Author's Note: I'm so sorry! This one is short, too! But, oh, what you
have in store makes it all worth it, I promise. There are exciting things
to come…I have it all planned out. I want to write more tonight, but I
have an essay for English…if I finish that in time, I'll hook you up. Oh,
and BTW, I GOT INTO BARNARD! I know you probably don't care, but it was my
first choice college, so I'm psyched. I probably won't be able to afford
it, but at least I got in, right?
Wow, the reviews were amazing this time…guess Helga, um, not being dead, is a big hit around here. Oh, and JESS, don't worry…I may kill somebody (operative word being "may") but it sure as heck won't be Gerald or Phoebe. Houkanno Yuuhou (wowzers! I spelled it right first try!), I couldn't find "You're Breaking My Heart" anywhere. Could you hook me up with the lyrics? (Oh, and I agree that "The Virgin Suicides" is a beautiful movie—it just freaked me out really bad and I have no idea why.)
In general, thank you all so much for your reviews.
And I know I said a couple of chapters back that none of the other characters would be showing up…Well, that lunatic Curly made a liar out of me. He can be such a jerk that way. Sorry.
Disclaimer: I know, I know, it's disgusting, but no matter how many nasty letters I write in crayon to Nickelodeon, they STILL won't sell me the rights to Hey Arnold! Go figure, right? Anyway, it ain't mine.
Part XIV
"Journey"
By the time Gertie had cleaned and bandaged Arnold's wounds, he was thinking a bit more clearly. Thankfully the cuts had been shallow, and he didn't need stitches. Actually, his fingers should've had a few stitches in them, but he was in too much of a hurry to deal with the hospital red tape.
His need for blood had subsided somewhat. He wished it hadn't, as it had been the only thing that was even slightly filling the horrible, aching void inside of him—the place where Helga belonged. Still, he was going after Eddie. Maybe to kill him, maybe to turn him in, maybe just to confront him. But he had to go.
He knew just who to call, too. It seemed fitting that he should revenge Helga's death with someone who had grown up with both of them. He ushered the boarders downstairs and placed a call to the Gamelthorpe residence.
Curly picked up on the seventh ring. "'Lo?" he asked groggily.
"Curly? It's me. Arnold."
Arnold heard Curly let out a gusty sigh. "Arnold? What is it? Do you know what time it is?"
Arnold ignored the question. "I need you to fly me to Australia. Right now."
"Australia? Why do you need to go to Australia? Arnold, it's the middle of the night, and—"
"Helga's dead," Arnold interrupted.
Curly paused. "What?"
"Helga's dead," Arnold repeated, biting back the tremble in his voice.
"Helga Pataki?" Curly asked, coming fully awake now.
With as little emotion as possible, Arnold told Curly the story, from his own imprisonment to Helga's, from her daring escape to the night on the roof, and ending with the events of just half an hour ago.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Curly promised.
Arnold hung up the phone, feeling slightly better now that something was being done. He grabbed a small duffel bag and threw a couple of clean shirts and some socks and boxers into it. Stepping over the attacker's body, still unconscious on the floor, he leafed through the papers on his desk until he found the picture of his parents that had gotten him through his childhood. He slipped it into his pocket.
He reached for a shelf over the desk, smiling faintly as he remembered how he used to need a chair to get things down from there. He brought down a shoebox with a thin film of dust on it, that he brushed off before opening the box.
It was crammed full of pictures, most from between pre-school and graduation. He sorted through them until he found an envelope, his own untidy scrawl across the front—"Senior Portraits." Dumping them out on a desk, he shuffled through them. There was Gerald, eyebrows raised, cool as usual. Phoebe, smiling demurely. Rhonda, with perfect hair and makeup and a grin only seven and a half years of orthodonture could produce. Curly, his eyes unreadable behind those thick glasses. Even his own picture, topped off with that faded blue hat.
There she was, at the bottom of the pile, under Nadine and Harold. Helga. He stared at the picture, feeling a coldness settling into his bones. Her beautiful hair was loose and tumbled over her shoulders, slightly messy. Those blue eyes were solemn, intelligent, smiling ever so slightly though her lips were perfectly serious. She looked so young, so completely…well, innocent had never been the word to describe Helga. But…new. She looked new, and untried, and soft.
And Eddie had destroyed that. The coldness spread throughout Arnold's veins, reaching to the tips of his fingers and toes. Eddie would pay. How, Arnold wasn't sure, but he would pay nonetheless.
Arnold slipped the picture of Helga into his pocket and headed downstairs, grabbing his toothbrush from the bathroom as he went. He found the boarders gathered in the living room, looking miserable. His mother was crying into his father's shoulder.
He felt another stab of pain. He knew that his parents had loved Helga like a daughter—all of the boarders had come to love her, the few days she had been there. She was very lovable—he knew that better than anyone. He stood there awkwardly, almost jealous of their ability to express the pain he felt so deeply.
The doorbell rang. Arnold went to answer it. True to his word, there was Curly, dressed for flight. His childhood friend had changed a lot since their youth, trading in the thick glasses for contacts years ago, when he had become a pilot, and abandoning the bowl cut hairdo. The ADD and near- hysteria he had been afflicted with had also been reined under control in high school and college, calming him considerably.
"I'm sorry, man," Curly said sympathetically, opening his arms. The two men hugged, Arnold once again biting back the pain. It wasn't that he was ashamed. He just knew that if he started to break down now, he wouldn't be able to stop. He wanted to wait until after he had settled with Eddie, so that he could mourn Helga properly.
When they broke apart, though, Arnold saw that Curly's eyes were bright and red-rimmed. He and Helga had been pretty close in high school—the shock must be hitting him hard.
"You ready?" Curly asked, nodding to his car.
"Just a minute," Arnold replied. He walked back into the living room to say his good-byes.
Mr. Hyunh, Ernie, and Oskar all patted him on the back, muttering "good- bye" and "good luck" and other awkward platitudes. Suzie hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, her brow furrowed with worry. Some might think it strange that the same boarders had been living there so long, but they were part of the family. How could they leave?
Arnold turned to his grandfather. "Call the cops when I leave," he said. "You can tell them anything they need to know. I just can't be detained by them."
"I understand," Phil said, nodding sagely. Suddenly he grabbed Arnold and hugged him, ruffling his hair like he had when Arnold was a boy. "Be careful, Short Man."
Arnold smiled crookedly. "Any advice?"
Phil smiled back, sadly. "Don't eat raspberries."
Gertie was next. She hugged Arnold, then handed him something.
"What's this?" Arnold asked, looking at the object, which was small, round, and bronze, and attached to a long leather thong.
"It's something I got when I stayed in the monastery in Tibet," Gertie explained. "It's a mini gong." She flicked a fingernail against it, gently, and a soft chime rang out. "It's for luck. Be brave, young Kimba," she said, touching Arnold's face gently. Arnold nodded, then slipped the thong over his neck.
Now his parents. It was hard to say good-bye to people he had only seen for less than a week. "I'm sorry," he told them softly. "I have to go."
His father nodded. "We know." He hugged him, solemnly, as did his mother, still crying. No further words were needed. Arnold was sure the thought of stopping him by force had crossed some of their minds, but he also knew that they were aware of the impossibility of that. Arnold was bound to do this, just as he and Helga were bound by ties that Eddie could not break, not if he killed them both.
He walked out the door and down the stoop. Curly was waiting by the car. When he saw Arnold approaching, he got into the driver's seat.
Arnold stopped before getting into the car. He looked back at the Sunset Arms, his home for the past twenty-odd years. Would he ever see it again? More tragically still, did it even matter?
He got into the car. Curly glanced at him, put the car in drive, and set off. Arnold kept his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead of him, not looking back. For better or worse, he was committed.
* * * * * * *
They drove out to the airfield, where Curly's small biplane was kept. Arnold wouldn't trust anyone else to fly him in a dinky little machine like this, but Curly was a born pilot. The sun was just beginning to rise over the Atlantic as they took off, heading away from the light, towards the dark west.
"We'll refuel in California," Curly told Arnold as they sat in the cockpit. "We'll need the pit stop, anyway, because it's a long flight from there to Australia. How'd you know it was Australia, anyway?"
"The guy on the phone said the third dig," Arnold explained. "I've been competing with Eddie, archaeologically speaking, long enough to know where most of his main digs are. The first is in Egypt. The second is in South America. The third is in Australia. I know exactly where it is, so don't worry about finding it." As he said the last sentence, a huge yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw.
"Why don't you get some sleep, Arnold?" Curly offered. "You'll need it, most likely."
Arnold nodded slowly and closed his eyes. He thought he would have trouble sleeping, but to his surprise he dropped off immediately.
He was in a church, a huge, Gothic church, in a white suit. He was standing at the altar, next to a priest, and there was a huge crowd of people assembled in the audience—everyone he had ever known, it seemed…his parents and his grandparents and the boarders, the Patakis, Gerald and Phoebe and Curly and Rhonda and all the rest, Mr. Simmons and the Jolly Olly Man and Stoop Kid and Ruth MacDougal and the Wittenburgs and the real Cecile and…oh, just everybody. Everyone was in white or bright spring colors, pale pastels. An organ was playing "Here Comes the Bride," and pale afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows.
A lady all in white entered the chapel, her face shrouded in a virgin's veil. He knew who it was, of course. It was the dream he had had since childhood, the dream of a wedding—but he had never known the woman's identity. Now he knew.
She walked slowly towards him, her face hidden. His heart was overflowing with joy and expectation. She reached the altar, turned to face him, and for the first time in years of dreaming this, he could see her face. It was Helga behind the veil, Helga's blue eyes and sunshine hair, Helga pale as milk…
…too pale. Suddenly she swooned, and he only just caught her.
"Bring her over here!" someone cried. He picked her up in her pure white wedding gown and carried her over to the bed that had suddenly appeared in the chapel.
But it wasn't a bed anymore, it was a coffin—a somber mahogany coffin, the red velvet lining setting off the whiteness of her skin. He looked down and found himself in black, everyone was at black. The wedding had become a funeral.
He looked down at Helga. She held a white rose in her hands. The thorns were pricking her fingers and blood was flowing, staining the pristine petals of the rose crimson…
"Arnold!"
Arnold jerked awake, clammy with sweat, his face damp with tears. Curly was looking at him anxiously.
"You okay, man?"
Arnold felt his heart hammering inside his chest. He looked at Curly.
"Yeah," he said, calming slightly. "Yeah, I'm okay."
Curly looked concerned, but didn't say anything more. It was then that Arnold noticed that they were heading for land.
"We're here?" he asked.
"Yup," Curly said. "We'll take a piss and have a snack while they refuel the plane, then we're off to Australia."
Arnold looked down at the tarmac with wild eyes. "Fine," he said softly. "That's fine."
He looked up through the bubble-glass of the cockpit window. The sky was a strange blue, as the sun had been following them all the way to California. It looked like her eyes. "Helga, I'm on my way."
Trust me, this chapter kinda sucked, but next chapter is gonna get GOOD…albeit a little violent and depraved. My mind can truly work itself into some sick convolutions, but all in the name of good writing, mind you. Please review! I only need 55 more to make my goal! (I am so not getting that many, but it's nice to dream…)
Wow, the reviews were amazing this time…guess Helga, um, not being dead, is a big hit around here. Oh, and JESS, don't worry…I may kill somebody (operative word being "may") but it sure as heck won't be Gerald or Phoebe. Houkanno Yuuhou (wowzers! I spelled it right first try!), I couldn't find "You're Breaking My Heart" anywhere. Could you hook me up with the lyrics? (Oh, and I agree that "The Virgin Suicides" is a beautiful movie—it just freaked me out really bad and I have no idea why.)
In general, thank you all so much for your reviews.
And I know I said a couple of chapters back that none of the other characters would be showing up…Well, that lunatic Curly made a liar out of me. He can be such a jerk that way. Sorry.
Disclaimer: I know, I know, it's disgusting, but no matter how many nasty letters I write in crayon to Nickelodeon, they STILL won't sell me the rights to Hey Arnold! Go figure, right? Anyway, it ain't mine.
Part XIV
"Journey"
By the time Gertie had cleaned and bandaged Arnold's wounds, he was thinking a bit more clearly. Thankfully the cuts had been shallow, and he didn't need stitches. Actually, his fingers should've had a few stitches in them, but he was in too much of a hurry to deal with the hospital red tape.
His need for blood had subsided somewhat. He wished it hadn't, as it had been the only thing that was even slightly filling the horrible, aching void inside of him—the place where Helga belonged. Still, he was going after Eddie. Maybe to kill him, maybe to turn him in, maybe just to confront him. But he had to go.
He knew just who to call, too. It seemed fitting that he should revenge Helga's death with someone who had grown up with both of them. He ushered the boarders downstairs and placed a call to the Gamelthorpe residence.
Curly picked up on the seventh ring. "'Lo?" he asked groggily.
"Curly? It's me. Arnold."
Arnold heard Curly let out a gusty sigh. "Arnold? What is it? Do you know what time it is?"
Arnold ignored the question. "I need you to fly me to Australia. Right now."
"Australia? Why do you need to go to Australia? Arnold, it's the middle of the night, and—"
"Helga's dead," Arnold interrupted.
Curly paused. "What?"
"Helga's dead," Arnold repeated, biting back the tremble in his voice.
"Helga Pataki?" Curly asked, coming fully awake now.
With as little emotion as possible, Arnold told Curly the story, from his own imprisonment to Helga's, from her daring escape to the night on the roof, and ending with the events of just half an hour ago.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Curly promised.
Arnold hung up the phone, feeling slightly better now that something was being done. He grabbed a small duffel bag and threw a couple of clean shirts and some socks and boxers into it. Stepping over the attacker's body, still unconscious on the floor, he leafed through the papers on his desk until he found the picture of his parents that had gotten him through his childhood. He slipped it into his pocket.
He reached for a shelf over the desk, smiling faintly as he remembered how he used to need a chair to get things down from there. He brought down a shoebox with a thin film of dust on it, that he brushed off before opening the box.
It was crammed full of pictures, most from between pre-school and graduation. He sorted through them until he found an envelope, his own untidy scrawl across the front—"Senior Portraits." Dumping them out on a desk, he shuffled through them. There was Gerald, eyebrows raised, cool as usual. Phoebe, smiling demurely. Rhonda, with perfect hair and makeup and a grin only seven and a half years of orthodonture could produce. Curly, his eyes unreadable behind those thick glasses. Even his own picture, topped off with that faded blue hat.
There she was, at the bottom of the pile, under Nadine and Harold. Helga. He stared at the picture, feeling a coldness settling into his bones. Her beautiful hair was loose and tumbled over her shoulders, slightly messy. Those blue eyes were solemn, intelligent, smiling ever so slightly though her lips were perfectly serious. She looked so young, so completely…well, innocent had never been the word to describe Helga. But…new. She looked new, and untried, and soft.
And Eddie had destroyed that. The coldness spread throughout Arnold's veins, reaching to the tips of his fingers and toes. Eddie would pay. How, Arnold wasn't sure, but he would pay nonetheless.
Arnold slipped the picture of Helga into his pocket and headed downstairs, grabbing his toothbrush from the bathroom as he went. He found the boarders gathered in the living room, looking miserable. His mother was crying into his father's shoulder.
He felt another stab of pain. He knew that his parents had loved Helga like a daughter—all of the boarders had come to love her, the few days she had been there. She was very lovable—he knew that better than anyone. He stood there awkwardly, almost jealous of their ability to express the pain he felt so deeply.
The doorbell rang. Arnold went to answer it. True to his word, there was Curly, dressed for flight. His childhood friend had changed a lot since their youth, trading in the thick glasses for contacts years ago, when he had become a pilot, and abandoning the bowl cut hairdo. The ADD and near- hysteria he had been afflicted with had also been reined under control in high school and college, calming him considerably.
"I'm sorry, man," Curly said sympathetically, opening his arms. The two men hugged, Arnold once again biting back the pain. It wasn't that he was ashamed. He just knew that if he started to break down now, he wouldn't be able to stop. He wanted to wait until after he had settled with Eddie, so that he could mourn Helga properly.
When they broke apart, though, Arnold saw that Curly's eyes were bright and red-rimmed. He and Helga had been pretty close in high school—the shock must be hitting him hard.
"You ready?" Curly asked, nodding to his car.
"Just a minute," Arnold replied. He walked back into the living room to say his good-byes.
Mr. Hyunh, Ernie, and Oskar all patted him on the back, muttering "good- bye" and "good luck" and other awkward platitudes. Suzie hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, her brow furrowed with worry. Some might think it strange that the same boarders had been living there so long, but they were part of the family. How could they leave?
Arnold turned to his grandfather. "Call the cops when I leave," he said. "You can tell them anything they need to know. I just can't be detained by them."
"I understand," Phil said, nodding sagely. Suddenly he grabbed Arnold and hugged him, ruffling his hair like he had when Arnold was a boy. "Be careful, Short Man."
Arnold smiled crookedly. "Any advice?"
Phil smiled back, sadly. "Don't eat raspberries."
Gertie was next. She hugged Arnold, then handed him something.
"What's this?" Arnold asked, looking at the object, which was small, round, and bronze, and attached to a long leather thong.
"It's something I got when I stayed in the monastery in Tibet," Gertie explained. "It's a mini gong." She flicked a fingernail against it, gently, and a soft chime rang out. "It's for luck. Be brave, young Kimba," she said, touching Arnold's face gently. Arnold nodded, then slipped the thong over his neck.
Now his parents. It was hard to say good-bye to people he had only seen for less than a week. "I'm sorry," he told them softly. "I have to go."
His father nodded. "We know." He hugged him, solemnly, as did his mother, still crying. No further words were needed. Arnold was sure the thought of stopping him by force had crossed some of their minds, but he also knew that they were aware of the impossibility of that. Arnold was bound to do this, just as he and Helga were bound by ties that Eddie could not break, not if he killed them both.
He walked out the door and down the stoop. Curly was waiting by the car. When he saw Arnold approaching, he got into the driver's seat.
Arnold stopped before getting into the car. He looked back at the Sunset Arms, his home for the past twenty-odd years. Would he ever see it again? More tragically still, did it even matter?
He got into the car. Curly glanced at him, put the car in drive, and set off. Arnold kept his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead of him, not looking back. For better or worse, he was committed.
* * * * * * *
They drove out to the airfield, where Curly's small biplane was kept. Arnold wouldn't trust anyone else to fly him in a dinky little machine like this, but Curly was a born pilot. The sun was just beginning to rise over the Atlantic as they took off, heading away from the light, towards the dark west.
"We'll refuel in California," Curly told Arnold as they sat in the cockpit. "We'll need the pit stop, anyway, because it's a long flight from there to Australia. How'd you know it was Australia, anyway?"
"The guy on the phone said the third dig," Arnold explained. "I've been competing with Eddie, archaeologically speaking, long enough to know where most of his main digs are. The first is in Egypt. The second is in South America. The third is in Australia. I know exactly where it is, so don't worry about finding it." As he said the last sentence, a huge yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw.
"Why don't you get some sleep, Arnold?" Curly offered. "You'll need it, most likely."
Arnold nodded slowly and closed his eyes. He thought he would have trouble sleeping, but to his surprise he dropped off immediately.
He was in a church, a huge, Gothic church, in a white suit. He was standing at the altar, next to a priest, and there was a huge crowd of people assembled in the audience—everyone he had ever known, it seemed…his parents and his grandparents and the boarders, the Patakis, Gerald and Phoebe and Curly and Rhonda and all the rest, Mr. Simmons and the Jolly Olly Man and Stoop Kid and Ruth MacDougal and the Wittenburgs and the real Cecile and…oh, just everybody. Everyone was in white or bright spring colors, pale pastels. An organ was playing "Here Comes the Bride," and pale afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows.
A lady all in white entered the chapel, her face shrouded in a virgin's veil. He knew who it was, of course. It was the dream he had had since childhood, the dream of a wedding—but he had never known the woman's identity. Now he knew.
She walked slowly towards him, her face hidden. His heart was overflowing with joy and expectation. She reached the altar, turned to face him, and for the first time in years of dreaming this, he could see her face. It was Helga behind the veil, Helga's blue eyes and sunshine hair, Helga pale as milk…
…too pale. Suddenly she swooned, and he only just caught her.
"Bring her over here!" someone cried. He picked her up in her pure white wedding gown and carried her over to the bed that had suddenly appeared in the chapel.
But it wasn't a bed anymore, it was a coffin—a somber mahogany coffin, the red velvet lining setting off the whiteness of her skin. He looked down and found himself in black, everyone was at black. The wedding had become a funeral.
He looked down at Helga. She held a white rose in her hands. The thorns were pricking her fingers and blood was flowing, staining the pristine petals of the rose crimson…
"Arnold!"
Arnold jerked awake, clammy with sweat, his face damp with tears. Curly was looking at him anxiously.
"You okay, man?"
Arnold felt his heart hammering inside his chest. He looked at Curly.
"Yeah," he said, calming slightly. "Yeah, I'm okay."
Curly looked concerned, but didn't say anything more. It was then that Arnold noticed that they were heading for land.
"We're here?" he asked.
"Yup," Curly said. "We'll take a piss and have a snack while they refuel the plane, then we're off to Australia."
Arnold looked down at the tarmac with wild eyes. "Fine," he said softly. "That's fine."
He looked up through the bubble-glass of the cockpit window. The sky was a strange blue, as the sun had been following them all the way to California. It looked like her eyes. "Helga, I'm on my way."
Trust me, this chapter kinda sucked, but next chapter is gonna get GOOD…albeit a little violent and depraved. My mind can truly work itself into some sick convolutions, but all in the name of good writing, mind you. Please review! I only need 55 more to make my goal! (I am so not getting that many, but it's nice to dream…)