Author's Note: Okay, before you send out the posse, yes, this chapter is
short. But there was no way to make it longer. I didn't want to have
anything else happen yet—to leave you guys hanging just a little bit. I've
got more under my sleeve, don't worry. And thank you all for the
reviews…my new goal is 200, but I don't know if I can achieve that…I only
have five more chapters in this story, tops. But we'll see…
zazou pie, I love CAPITALS too.
Mickey, Cambridge is also the area of Boston where Harvard is located, and saying "Cambridge" is the snobby way of saying somebody went to Harvard…it was just a little joke. And I guess I didn't make this clear enough, but the guys don't fall for her because of her poetry. They fall for her because she's gorgeous and sexy and seductive and goes after them. The affair gives her fuel to write poetry that reads like love poems because something in her lover reminds her of Arnold, and her lover winds up thinking that she's fallen in love with them, while they are infatuated with her. So she leaves, she breaks their hearts, they get over it because, after all, it was only an infatuation, and eventually they wind up being friends. A cruel but efficient system. But Helga can't do that anymore…
As for Arnold being out for blood…well, just wait and see. And I'm really glad everybody liked the Gerald/Helga/bold kid thing…it's my baby.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Hey Arnold! is not mine. Well, fortunately for the characters, because they don't have to go through the kinds of things I put them through…
Part XIII
"Pain"
Helga let the letter drop from trembling fingers. She had read it twice, three times, a dozen times, and it still said the same thing.
Arnold loved her. He wasn't grateful for anything, he wasn't obligated to love her…actually, considering their background when he wrote the letter, he was more obligated to hate her. But he didn't. He loved her. He was in love with her.
This was before she freed him, before she saved his life, before she gave him his parents back. No thankfulness was clouding his emotion, no relief making him swing towards her. Even in the pits of despair, he was thinking of her.
What had she done?
Helga felt herself overcome with remorse. He had told her the truth, the honest-to-God truth, and she had rejected him, had screamed at him and left him standing on his roof alone. What kind of person was she, to do that to the man she loved? Who did she think she was?
She had to go to him, immediately, and beg him for forgiveness. To fall on her knees and kiss his feet if necessary, but she had to go. Not even to win his love back, but just to make amends for the horrible thing she had done. She knew better than anyone the fear and sting of rejection from the one she loved.
But first she had to tell Phoebe, and Gerald. She picked up the letter. Scrambling off her bed, she ran downstairs, waving the letter. "Phoebe! Gerald!" she called, in her excitement not caring if they were already sleeping. She ran into the living room. "Phoebe! Ger—"
They were on their knees by the sofa as she burst in, tied at their ankles and wrists bound behind their backs, thick, dirty gags in their mouths. Gerald had a trickle of blood showing at his temple. They looked up when she came in, their eyes warning her back, full of fear. A burly hit man stood behind them.
Helga took a step back, right into someone's arms—someone who smelled rancid, and was obviously much larger than she was. A rank, dirty hand was clasped over her mouth, another arm wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. Warm, stagnant breath hissed in her ear.
Helga wasn't one to go quietly. Ignoring her revulsion, she opened her mouth and bit down, hard, into her captor's hand, breaking skin and wrinkling her nose as she tasted blood. At the same time, she stomped down hard on her captor's foot and was rewarded with a cracking noise as her stiletto heel met a worn Nike.
"Dyagh!" the man grunted incoherently, letting her go. She spun away and ran towards the phone by the television, planning to call 911. She picked up the phone and turned to face the intruders.
The one who had been standing behind Phoebe and Gerald was still there, calmly holding a gun to Gerald's temples.
"She's next," he said, nodding towards Phoebe, who looked petrified.
Helga knew what he meant. She held on to the phone a minute longer, just to make it look like she wasn't completely out of control of this situation. Then she replaced it and walked over to the men.
The one she had bitten quickly, violently tied her arms together. "I thought kidnapping a girl would be easy," he snarled, binding her hands so tight she almost lost circulation. "Eddie said…"
Eddie. So he was behind this. Her rage threatened to boil over. She should have killed him when she had the chance.
"Eddie said she would be a challenge, if you had been listening," the other replied, as coolly as he had spoken to Helga. "Not much of one, though. Women. They're all soft."
Helga's blood boiled, as she knew he had intended, and she glared at him. "Untie my hands and put down your gun and you'll see how 'soft' I am," she shot at him.
The man shook his head, smiling darkly. "Tut tut. Soliciting is illegal in the state of Massachusetts, don't you know that, Ms. Geraldine?"
Helga lunged towards him, and only the guy she had bitten restrained her from jumping the speaker. "My name is Helga Geraldine Pataki," she spat finally. "And I'll thank you to remember that!"
The man arched an eyebrow at her. "You're hardly in a position to make demands, but I'll indulge you, Ms. Pataki." He pulled out a cell phone. "Now shut up."
She watched, almost mad with fury, as he punched out a number and waited for someone to pick up. "Did you get him?" he asked. "Good." He mumbled something else, but Helga was more concerned with Gerald's injury.
'Are you okay?' she mouthed to him, meeting his eyes. He understood, and nodded. Well, that was something, at least.
"I took care of the girl," the man on the phone continued. "Remember, we're meeting Eddie at the third dig. See you then." He hung up and grinned evilly at Helga.
"Well, so much for Lover Boy," he smirked at her. "We took care of him, too."
Helga scoffed. "I freed him once. What makes you think I can't do it again?"
He laughed. "No one's freeing him from where he is now," he informed her, obviously delighting in being the one to tell her this information. "You see, Ms. Pataki, he wasn't judged important enough to kidnap. We took care of him a more…efficient way.
"Arnold, your little Lover Boy…is dead."
There was a muffled scream from behind Phoebe's gag, and Gerald slumped against the sofa.
Helga's mind shot into overdrive. Her mind balked at the thought.
Arnold. They had killed Arnold.
Helga plunged into an abyss so vast she couldn't even feel her descent. Arnold was dead. Dead. He was gone. And it was all her fault. If she had only believed him, if she hadn't been so proud, if she had read his letter earlier, she wouldn't have left. She could have protected him. But she hadn't, and he was dead.
She didn't rage. She didn't cry. She was surprised at herself, because usually tears and anger were two things that came rather easily to her. But this pain cut too deeply to be expressed. She felt a raw, aching pain, as if her soul was crying out for air. Her world, not so long ago a happy, warm place, was an endless void.
Something inside of her turned to steel. Let them take her to Eddie. She would settle with him then. She would make him pay. She had always known that she had the capacity for a cruelty far greater than anything she had ever inflicted upon Arnold or any of her childhood friends. But from her years as a bully and recent stint as a heartbreaker, she knew how to make someone suffer. Killing Eddie would have been too easy, too obvious. She had a better plan.
And so she didn't protest as she was dragged outside and shoved into the back of a van, as they drove away from Phoebe and Gerald's house, leaving its occupants still tied and gagged on the floor. She watched the sky as it began to lighten, as a cold day dawned upon them. The sun no longer warmed her, even spiritually, but it was okay. She wouldn't be on this earth long. She would exact Arnold's revenge on Eddie—and then she would go to be with Arnold. Maybe then she could spend eternity begging forgiveness.
She was alone again, but it was okay. She was used to it. And she wouldn't be alone for long.
* * * * * * *
Eddie put down the phone, a satisfied smile on his face. Arnold was gone, dead, out of the picture, and good riddance. And his sweet Helga was on her way to him. And then, oh, how he would settle with her. He would make her pay. He knew how to make someone suffer. Killing her would have been too easy, too obvious. He had a better plan.
He chuckled darkly, watching the tape of the TV appearance he had first seen her on, muted. She was so young, so fresh, so beautiful…so alive. He watched her smile and shake her hair back, full of life, like a beam of sunshine trapped in human form.
The burn on his arm had scarred over now. He ran a finger over it, relishing the thought of the pain he would inflict on her. He had plans for Helga Geraldine.
Yes, I know it's short. I'm sorry! But at least you all know now that Helga's not dead!
zazou pie, I love CAPITALS too.
Mickey, Cambridge is also the area of Boston where Harvard is located, and saying "Cambridge" is the snobby way of saying somebody went to Harvard…it was just a little joke. And I guess I didn't make this clear enough, but the guys don't fall for her because of her poetry. They fall for her because she's gorgeous and sexy and seductive and goes after them. The affair gives her fuel to write poetry that reads like love poems because something in her lover reminds her of Arnold, and her lover winds up thinking that she's fallen in love with them, while they are infatuated with her. So she leaves, she breaks their hearts, they get over it because, after all, it was only an infatuation, and eventually they wind up being friends. A cruel but efficient system. But Helga can't do that anymore…
As for Arnold being out for blood…well, just wait and see. And I'm really glad everybody liked the Gerald/Helga/bold kid thing…it's my baby.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Hey Arnold! is not mine. Well, fortunately for the characters, because they don't have to go through the kinds of things I put them through…
Part XIII
"Pain"
Helga let the letter drop from trembling fingers. She had read it twice, three times, a dozen times, and it still said the same thing.
Arnold loved her. He wasn't grateful for anything, he wasn't obligated to love her…actually, considering their background when he wrote the letter, he was more obligated to hate her. But he didn't. He loved her. He was in love with her.
This was before she freed him, before she saved his life, before she gave him his parents back. No thankfulness was clouding his emotion, no relief making him swing towards her. Even in the pits of despair, he was thinking of her.
What had she done?
Helga felt herself overcome with remorse. He had told her the truth, the honest-to-God truth, and she had rejected him, had screamed at him and left him standing on his roof alone. What kind of person was she, to do that to the man she loved? Who did she think she was?
She had to go to him, immediately, and beg him for forgiveness. To fall on her knees and kiss his feet if necessary, but she had to go. Not even to win his love back, but just to make amends for the horrible thing she had done. She knew better than anyone the fear and sting of rejection from the one she loved.
But first she had to tell Phoebe, and Gerald. She picked up the letter. Scrambling off her bed, she ran downstairs, waving the letter. "Phoebe! Gerald!" she called, in her excitement not caring if they were already sleeping. She ran into the living room. "Phoebe! Ger—"
They were on their knees by the sofa as she burst in, tied at their ankles and wrists bound behind their backs, thick, dirty gags in their mouths. Gerald had a trickle of blood showing at his temple. They looked up when she came in, their eyes warning her back, full of fear. A burly hit man stood behind them.
Helga took a step back, right into someone's arms—someone who smelled rancid, and was obviously much larger than she was. A rank, dirty hand was clasped over her mouth, another arm wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. Warm, stagnant breath hissed in her ear.
Helga wasn't one to go quietly. Ignoring her revulsion, she opened her mouth and bit down, hard, into her captor's hand, breaking skin and wrinkling her nose as she tasted blood. At the same time, she stomped down hard on her captor's foot and was rewarded with a cracking noise as her stiletto heel met a worn Nike.
"Dyagh!" the man grunted incoherently, letting her go. She spun away and ran towards the phone by the television, planning to call 911. She picked up the phone and turned to face the intruders.
The one who had been standing behind Phoebe and Gerald was still there, calmly holding a gun to Gerald's temples.
"She's next," he said, nodding towards Phoebe, who looked petrified.
Helga knew what he meant. She held on to the phone a minute longer, just to make it look like she wasn't completely out of control of this situation. Then she replaced it and walked over to the men.
The one she had bitten quickly, violently tied her arms together. "I thought kidnapping a girl would be easy," he snarled, binding her hands so tight she almost lost circulation. "Eddie said…"
Eddie. So he was behind this. Her rage threatened to boil over. She should have killed him when she had the chance.
"Eddie said she would be a challenge, if you had been listening," the other replied, as coolly as he had spoken to Helga. "Not much of one, though. Women. They're all soft."
Helga's blood boiled, as she knew he had intended, and she glared at him. "Untie my hands and put down your gun and you'll see how 'soft' I am," she shot at him.
The man shook his head, smiling darkly. "Tut tut. Soliciting is illegal in the state of Massachusetts, don't you know that, Ms. Geraldine?"
Helga lunged towards him, and only the guy she had bitten restrained her from jumping the speaker. "My name is Helga Geraldine Pataki," she spat finally. "And I'll thank you to remember that!"
The man arched an eyebrow at her. "You're hardly in a position to make demands, but I'll indulge you, Ms. Pataki." He pulled out a cell phone. "Now shut up."
She watched, almost mad with fury, as he punched out a number and waited for someone to pick up. "Did you get him?" he asked. "Good." He mumbled something else, but Helga was more concerned with Gerald's injury.
'Are you okay?' she mouthed to him, meeting his eyes. He understood, and nodded. Well, that was something, at least.
"I took care of the girl," the man on the phone continued. "Remember, we're meeting Eddie at the third dig. See you then." He hung up and grinned evilly at Helga.
"Well, so much for Lover Boy," he smirked at her. "We took care of him, too."
Helga scoffed. "I freed him once. What makes you think I can't do it again?"
He laughed. "No one's freeing him from where he is now," he informed her, obviously delighting in being the one to tell her this information. "You see, Ms. Pataki, he wasn't judged important enough to kidnap. We took care of him a more…efficient way.
"Arnold, your little Lover Boy…is dead."
There was a muffled scream from behind Phoebe's gag, and Gerald slumped against the sofa.
Helga's mind shot into overdrive. Her mind balked at the thought.
Arnold. They had killed Arnold.
Helga plunged into an abyss so vast she couldn't even feel her descent. Arnold was dead. Dead. He was gone. And it was all her fault. If she had only believed him, if she hadn't been so proud, if she had read his letter earlier, she wouldn't have left. She could have protected him. But she hadn't, and he was dead.
She didn't rage. She didn't cry. She was surprised at herself, because usually tears and anger were two things that came rather easily to her. But this pain cut too deeply to be expressed. She felt a raw, aching pain, as if her soul was crying out for air. Her world, not so long ago a happy, warm place, was an endless void.
Something inside of her turned to steel. Let them take her to Eddie. She would settle with him then. She would make him pay. She had always known that she had the capacity for a cruelty far greater than anything she had ever inflicted upon Arnold or any of her childhood friends. But from her years as a bully and recent stint as a heartbreaker, she knew how to make someone suffer. Killing Eddie would have been too easy, too obvious. She had a better plan.
And so she didn't protest as she was dragged outside and shoved into the back of a van, as they drove away from Phoebe and Gerald's house, leaving its occupants still tied and gagged on the floor. She watched the sky as it began to lighten, as a cold day dawned upon them. The sun no longer warmed her, even spiritually, but it was okay. She wouldn't be on this earth long. She would exact Arnold's revenge on Eddie—and then she would go to be with Arnold. Maybe then she could spend eternity begging forgiveness.
She was alone again, but it was okay. She was used to it. And she wouldn't be alone for long.
* * * * * * *
Eddie put down the phone, a satisfied smile on his face. Arnold was gone, dead, out of the picture, and good riddance. And his sweet Helga was on her way to him. And then, oh, how he would settle with her. He would make her pay. He knew how to make someone suffer. Killing her would have been too easy, too obvious. He had a better plan.
He chuckled darkly, watching the tape of the TV appearance he had first seen her on, muted. She was so young, so fresh, so beautiful…so alive. He watched her smile and shake her hair back, full of life, like a beam of sunshine trapped in human form.
The burn on his arm had scarred over now. He ran a finger over it, relishing the thought of the pain he would inflict on her. He had plans for Helga Geraldine.
Yes, I know it's short. I'm sorry! But at least you all know now that Helga's not dead!