A/N: My first fic in the HA! fandom. I hope it's came out well enough. Yes, I know it's nowhere near Valentine's Day, but I recently downloaded and watched this episode, and this fic practically jumped out of me. Enjoy, and feedback is very much appreciated.
Takes place in the immediate aftermath of "Arnold's Valentine". From Helga's perspective .
The bus rattles along its course, empty blue seats waiting for the passengers who won't be coming, harsh light flooding even the darkest of forms. A woman, red lipstick smeared across her face. A man, wilted flower clenched in his hand. A teenager, mumbling about what went wrong, what went wrong. There are never happy faces on the bus today. Only those who slipped through the cracks, found themselves abandoned in a whirlwind of candy hearts and happy endings; left with only silence.
No one seems to notice the girl.
Someone sits in the very back of the bus, a place even the lights struggle to grasp. Shadows curve around the graceful lines of her face, melt into her trembling body. Cars speed past the window she leans against, and gasps of headlights seize her image for the most fleeting of moments; strands of yellow draped across her face, a red shoe gleaming between the wrinkled pink of her skirt. The lights die away, and she is lost once more.
The only sign of her presence is the romantic tune she softly hums; something you might hear in a fancy restaurant.
Around her, silence crumbles away.
- - -
The bus is at least a block away from any homes, but as they pass past the park - trembling forms of trees dancing in the breeze, blotches of warm light splayed across the pavement - someone tugs the line.
The other people on the bus, confused, look to the aisle just in time to see the whisper of a girl sweep past, a blur of gentle pink, glowing yellow.
As she turns to step off, a glimpse of flesh appears beneath her skirt. Her feet are strangely bare, the straps of single red shoe wrapped around thin fingers.
Kind of like Cinderella, the woman in the front thinks, and a ribbon of laughter slips through her lips as the girl disappears into the night.
- - -
Once the bus has pulled away, she feels disoriented, as though she has fallen headfirst into an overwhelming dream.
She sits beneath a tree, and when dirt scatters across her dress, she doesn't even bother to scrape it away. She can barely breathe; head churning with every thought imaginable, chest whirring with raw emotion.
With every second that passes, she thinks this is it, the moment I wake up, the moment Mom screams my name, the moment it was all a dream. She closes her eyes, leans against the bark; braces for the morning sun along her pillow, the sheets wrapped around her arms.
Nothing comes.
It happened, she thinks. It was real, she thinks, and practically chokes on her own tongue.
- - -
She doesn't want to go home.
Home is where the television is blaring the recap of the football game, images of stupid soda commercials and cheesy infomercials awkwardly trailing the living room walls.
Home is where Bob and Miriam have passed out on the couch after one too many handfuls of chips, not even wondering where's she gone, not even curious as to why she's been missing all night.
Home is where she is nothing but a lie. Where she has been a lie for as long as she can remember, angry and distant and hollow.
Her naked feet ache on the pavement, but she can barely feel it. Here, shielded by the trees, caressed by the wind - here, she is still Cecile, the girl Arnold spent the entire night with, brought flowers to, really, truly liked, and nothing could ever be more perfect.
Reality can wait a little longer.
- - -
It's funny, she thinks as she walks; the wind scraping her cheek.
She felt more real pretending to be someone else than she ever did being herself.
- - -
She hadn't realized she left the shoe behind until she was at the bus stop.
She likes to think that maybe Arnold took it with him. That maybe he held it long after she disappeared, cradled it in his arms as he carried it home, placed it somewhere where he will see it every day and remember her.
Remember the illusion that he'll never know was her.
She twirls the shoe around in her hand, watches as the moonlight trails along the vibrant red - clutches it to her chest, so hard that it hurts.
- - -
She entertains the unthinkable for a lingering moment; it is something she likes to do when things like this happens. When she gets so close, so very, very close...
What would stop her from staying like this? From becoming real forever, and abandoning the lies so deeply engrained in her soul? From marching right up to him, hair loose, eyes full, smile wide, and screaming her heart's desires to the heavens? He liked her, he really did, she knows he did...
The world comes crashing down; as it often seems to do.
What's stopping her?
Only herself.
- - -
She can still feel his lips on her hand.
- - -
She stays in the park for hours, listening to the wind howl as it sweeps the leaves away, watching the sky, a deep swirl of black and blue; replaying the night over and over and over again until she can recall every word, every glance, every beautiful moment.
She looks to the moon, then; wills it to stay forever. She doesn't want time to drag her away.
She doesn't want to become the lie again.
- - -
With every step towards home, she can feel herself growing heavier.
- - -
She stands on the bridge for what feels like days, and moonlight slides across her back, like the softest touch.
The water below looks as though it was made of glass, and she leans over the edge to look, so far that she nearly tumbles over. Vaguely outlined in the dark, she can see a girl staring back at her, waves of hair cluttering her eyes, a soft smile pulled across her lips; someone she barely recognizes.
She frowns, and the reflection begins to look more familiar.
All the while, she thinks, it's me, this is me, really me, somewhere inside, the person I want to be, the person I can be, but every word dies away as the all-too-comfortable frown floods her reflection, forces it to become the girl she hates.
A lone pebble rests near her arm. She knocks it off, watches it fall; forgets to breathe as it shatters her face.
- - -
All she wants is to be the girl who loves him. All she wants is to be real.
Is that so hard, she asks herself; her hair, so beautifully long and free, is already beginning to stick up once more, forming its familiar shape.
Is that so hard?
She passes a shop window, and there she is; her soul splattered across the glass for the entire world to see.
Yes, a quiet voice answers.
- - -
She enters the house as quietly as possible, and she can already hear the television, screaming about some stupid exercise machine.
Her parents are sprawled across the couch, a bowl of potato chips spilled between them. Bob is snoring rather obnoxiously. Well, I'm glad you didn't get too worked up about me, she thinks, mouth curled into a frown, and turns the television off.
The house fills with silence, so suddenly that it nearly drowns her.
- - -
As she pulls off the clothes - the dress with the red stripes, the little pink bow, the lone shoe, straps wrapped around her wrist - it feels like she is stripping herself away, piece by piece.
This is the way it has to be.
She looks to the mirror, stares herself squarely in the eye, as though threatening her reflection to say otherwise.
- - -
She places the shoe alongside her shrine - falls back against the closet door with a gentle thump - has no words.
- - -
Tomorrow, she will wake like it is any other day. She will pull on her faded dress, brush her hair into its familiar shape, ignore the melody that will no doubt linger in the back of her throat. She will fasten her bow and become Helga once more, as though it is the simplest thing in the world.
Tomorrow, she will not be able to bury the fear she has already begun to feel; that someone saw her there, saw right through her, and will shatter her masquerade in front of the entire school. That Arnold will look at her and know, just know, and that will be the end of it all, the end of the lies, the hiding, the secret, and she won't know whether to hurl herself off a bridge or into his arms.
Tomorrow, she will live the lie once more; will barrel past the kids and scream at anyone who comes close. She will call him names and shove him in the hall, and when she walks away, she will wonder if her heart has always felt so heavy.
Such is her life.
- - -
But tonight, she will not dwell on tomorrow.
She will sleep, and she will smile.
She will remember that for one night, she was real.
- - -
She dreams of a happy ending.
- - -