"I created a monster, a beast inside my brain. I've nowhere to go, I'm out on my own, my mind impaired. Awake me from my nightmare." - Set it Off

You know how sometimes horrible things happen to good people yet, selfishly, it makes you glad it isn't you?

Well you'll feel it when you hear my story; this is called schaedenfreude, and you'll feel it at its finest.

Have you ever made one stupid mistake when you were younger, one stupid mistake that's haunted you for the rest of your days? I'm not talking crime or murder, I'm talking really stupid mistakes...like treating badly someone you love, for instance. Like being ungrateful when someone basically changed your life for the better. That's what I mean.

Now let me talk about something else, totally unrelated, or so it would seem, to this story: it's called memory.

What would we do without memory? Memory is something we take for granted. Many people are afraid to lose their eyesight or their sense of hearing. People are afraid to become disabled, to lose their limbs, or whatever, but no one worries about losing their memory.

Except memory makes you who you are. Without memory, you are nothing. Science and Psychology overall believe that about fifty percent of who you are is genetic; the other fifty percent is environmental, in other words, it comes from the experiences you've lived and the people you've met along the way. If you lose your memories, you lose fifty percent of yourself.

That's what happened to someone I know; not just anyone, this happened to the guy I loved and still love to this day and, despite my young age, I already know that a part of me, if not all of me, will always love him.

Let's go back to that mistake now, shall we? How big must a mistake be for you to never forgive yourself for it, even though you were young and didn't know any better?

Could you forgive yourself for bullying someone, breaking their heart, and lying to them about how you felt?

What if you're alone and miserable? You're absolutely alone and there's no one else there. Just darkness and a bunch of jerks making your life a living hell; then he shows up, and he makes everything better. He hates them all as much as you do, and it's the both of you against everything and everyone else.

But then, let's add something to this equation, an unknown variable. It's devastating and messes up all calculations. It's called Fear. But not just any fear, no, I'm talking about absolute terror, anxiety, worry that the person who's there for you will ultimately also let you down.

So, what do you do when Fear is brought into the equation? Well, you act out and, as illogical as it seems, you reject the person who's there for you. You hurt their feelings, you bully them, you act terrible first so that you know that at least if they reject you, as they inevitably would have, you can have some control over it.

Then you realize how stupid that was and how dreadfully wrong you were; but the fear's still there and it's always lurking behind you, haunting both you and your beloved by making life a living hell for the both of you.

After that you become a little smarter and a little braver. You own up to your mistake and eventually, you admit it and apologize. The person you love is no longer a simple person although, to be fair, they haven't been truly human in a long time: instead they've become some sort of angel, a mythical being that's brought you out of the depths of the inferno you'd bathe in every morning when you woke up for school and every night when you returned to your crappy home.

This angel, this wonderful, incredible being who now represents the universe to you is willing to give you another chance. They're not sure at first, they just want to be friends and the intensity of your feelings scare them, yet they don't abuse of their power; like an all-knowing, all-loving God, they forgive you and your sins, they accept all of you, flaws and greatnesses included.

After that you feel like you've been given a glimpse of heaven and a touch of ecstasy all at once.

Just talking to them and slowly getting closer and closer to them is the most blissful of feelings. No more walls this time, no more fear and terror: you've done it, you've had "the talk", you've been yourself around them. You're eventually reunited with them at some point, too. Things accelerate from there, and the intense, wonderful bond you should have had from the start is finally strong enough for them to begin reciprocating your feelings. The passion and adoration finally becomes somewhat mutual.

Now, I know you're thinking: well, all of this sounds wonderful, so where's the schaedenfreude?

Be patient, it's coming; no beautiful love story ends in a happily ever after.

I never really did know, but it makes so much sense when I think of it. His grandma was clearly turning insane, even back when we were kids. His aunt on his grandfather's side had caught it at a young age for such a disease, she was only 40 when it'd begun.

I'm talking about Alzheimer's disease.

When someone has a close relative like a father, mother, uncle, or let's say...an aunt with the disease, there's a 13% chance that they will catch early onset Alzheimer's disease. You can be as young as fifteen and still get it. Generally, you get cognitive impairment as a precursor, which then leads to Early Onset Alzheimer's disease at around thirty, then the disease itself later on. Either way, you're doomed to slowly forget everything around you until you eventually succumb to dementia.

I knew something was wrong with Arnold the first time I Skyped with him. Even the way he spoke was different. He remembered almost nothing of back when we were kids, except that I seemed to bother him a lot and was madly in love with him. He barely even remembered middle school.

He'd forgotten almost everything about me, except the vague feeling that I was someone special, so he wanted us to be friends. He didn't even remember us dating, he just thought we'd been close friends. He'd also repeat something he'd said word for word about ten minutes earlier.

He was only 17 when I found out. I cried non-stop all week. People thought someone in my family had died. I lost 20 pounds. I couldn't eat, I'd sleep yet I'd feel as if I hadn't gotten any sleep at all, I stunk even though I showered regularly...

The bags under my eyes scared people off. I looked like a zombie. I, who was so prideful, would even cry and sob in public transits. It was truly the end of the world for me.

What would become of him, I wondered?

He didn't have any money for medication, so he'd try stuff here and there for a month then give up. I creeped him out at first. He couldn't understand how I could possibly love and care so much about him, how I knew him by heart. I think that's what hurt and scared me the most. The fact that he didn't love me back? That I could handle, but the illness broke me.

Phoebe was there, of course. She was always there. So was Curly actually, and to my surprise, Princess Rhonda, who insisted I spend a week at her mansion. We argued a few times but I had no regrets. I'll be forever grateful for the fact that she invited me. She revived my spirit.

I was wasted for the first time the night I got there. Rhonda and I drank t'ill our hearts content. We had fun though, that's the crazy part, but despite that I never did become a fan of alcohol. I understand better why Miriam did it, though. It really does help you forget.

It hurt too much to speak to Arnold again for a few days. Eventually Dr. Bliss - who insisted on seeing me -, Phoebe, Curly and Rhonda managed to convince me to speak to Arnold again. They said that not only did I need him, he needed me too. He'd said so himself, that was the crazy part. For some reason, despite the fact that the feelings weren't mutual and that I was just some insane, psychotic, obsessed bitch to him, he still wanted us to stay friends and said that it made him happy when I talked to him. Even though I was dying inside I knew when he'd said those words that I'd be there for him for the rest of his life, for as long as he'd want me, married or dating another girl, sane or insane, memory loss or healthy, I knew I'd always be there for him so long as he asked. And I was.

That's how we became friends again, actually, after I found the strength to speak to him again. It's funny how even when Arnold himself is the problem, he always manages to make things better, somehow. It's always been that way and it always will be. Even where there's sadness, there's always happiness with him.

Very quickly we became super close again. Occasionnally he'd distance himself, and I knew why: from what he remembered, I was just some girl he was friends with before, yet there was no denying the incredibly tight bond we shared - the jokes, the complicity, it was crazy. When he and I talked, we just clicked, and I think that, memory loss or not, he couldn't help but see it.

Eventually, what my friends and I feared happened: he fell in love with me all over again. I'd say so did I, but it'd be impossible for me to love him any more than I do. I've felt just as intensely for him the second I laid eyes on him as I do today, two decades later.

Arnold refused to see the doctor at first. He kept reassuring me and telling me that everything was fine, that he was just a little out of it but that it was nothing out of the ordinary. Eventually, I bothered him so much that he did go, against both of our wishes because, truth be told, part of me didn't want to know what he had because, as long as we weren't sure, we could keep telling ourselves that it was nothing. If we got confirmation, however, that he had something serious, his future and, by repercussion, mine was ruined - because if his life was ruined, it didn't matter whether I was part of it or not - it would mean the end of the world for me. It meant that I was doomed to a life of misery and so was he, it meant that the two of us would never have children and never lead a happy, fufilling life together. If Arnold got a diagnosis, however, it meant that he'd be able to know exactly what kind of medication he needed. I was fine with paying it for him, heck, I was more than fine for paying it for him, I insisted on it. I knew he didn't want me to, however, which is why I'd already asked his parents if they were fine with giving him the medicine and acting as if it came from me. They had said yes, of course.

Arnold went to see the doctor. The diagnostis was of course the one I'd already deduced and the one we dreaded: cognitive impairment which would inevitably lead to early onset Alzheimer's. This was it, the end of my world, the end of his, the end of our future together, the premature abortion of the dream child or children we'd never get.

I bought him his medication every month, although it was expensive. I had two part time jobs and did college all the while to pay for it. I also used some of the pocket money Olga, my mom, and occasionnally Big Bob would give me for Christmas or birthdays towards that. I knew that it wouldn't solve anything and that the only thing I was doing was literally buying some time to slow down the inevitable, but I didn't care. It was because of me that he knew and I loved him, I was and still am ready to do anything for him to be as happy as possible.

It's getting worse these days, the memory I mean. The first few years it was fine, he was just kind of like a very forgetful person. I remember when Tall-hair boy saw him again for the first time in years and Arnold barely remembered him at all, yet instinctively recalled the hand shake. Gerald had tried his best to hide the tears when he'd left.

I talk to Phoebe and Dr. Bliss every day, they keep me sane. Rhonda's incessant chatter about futilities also helps, weirdly enough. Curly and I drifted apart though. He wasn't much of a friend after all - quickly enough, all he cared about was Rhonda, so it's not like I got much emotional support.

And me? Well, I'm no longer the Helga G. Pataki I used to be. I'm skinny as Hell with permanent bags under my eyes, and I look more like a woman than many of my peers. When I look at the other college girls they seem so stupid and immature, so silly and childish. Then there's me - I've looked like an adult even since I'd heard the news for the first time at the age of seventeen.

Other men are literally invisible to me. I couldn't care less about them, even when they're drooling behind me like a bunch of pathetic idiots. Criminey! You'd think they'd never seen a woman before.

The day we learned about Arnold's diagnosis is ironically one of the most horrible yet simultaneously beautiful moments of my life. Horrible for the obvious, beautiful because, weirdly enough, we'd gone out after that - he drove us to the outskirts of the city and we'd looked at the stars on the rooftop of his old car. After that we drank and drank and drank - he'd brought plenty of alcohol. In retrospect, I guess he was expecting it, which is why he brought so much booze with him in the first place. We were both twenty at the time. I know alcohol's terrible for one's memory, but I'd only ever pestered him once about it. I knew that he needed to forget, and how could I blame him? That night especially, I needed to forget too. so we actually drank and talked and laughed, our gales of laughter sounding so crystal clear and so profoundly sad through the darkness. We'd hold hands and laugh at fate's face and the cruel irony that had been inflicted upon us: simply put, it was a night to forget and break barriers.

(To Be Continued)

A quick note: this and Chapter 10 were supposed to be one chapter, but I then thought it was a better idea to split the huge chunk of text in half. In the context of this story, however, Helga simply didn't have time to finish on the spot and had to interrupt to do whatever life activity she was busy with.