Everyone changes with time. A day, a week, a month, a year... they all count. So how much can a group of rag tag 4th graders from P.S. 118 change with junior high, high school, and a whole bunch of history between those seven years? A whole lot.
Years Later
Hell, that Place on Earth
PART I
"Helga, I know your cell phone is on, I know you have caller ID, and I know that's why you won't pick up... I could go on and say how much Sid and I are worried," A pause and then a very unlady like snort, "But I'm sure you know that from the fifteen million voice mails Sid has probably left on your phone... Just remember, tomorrow, no matter what happens, no matter the outcome, Sid and I will both be waiting for you at the other end."
"To replay this message press one, to–"
Helga quickly pressed the illuminated button marked seven on her cell phone before the monotone voice spoke again. "Monday, January 31st, eleven forty-five..."
The monotone female voice was soon replaced by a very familiar male voice. "Helga, you need to pick up your goddamn phone. Pheebs and I will both be waiting outside of the courthouse tomorrow. We will see you there."
Helga pressed the seven one her phone again, then quickly flipped the new replacement phone shut. She was placing in one of the pockets on the back of her jeans when she felt, the over familiar brush of a worn and crinkled paper at her fingertips. Without a second thought, Helga pulled out the small and now very broken looking piece of paper.
As she observed the faded purple-blue abbreviated words, characters, and numbers on the front of the sheet of the paper as she held onto the receipt that was so worn it had a leathery feel to it.
Throughout the week, and then the next weeks, and then the next month, after Stella had given Helga her number, Helga found herself continually pulling out the receipt with Stella's number on it. Without even realizing, Helga just she kept on picking it up every morning to jam it in the back pocket of whatever pants or jeans she decided to wear that day. When she came in at night– or early morning or whenever she decided to come in to her hotel room to lie on her bed, she unconsciously took the paper out of her jeans and left it on the dresser for the next day.
It was a viscous cycle.
She was tempted, oh so tempted, to pick up the phone and allow herself to have some real human contact that she was being denied and was denying herself.
It would a merciful release from the private hell that she seemed to be trapping herself in, but somehow Helga just couldn't allow herself this one small privilege, there would be no escape.
...Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...
And perhaps this was why Bliss called her a masochist.
"Your always find a way to cause yourself pain, it's almost as if you enjoy it, revel in it. You're in a situation when you need support, but instead of gravitating toward it, you push all support away even if it's from a friend... which is normal. What's not normal is how you do it; you purposely torture yourself and your friends. Helga, to put it simply, you're a masochist," Insert a pause here and a deep breath. "And a bit of a sadist," Insert another pause here and an even deeper breath. "All in all, you, my dear, are what my colleagues and I call an emotional wreck."
She didn't need her night sessions with Bliss and Arty for this diagnosis, but hearing this come out of someone else's mouth was a bit different from reciting it in her head.
Denial was always her best friend, so the truth hurt.
A lot.
Once again, Helga pushed the now worn receipt into the back pocket of her denim jeans and walked out of the phone booth she had been standing in. Outside, a man pushed past Helga and ran into the unoccupied space, muttering under his breath, "Took you long enough."
To this Helga turned around and flashed the man a smile that bordered the unique combination of maniacal and disarming. Her blue eyes glowed with the help of the street light, letting the mysterious man see the conglomerate of colors swirling in the teen's eyes circling around the hazel bursts that surrounded her retinas. The light, unfortunately, also helped to reveal the purplish bags that were settling under said eyes, "Thanks I know."
Without another word, she turned around and walked away, leaving the man to stare at her retreating back, not worried that he probably thought she was crazy... which, as Helga thought about, she just might be.
For the last forty-eight hours, thirty-nine minutes, and fifteen seconds, Helga Geraldine Pataki had not been able to sleep, not for one hour, not for one minute, not for one second.
She just couldn't sleep.
The insomnia led to her walking the streets of Wayside and Crinshaw– even though she was technically not supposed to even leave the borders of Crinshaw. She saw a lot of things on the street, things she had known, and things that people had only read about in the stories of the newspaper, but somehow, she was able to ignore it all on her leisure walks through whatever town she was walking in.
She just let her feet guide to wherever they wanted to take her, to wherever they wanted to lead her.
Tonight they wanted to be in Crinshaw.
Tonight they wanted her to walk through her old neighborhood.
Tonight they wanted to torture her with what used to be the simplicity of elementary school... to torture her with reliving the past... to torture her with what used to be her life... what used to be happiness...
Tonight they wanted Helga to break
She bid a hello to the grounds that once held her childhood home and had housed her until the night of December 23rd. She said hello to Gerald Field, which had long ago been handed over to the new generation of P.S. 118 students. She said hello to Phoebe's house, knowing that the other teen was just beginning her descent into sleep at one thirty in the morning of Tuesday, February 1st. Helga even went so far as to say hello to Sunset Arms boarder house, the place that housed her ex-crush that she had pined for during those simple days of elementary school. She walked away from the building, not realizing she actually woke someone up during her one o'clock vigil.
Somehow, just somehow, Helga found herself being guided to a specific place by some ever knowing guiding force– probably that same tired old harpy people called Lady Fate, but Helga called the spawn of evil. The lady, didn't seem quite done with pushing Helga to the edge, and so that Helga was there.
There, standing in the playground of P.S. 118, with the abandoned hollow sounds of swings being rattled by the wind, teeter totters squeaking from the lack of oil being supplied to their rusty limbs, even the slide groaned a little in the chilled winter wind, forewarning anyone that chose to listen that it wasn't exactly the safest piece of equipment.
It was too bad that Helga turned a deaf ear to the world and all of its appurtenances.
Especially when the worlds and its appurtenances all decided that they knew exactly what Helga needed to do, needed to say, needed to be, needed to be with, needed to go, needed blink, needed to sleep, needed to eat, needed to go to the bathroom, you name it, the world and the appurtenances had already decided when Helga should or shouldn't do it.
Helga was far passed annoyed.
She was downright pissed off.
Climbing to the top of what everyone back in her days of P.S. 118 called Ol' Rusty, Helga laid down on the top of the slide looking up into the conveniently blank night sky.
Taking out a pack of her favorite cigarettes, Lina Grette's Cigarettes, of course, from one of the front pocket of her jeans, she took out a single white and mustard colored stick and plopped it in her mouth, not particularly caring that it was slightly crooked and bent out of shape. Taking out her Pink Panther Zippo from her other front pocket, she flicked it open, not caring about the flame that was dancing before her eyes, instead using it to light her cigarette. As she took a large puff, then exhaled, she played with her Zippo, glad that a pyromaniac gave it to her all those years ago.
She could still feel the initials of 'TVN' engraved at the bottom of the lighter right above the initials of 'HGP'. Helga allowed herself a soft smile as she almost drifted off back into the years that were junior high school.
Almost being the operative word, of course.
"You know," A voice from below called, "Those things will kill you."
"You know," Helga said trying to imitate the voice of the person standing on the ground right in front of the slide. "I really don't care." She took a long exaggerated drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke out of her mouth slowly. "And neither should you."
When Helga heard no response, she figured she most of pissed the other person off, so that they left.
As usual, Helga was wrong.
She heard the tell tale sounds of clanking and creaking of someone climbing up Ol' Rusty's ladder, and before she knew she saw the face of one Arnold H. Linshaw above hers. She rolled her blues eyes and let them wander elsewhere.
"It's late at night, Helga."
"I know Linshaw, unlike you I have a watch that actually works."
Now it was Arnold's turn to roll his green eyes. "What I mean is, shouldn't you be somewhere that... I dunno," He paused for a dramatic affect. "Inside maybe? With... I dunno, heating, perhaps?"
"Should I?"
"Most normal people are."
Helga continued to puff away at her cigarette. "Hm."
Then there was silence...
...And more silence...
... And then... more silence...
Finally Arnold lost in the unspoken game that he and Helga were playing, he talked, again. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for your final meeting with the judge? Doesn't it start in," He looked down at his perfectly functioning Rolex. "Four hours and twenty-two minutes?"
Arnold finally got Helga's full attention, her light blue eyes were completely focused on him, even though they were narrowed. "Exactly how do you know this?"
"Sid doesn't always want to burden Phoebe with his worries, and these days because you're the cause of worry, he has now decided to turn to me."
"How... nice" Helga said flatly, her eye wandering to the sky once more.
"He's really worried about you."
"Who isn't? Just about everybody's mama's neighbor's cousin's dog is."
Arnold sighed, it was that short breathy sigh that he always used, just like he did back in the days of P.S. 118 and Helga felt a brief whiff of nostalgia.
A very brief minuscule whiff.
"He's a wreck, he's been this way since..." Arnold's voice trailed of, the owner knowing that he was treading dangerous waters.
Fortunately, Helga was there to finish his sentence. "Let me guess, you were going to say Linshaw, but don't have enough balls to finish, '... he's been this way since November'?" Helga snorted. "Everyone's been a wreck." She took another drag from the cigarette.
"True."
"Then what do you want from me, Arnold?" Helga asked looking the other teen directly in the eyes, letting the cigarette dangle from her long, pale fingers.
The cigarette's gray smoke floated in the air rising above them both, into the sky that was devoid of any real light, with the exception to quarter moon that seemed far away from earth this night.
Arnold silently took the cigarette out of Helga's loose grip, with no protest coming from the owner of the said cigarette. He inspected the slim stick from the end point to end point, from white tip to mustard tip, still silent as he did so, with a look of disgust clearly etched on his face. Curiously, not the kind of disgust directed towards Helga or the cigarette, but self disgust. Without warning he pressed the lit end on the slide and snuffed it out.
"I don't want a thing from you, but Phoebe and Sid probably would appreciate it if you would stop isolating them and started to talk to them again. And your lungs would probably appreciate it if you didn't smoke."
Helga snorted as she began to play with her Zippo once again.
"Helga,"
"What Linshaw?"
"It's one fifty, you probably should go get some rest."
"Hm."
Arnold rolled his eyes again and Helga could hear the clanks and groans of the slide's ladder as he began his descent from the top of Ol' Rusty to the ground below. Once she figured that he had begun to walk away, she reached for another cigarette, and that's when her world went black.
A thick, oversized, black hoodie was covering her face. Quickly gathering what was left of her wits, she sat up and pulled the shirt off of her face. She saw Arnold walking away from the slide now, with his hands jammed in the back pockets of his pants.
She stared at the hoodie in her hands and then looked at the male walking away from her, and then suddenly, he stopped, turned around and looked at her. "That's from my mother. She would appreciate it if you decided that you want to return it."
And without another word, Arnold H. Linshaw left the playground of P.S. 118, and left behind one formerly pink haired female smoking on top of Ol' Rusty, with a black hoodie placed underneath her head as a pillow.
(Y/L)
Sorry, but I still don't own Hey Arnold! I do own YL. I alsoown the idea and concepts of YL, oh, and anything you recognize and think is not mine, is probably, more often than not, not mine. Thank you Shadow Goddess Akhet, Demile, Garlic Blanket, Grylfrend, Novasenshi, Drucilla Black, Kevinspyromaniac, Ahhelga, and Dark-Axem for the encouraging reviews. I read, I saw, I conquered, but could not reconquer. Man, that curve ball at the end of Harry Potter and the HBP through me off, but somehow, just because of my analytical being, I can not take what happened for face value yet. Guess we'll all find out how it'll all end in what, 2007 I suppose... Damn, it's gonna be a long two years... Ahem... anyways, thanks for patiently awaiting my return. No worries, PART II will be out in a few days, a week tops, I promise, promise. But because y'all have been so patient, I'll let you see what I've been thinking up for the past few weeks or so. A bit a prequel to YL, but it won't come out for a little while, certain things have to be discussed and certain things or persons need to appear before this story come out. At any rate here is just the experimental beginning.
(PREVIEW)
So how exactly did Helga and Phoebe become the Helga and the Phoebe of YL? How did they meet Ian? Who the hell is this Tristan guy? What in bloody hell is The Fight Nights? How did Kammie come into the picture? How in the world does The Gambling Nights fit into the picture? And... where the hell is Sid Delano Gifaldi? You sure you really wanna know? Fine. But first you have to take the Acid Liquid Cooler Test... just to be sure... Oh, you don't know what that is? Oh... you'll soon find out...
Acid Liquid Cooler Test
a mini short story told in three chapters about ...
the Helga and the Phoebe...
the Pink Punster and the Blue Brat...
the Blondie and the Vega and
... how it came to be that way...
of moths, flames, and the beauty of machine guns
Through the words and thoughts of one Helga Geraldine Pataki the Second— and yes, unfortunately and somehow there was a first before someone decided to torture the second, questions?
In the words of a very wise... or maybe very stupid friend of mine, "I am not a very smart girl, if bad boys were a flame, then I'd be the moth... yes I'd be that one girl in the horror movie who goes searching in the basement clad only in my underwear searching for the killer in the middle of a dark night with only a kitchen pot for protection before finding the killer and running all the way upstairs to the second floor instead of running out the front door that I passed while trying to get away from said killer... and may there be no cure... may I shrivel up in the flames that are bad boys before that accursed cure is found. The good girl in me craves the bad that's in the bad boys... Hallelujah... and Amen..."
By the time I was halfway through seventh grade I had adopted this as my new motto and by the time I hit eighth grade I was the preacher, the defender, the disciple, and addict of Bad Boyizm.
And I liked my life that way.
(PREVIEW)
PS:
Shadow Goddess Akhet, Ah... confusion, which probably is not uncommon with me as the author of the story. You see, I have this tendency to constantly go back at edit chapters when I notice an error or want to add something, in this case, Stella, who is Arnold's mother, along with her husband Miles were written into the story around chapter three I believe. Sorry bout that. Oh, I've changed Arnold's eyes from light blue to sea green, which means, I have a bunch of chapters to edit... again. Hope I cleared up any confusion.
Ahhelga, Why yes, yes I do.
IMUniquelyStupid, Right about... now...
Next Chapter: Hell, that Place on Earth: PART II
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S.L. Cipher– The Queen of Eville (No this not a spelling mistake but a higher echelon of evil, look it up in The New Cipher Dictionary of Cipherous Lexiconography) who will gladly accept all criticisms, advice, reviews, praises, and flames with a large Cheshire Cat Smile. Why the Cheshire Cat Smile? Why, because Cheshire Cat Smiles will always piss people off and Cipher loves pissing people off because it is exceptional fun... Especially when they try and attack you. Which is exactly why when one wields the Cheshire Cat Smile, it is important that they must also wield a mace and a sword.
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