The Temple Walls

Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.

Co-ordinates: Hillwood: 40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W

Would You Get Me A Soda, Olga?

40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W

August 18th, 17:10

Miriam Pataki, predictably drunk and dazed, flung open the daunting turquoise front door to the Pataki family home before Helga had truly allowed herself time to quell her instinctive ire. Helga watched silently as the older woman's bloodshot eyes flitted across the doorstep, her eyelids dropping and reducing her vision to a strained squint under the bright glare of the summer sunlight. Uncomfortable silence filled the space between them.

"Ah..." Miriam uttered blankly, a greying lock of hair falling across her face. She tilted her left hand unsteadily and almost split the pink liquid swimming around her Martini glass. Helga responded instinctively, stepping a little closer to catch the glass should it fall. Surprisingly, the glass never shattered, because Miriam suddenly tightened her grip and pushed her thinly framed glasses further up the bridge of her nose. "Ohh..." she slurred in realization, her expression a little clearer, "Hi sweetie!"

Helga involuntarily tensed. "Miriam," she greeted her mother curtly, "drunk as always, I see."

"Miriam!" bellowed a gruff voice, one Helga had honestly hoped to avoid. "Who the heck're you talking to?" he shouted, unnecessarily, down the hallway.

Miriam staggered backward, leaning against the doors edge slightly as she turned to respond. If she had truly respected the woman, Helga might have warned her to stand up straight, and stop using a movable object for stability. But she had long ago ceased filling the role as her mothers caretaker. "Ohh, B! It's Helga." she finally garbled out, "She's back from the prom!"

"Prom?" Helga hissed. "Seriously, Miriam? Newsflash, my prom was seven years ago!"

Ultimately she should have known Miriam would struggle, perpetually inebriated as she was, to process the difference between past and present. It was only after an extended period of silence, and floundering expressions of sheer confusion that she appeared to have finally understood. "Wow, honey.." she smiled weakly, "Did you have... a good time?"

Helga considered leaving. It would be so simple at this point just to go away and never return. Instead, she reminded herself she was presently without an alternative, and pushed forward. "No, mom," she sneered as she invited herself inside, "I never went."

"Aw, that's a shame honey..." Miriam cooed flakily, "why not?"

"Gee, I don't know, Miriam, maybe because Bob had already kicked me out of home by that point?" Helga offered sarcastically, beneath her heels an old floorboard creaked and she immediately shuffled to the side. Miriam didn't say a word and, honestly, hadn't seemed to notice the difference between Helga being outside previously, and inside presently. "Surely you remember, shoving me outside with suitcase whilst big-shot in there," her head jerked toward the 'Trophy Room' where she safely assumed Bob was loafed, "shouted something about getting that orphan husband of mine to look after me?"

Miriam, ridiculously enough, contemplated this in complete silence with a fingertip pressed to the base of her chin. "You know..." she began airily, remaining heavily supported by the slightly swaying wooden door, "now you mention it..."

Surrounding them, small gusts of warm summer air drifted in through the wide-open entryway. Helga prised her mother from her precarious location, and slammed the door shut. Miriam startled slightly at the noise. "Listen," she said forcefully, "I'm here to look at some old junk from my closet. I assume all my belongings are stashed away in some far desolate corner of the house?"

"Oh Helga, don't be so silly dear, your bedroom's just like you left it this morning..." Miriam sing-songed deliriously. Clearly, she had entirely forgotten their prior discussion in record time. "Did you get to school okay today, sweetie?"

Undoubtedly experiencing a level of frustration that went beyond her ability to verbally explain, Helga chose not to validate her mother's question with any form of vocal response. She decided it pointless to explain herself, or the reasons for her visit, any further and instead headed directly for the staircase. As she began to make her way upstairs, her mother stood silently and watched her disappear. Eventually, Miriam decided her departure served as invitation to refill her Martini glass, and the drunken woman stumbled her way toward the kitchen. Helga idly wondered if she should follow her, perhaps attempt to remove the poison liquid from her mothers kitchen cabinets. However, her thought process was interrupted almost immediately.

"Hey, Olga!" Bob Pataki's voice boomed above the sounds of the television. Helga contemplated what element surprised her most; that he actually appeared to have taken note of her arrival, or that he had even deigned to speak to her. Despite the name he used, she knew very well he was aware she was not the real Olga, or else he'd have been lumbering down the hallway to reward her with empty praise. He ignored her lack of response, "Get me a soda, would you?"

Helga narrowed her eyes and set about angrily stomping her way up the remainder of the stairwell, as well as along the short stretch of corridor toward her bedroom door. It was childish, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Instead, she placed a gentle hand on the door-handle to her childhood bedroom, as Bob began to complain loudly downstairs. Miriam had been correct, ironically enough, when she had stated that Helga's old bedroom remained precisely as she had left it. Stepping inside, Helga found her small single bed still made with dark pink sheets and the walls still covered in old blue wallpaper, dotted with small yellow hearts.

Carefully, as though entering a museum of sorts, she placed her oversized black handbag down atop her wooden dresser. In the center, the large mirror was covered with glossy photographs covering a few short years of her life. Helga leaned forward, each photograph causing memories to flood back as though they had occurred only days prior. She froze when her fingertips brushed one lone photograph, resting beneath the mirror and ripped directly down the middle. Slowly, she flipped the two separated pieces face-up and staring back at her were the smiling faces of both herself and Arnold. It was so rare to find a photograph of herself with a joyful expression, that she found herself momentarily fascinated. During her childhood, she had always scowled at cameras and in her older teenage years she'd looked perpetually sour; nowadays she found herself giving off looks of utter indifference, unless it was for a promotional shoot.

Nothing could cause her to forget the day the now-torn photograph had been taken; Arnold had taken her to the Temple of the Adventurers after having spent the morning beneath a majestic waterfall. It had been just days prior to their misguided decision to become joined in matrimony at merely thirteen years old. Furthermore, she could recall with painful clarity the day she had torn it into dividing pieces. Fifteen and heartbroken, arriving home from San Lorenzo far earlier than expected, with tears brimming in her red and swollen eyes. Helga blinked, and tore her eyes away quickly, pushing the memories aside and dropping both halves of the photograph back onto the dresser as though it had burned her skin.

Helga, instead, diverted her attention toward the third and final major piece of furniture in the small room; her large purple wardrobe. It currently stood across the entryway to her closet, blocking off the doorway entirely as though it were simply never there at all. She had moved it, with breathless shoving and pulling, mere hours before her final departure from Hillwood as a seventeen year old. It had been her solemn vow to herself that day, that she would never again peer into the contents of her old closet. Unfortunately accessing the required information, by way of finding Arnold's letters, required breaking that vow. She approached the closet as though it were dangerous, sliding her back against the side and firmly planting her feet before pushing backward and slowly moving it clear of the doorway.

Inside the closet, a mountain of useless trinkets were piled to the right-hand side. Discarded scraps of notepaper, some scrunched tightly into balls, littered the floorspace. Directly ahead of her, two large cardboard boxes carried the items she had completely packed away. It was with abject horror, that she then found herself turning to her left and coming face-to-face with a string of clap-activated lights and a papier-mâché football-headed shrine. Helga mentally avowed to burn every last object within the closet space before she left that evening.

Summoning her willpower, Helga gasped hold of the largest cardboard box and carried it over beside her bed with a great lack of enthusiasm for the ensuing task. It contained more letters than she recalled and was filled to the brim with envelopes of varying sizes and colour, not a single one of which had ever been read. She took a small handful of letters, amassing around eight in total, and searched both sides for relevant information. She steadfastly ignored the temptation to finally open one, and trained her attention instead to the post-stamped location of dispatch. It took her less than ten minutes to discern that each and every one had originated from an identical location.

Helga hastily drew her hangbag from the dresser, reaching for notepaper and her signature purple pen to scribble down the details. "Cruzeiro," she mumbled as she wrote, "Four, four, nine, five, dash, zero, nine. San Lorenzo."

Certain she had noted everything of importance, Helga bundled the envelopes back into the large cardboard box and tossed it back into the closet. It landed with a thud, tipping over and spilling its contents. Helga ignored the mess, and instead paused within the confines of what had been, during her adolescence, a place of security and serenity in an otherwise lacklustre existence. It felt strangely small, yet still so far removed from reality. She reached forward, and against all better judgement, seized the second and smaller cardboard box. It was notably heavier than the other, and Helga huffed as she placed it down at the bedside.

Instead of letters, Helga found it packed tightly with pink notebooks, each one of which was carefully labelled and chronologically ordered. She slowly brushed her fingertips over the spine of one, labelled 'Volume 22, Fifth Grade' and, before she could stop herself, found her fingers nimbly leafing between the pages. Initially, she grimaced, faced with a particularly long and arduously repetitive poem bemoaning her inner adolescent turmoil but three pages later, she held back a wry smile. Lila Sawyer featured in a dramatically detailed diagram, wherein she had found herself in water she 'ever so couldn't swim in'. Helga shook her head slightly, and slowly closed the notebook. She moved to place it back within the box, when a sliver of shimmering gold caused her hand to freeze mid-motion. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind, as her fingers wrapped around a cool, smooth surface that she had located her heart-shaped locket.

Helga had regrettably forgotten the image that lay within her prized childhood trinket, for if she'd remembered, she would not have picked it up. Instead, she found herself drawing a shaky breath as she looked upon her younger self serenely kissing Arnold Shortman. She held, in her palm, the sole photograph captured during their wedding ceremony - the photograph that had been, for the two years between visits, Helga's most prized possession. It was one of those perfect, lucky, once-in-lifetime shots as the sun made both teenagers appear as though they were glowing. It captured the silky curl of her hair; painfully achieved by tree leaves and heated oils, no less. Arnold's awry blonde locks shimmered, and the traditional green matrimonial gown she wore, gifted to her by the tribal elders, set off his emerald eyes like jewels. Helga had always felt the beauty of the photograph itself reflected the way she had felt; as though she were their princess, his princess.

Exhausted, and dreading what she may encounter downstairs, Helga let out a laboured sigh and leaned backward against two comfortable pink pillows. It was with a detached conscious that she noted herself closing her eyes, with the locket clasped tightly to her chest, and succumbing to the pleasant feeling of sleep.

A/N: Yay for a (slightly) longer chapter! I hope to update more frequently now (fingers crossed) but I'll be dividing my time between this fic and also making my first foray into the Harry Potter fandom ;) - wish me luck!