Helga back into reality. Arnold had the camera close to his face. He lowered it slowly. "Yes they are… everything about you is beautiful… can I hear about them?"

"Well, this one," Helga said, turning her back to him and pulling her blonde hair off to the side, exposing the long, shining pink scar across her delicate neck. "This one came from my dad. We were having a camp fire, he punched me, I went down, and landed right on a hot ember." Click.

"These are from Jason," She twisted, exposing her thigh and the four long equidistant skinny red lines running down it. "He got mad, we were eating dinner…he just used what he had." Click.

The more she spoke, the more memories resurfaced. She showed him every scar she could think of, reliving every moment. Finally, finally, after what felt like hours of holding back the pain, thought it was really years, she completely and uncontrollably broke down.