Title/Author: A Long Kiss Goodnight by Reinamy

Fandom: Hey Arnold!

Pairing: Helga/Arnold (pre-relationship)

Rating/Warnings: Teen (for strong language, mature themes, minor blood and injury, explicit depictions of child neglect, emotional/verbal abuse, and alcoholism)

Summary: Arnold doesn't expect to die at the age of thirteen.

Author's Note: I've been toying with the idea for this fic for quite some time so it's exciting to finally be able to share it with you all.

All the blame for this goes to darnold_longkid whose gorgeously haunting fic, "Truth Cast in the Fresnel Lens," inspired me to write my own ghost story of sorts.

There will be three chapters in total. Happy reading, lovelies! ❤️


PART ONE


Arnold doesn't expect to die at the age of thirteen.

And he must have died—there's no other explanation for the way he's currently looking down at his own battered body from so high above.

He'd be freaking out more if he weren't so disoriented. It feels like he's trapped in the space between dreams and reality, unsure if he's even awake, and there's so much going on around him—so many bright lights and jarring sounds—that he feels completely overwhelmed.

The sight of his body on the ground isn't helping, either.

Arnold tears his gaze away from the disquieting view to the people hovering near him. Closest to him are two adults he doesn't recognize, but from their uniforms and the way they're handling him must be paramedics. He feels nauseous (can ghosts even get sick?) watching them hoist his body onto a stretcher that's stained red the moment he's placed onto it.

That's a lot of blood, he thinks queasily, and lets his gaze settle on the third closest person to him so he won't have to look at himself anymore.

Arnold finds that Helga G. Pataki isn't much easier to take in.

She looks—well, to be honest, she looks traumatized standing there, her usual razor-blade eyes wider than he can ever remember seeing them. She's making these ragged sounds like she's struggling to breathe and Arnold is genuinely concerned she's going to pass out.

One of the paramedics must notice, too, because they usher her into the same ambulance they hoist his body into.

Arnold doesn't hesitate to follow after them.


The hospital welcomes them with both good news and bad.

The good: Arnold isn't dead—yet.

The bad: he's in a coma and the doctors aren't sure when he'll wake up—if he ever will.

Arnold kills time in the waiting room with Helga, unable to stomach the sight of his parents' despair or his own mangled body wrapped in bandages and connected to so many machines.

There's a well of mounting terror deep within him that he feels himself slipping into with each passing minute, so Arnold tries to focus on anything other than what will await him if he doesn't wake up.

Helga becomes his focal of distraction.

They've been here two hours and the stubborn girl has twice refused to have any of her injuries treated. Arnold wishes he had corporal hands to shake her with. He risked his life to save her from becoming roadkill and he's going to be pissedif she ends up dying of an infection of all things.

"See if I ever push you out of the way of a moving vehicle again," he grumbles at her.

Arnold ignores how unsettling it feels to essentially be talking into the void and watches Helga fidget with her phone, lines of quiet misery etched onto her bruised face.

This is the most time he's spent with Helga since they started fifth grade and were split into separate classes. Most of the old gang had grown apart that way despite their best efforts to stay close. But as time went on, they all found themselves swept up in the ever-changing nature of middle school and drawn towards newer friendships. Of his grade-school friends, Arnold has only remained close with Gerald, Nadine, and Sid.

Friends drifting apart was just an unfortunate facet of growing up, so Arnold had merely resigned himself to it when he and Helga eventually did, too.

But that doesn't mean he's been oblivious to the many ways in which she's changed over the past few years, as well as the many ways she hasn't.

Helga G. Pataki isn't the same girl who stomped through the halls like a statement and talked loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. She isn't the same spitfire who commanded attention and took up all the space in whatever room she occupied. The same girl who grinned like a demon and caused mischief like one, too.

So of course Arnold had noticed the change in her even when they no longer occupied the same social circles. How could anyone not notice when such a bright light goes dim?

The Helga he knows now is…colder. Quieter. More prone to observing silently from a distance than jumping into the fray for the sheer excitement of it. Arnold remembers a time when it seemed as if she couldn't stop moving, always gesturing with her hands and bouncing her leg with a restless energy that at times exhausted him just watching.

She now moves through their school with as much presence as Arnold does in this spectral form, and not for the first time, he wonders why.

He's pulled from his musing when heavy footfalls reach his ears, and he looks up just in time to see Mr. and Mrs. Pataki rush into the waiting room.

Arnold glances at the clock on the wall. Took them long enough.

"What did you do?" is the first thing Mr. Pataki asks—no, demands—eyeing Helga's disheveled appearance with critical eyes.

Arnold frowns at the towering man just as Helga's face contorts into a scowl.

"N-now, now," Mrs. Pataki interrupts before Helga can utter a word. "Let's not jump to conclusions, Bob. Olga, sweetheart, you said something about an accident? Are you o-okay?"

The words themselves are fine, but it's the way she says them—slowly, like she's enunciating each syllable carefully—that makes Arnold squint suspiciously at her. He takes in the glossy sheen of her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, and the way she's leaning precariously against her husband, and all at once it clicks.

She's drunk, Arnold realizes. At 4 PM. On a Friday.

And wait—did she just call Helga 'Olga?'

"I'm fine," Helga mutters, lowering her gaze, though not quickly enough that Arnold misses a flicker of pain in them that he isn't so sure stems from her injuries.

"Well? What happened?" Mr. Pataki asks brusquely, and Arnold can't help but bristle at his tone. He's always known that Big Bob was a bit much, but this is ridiculous. Arnold knows that if he were to ever call his dad from the hospital the man would be beside himself with worry, even if Arnold only sustained a minor injury.

Isn't that how parents are supposed to react to their kid getting hurt?

Helga clenches her jaw but otherwise remains silent. Mr. Pataki is clearly rearing up to shout again when the doors to the adjacent ICU wing open and Arnold's disconsolate parents stagger through.

Sorry, Mom and Dad, Arnold thinks with no small amount of guilt.

He doesn't miss the way Helga flinches at the sight of them and hunches into herself.

Clearly Arnold isn't the only one feeling guilty. He feels a faint twinge of vindication in that—she should feel bad considering she's the reason he's in this miserable situation in the first place—but the feeling leaves as quickly as it comes, replaced by shame at his own pettiness.

This isn't Helga's fault, he reminds himself. She may not have been paying attention to her surroundings but she had waited for the light to change. And in the end, it had been Arnold's decision to push her out of the way when he realized the car hurtling towards the crosswalk wasn't slowing down.

The only person to blame is the driver who'd fallen asleep at the wheel, not a thirteen year old girl who did nothing Arnold himself hasn't done countless times before.

So he swallows down his bilelike bitterness and forces himself to refocus on the conversation playing out in front of him.

"—and, uh, we're real grateful for what your boy did for our kid," Mr. Pataki is saying gruffly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "If there's anything we can do…"

Arnold's dad gives the man a thin smile. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. I'm sure your daughter—Helga, was it?—would benefit from going home and getting those wounds cleaned, however. It looks like she might still be in shock."

Mr. Pataki nods hastily and hauls Helga up by her arm so roughly that Arnold thinks it must hurt. His parents clearly think the same because they narrow their eyes at the man who's too busy whispering at his wife to notice.

A wife who hasn't uttered a single word since Arnold's parents arrived.

Probably 'cause she isn't as confident about hiding her inebriation in front of other adults, Arnold thinks sourly.

"We hope your kid wakes up," Mr. Pataki says tactlessly as he backs away. "Don't, uh, hesitate to call if you need anything."

Arnold doubts it's a coincidence that he hasn't even offered a number to be reached at.

"That poor, brave boy," Miriam slurs, and Mr. Pataki takes that as their cue to hightail it out of there.

A heavy silence descends over the room as the Patakis leave and the doors swing shut behind them.

"There's something not right with that family," Arnold's dad mutters in their wake.

His mom merely sighs and slumps into a chair. "Yeah, but I can't…Miles, I just can't—"

She starts sobbing, and Arnold's dad wraps his arms around her, his own shoulders shaking, and Arnold suddenly can't stand to be in this room with them any longer.

"I'll be back," he promises guiltily—

(and gods does he hope that's a promise he can keep)

—and flees the room.

Not knowing what else to do, or where to go, he decides to follow Helga.

Arnold's dad was right in that there's definitely something off about Helga's family, and he figures this is the perfect opportunity to uncover what it is.

He shoves away the thought that he's sticking his nose where it absolutely doesn't belong, as well as the knowledge that if Helga were to ever find out, she'd kill him herself.

Because when it comes to someone being in trouble—which he isn't entirely certain is the case here but if there's even the slightest chance—well, Arnold's always been a bit like a bloodhound in that respect.

Once he catches wind of something foul, he can do nothing but follow where it leads.


Being a…ghost? Wraith? Apparition? Whatever he is, it's weird.

After much confusion and some embarrassing trial and error, he thinks he's got the gist of the whole being-sorta-dead thing.

Arnold feels solid to himself, but he's definitely incorporeal to others. He can't manipulate the physical world around him in any way, but is somehow still capable of interacting with it, which is why he can walk on the ground without sinking through it.

He can also move through physical objects if he focuses hard enough—including people, which is something he hopes to never experience again, thanks.

Arnold regrets knowing what it feels like to have your very atoms scatter like dust particles in the wind, and if—when he wakes up, he hopes that horrific detail won't be something he remembers.

Arnold sits awkwardly next to Helga on the ride back to her place, feeling as if the interior of the cramped car is closing in on him. There's so much tension in the air that he thinks he'd be choking on it if he were capable of breathing.

Mr. Pataki started grumbling to himself the moment he slid into the driver's seat and while the words are indiscernible, Arnold isn't so clueless as to think he's saying anything nice.

Mrs. Pataki had made a single halfhearted attempt to coddle Helga but gave it up as a lost cause when the girl literally growled at her. Now she's snoring loudly in the passenger seat, dead to the world.

And Helga? Well, she hasn't spoken so much as a word since the hospital, absorbed by thoughts Arnold knows aren't pretty.

The Patakis still live in the same tall, sky-blue building they always have, and they park the car right in front of it. Mr. Pataki barks at his wife to wake up before climbing out, and his phone is in his hand the second his feet hit the pavement. He storms into the house without waiting for his family to catch up.

What an asshole, Arnold thinks again, a track on repeat.

Helga skulks into the house like a kid entering a dentist's office, her mom stumbling in behind her.

They move further into the house and find Mr. Pataki pacing in the living room, his voice ricocheting off the walls as he shouts at whoever's unfortunate enough to be on the other end of the line. When he notices them he places a palm on the mouthpiece and says, "Look, Ol—Helga, you're fine, right? You know where the bandage kit is—go clean yourself up and take a nap or something. I'll send Miriam up to check on you later." He brings the phone back to his ear. "Sorry, my kid was in an accident. Yeah, she's fine, don't worry about it. And don't even think about trying to distract me, Peters. Are you friggin' kidding me with those prices—"

Arnold's so busy gaping incredulously at Mr. Pataki that he doesn't realize Helga's already gone until she's halfway up the stairs. He starts to follow but is distracted by the sound of glass shattering from the other room and goes to investigate.

The sight that greets him makes him wish he'd chosen to follow Helga instead.

Mrs. Pataki is sprawled out on the tiles with a bottle of wine in her hand. On the floor next to her are the jagged remains of a cup, its contents slowly spreading out and seeping into her pants in a way that's uncomfortably reminiscent of blood.

"I miss O-Olga," she hiccoughs between swigs of alcohol straight from the tap. "Ohhh, I should give her a calllll."

Arnold turns away from the pitiful sight, and it's with a heavy heart that he treads the stairs after Helga.

He finds her in the bathroom on the second floor. The door's open a crack, and he's justifiably nervous about taking a peek inside in case she isn't proper. He chances a glance through his fingers and is relieved to find her still fully clothed. Emboldened, Arnold forces himself through the door and nearly goes right back through it again at what he sees.

Helga's sitting on the floor, a paltry first-aid kit spread out between her knees. She's shaking as she slowly disinfects the scrapes that mar her skin, looking so damn small and miserable that Arnold aches to look at her.

"Was it always this bad?" he asks her, lowering himself to the ground by her feet. "Did you ever tell anyone?"

But Arnold already knows the answer: of course she didn't. Because if there's one thing he knows hasn't changed about Helga G. Pataki, it's that she hates being vulnerable—hates appearing weak—in front of others.

"I wish you'd told me," he whispers to the ceiling. "I wished I'd noticed that something was wrong before. Now…now I may never even get the opportunity to help."

"You shouldn't have done that."

Arnold's head snaps up in shock, but when he looks at Helga, it's to find her with her face buried in her scraped knees.

"Why did you do that? You stupid, foolish, reckless idiot," she continues harshly, and Arnold realizes she's talking about him.

She takes a shuddering breath that verges on a sob and whispers, as if she can barely stand to say the words out loud, let alone hear them, "You risked your life for someone whose funeral no one would even cry at. What a moron."

The words hook themselves inside his heart and threaten to tear it apart.

"I-I would care!" he chokes out, wishing with everything he has that she could hear him. "I wouldn't have risked my life to save you if I didn't care!"

But Arnold's words can't reach her; they're as illusive as the rest of him.

He feels wretched as he watches her break down. Wretched and useless. So he turns away. He doesn't want to—doesn't want to leave her to cry by herself—but what good is he when he can't talk to her, or touch her, or let her know she's not alone?

All he's doing is violating her privacy without even the justification of helping her. So he phases through the door and leaves, his hands clenched into trembling fists as Helga's stifled sobs chase him all the way across the hall.


Arnold returns to the hospital. His parents are asleep in the waiting area connected to his ICU room, and he feels a pang of regret as he takes in the dark bruises under their eyes and their waxen complexions.

"I'm sorry," he tells them, his translucent hand hovering over his mom's unkempt hair. If he tries, he can almost pretend to feel her warmth under his palm. "I can't say I regret saving Helga, but I regret putting you two through this. If only I'd been faster…"

Arnold swallows over the lump in this throat and takes a seat next to his mom.

"Dad, you were right about Helga's family. They're awful, and they treat her horribly. Her dad doesn't give a crap about her, and her mom's a drunk who doesn't care enough. It's so bad Helga doesn't even think her own family would miss her if she died. How messed up is that?"

Arnold wipes his arm over his eyes, though they're dry.

"I don't know what to do. What can I do? How can I help Helga when I can't even help myself?"

Arnold steers his thoughts into safer waters when he feels himself start to drown.

"I hope I wake up. I miss everyone, and it'll suck to die before I've even properly kissed a girl. How depressing is that?"

With a sigh, Arnold tips his head back and stares up at the white ceiling. He allows himself to be lulled into a fugue state resembling sleep by the hospital's rhythmic din.


Arnold doesn't intend to visit Helga's house again, which is why he's so surprised when he finds himself there the following afternoon. He shoots his feet a look of betrayal before resignedly making his way inside.

He passes the slumbering form of Mrs. Pataki on the couch without sparing her much of a glance and bounds up the stairs to where he knows Helga's room is. Once there, he hesitates outside her door.

Following an unsuspecting girl into a bathroom after ascertaining she's decent is one thing, but a bedroom is something else entirely. Arnold feels like a creep just standing outside her door.

He's so busy mulling over what the ethical approach here would be that when the door suddenly opens he lets loose a shriek he's grateful no one else can hear.

"Jeez, Helga," he complains, rubbing his chest. "You scared me half to death. And I'm already half-dead, so how about we avoid scaring me fully dead. Ugh."

Oblivious to his grousing, Helga merely closes the door behind her and heads for the staircase.

"Where are you going?" he asks pointlessly, eyeing the backpack slung over her shoulder.

He follows her down the stairs and past her mom—who Helga only briefly glances at—and then the two of them are stepping out into the frigid March air. Or at least Arnold assumes it's frigid, if the sudden ruddiness of Helga's nose is any indication.

Helga leads him to the flower shop that used to belong to Mrs. Vitello before it was acquired by her great-niece, Ms. Angelo.

The bells above the door chime as Helga enters the shop. Ms. Angelo looks up from where she's clipping an arrangement of white roses and blue violets and beams when she spots who it is.

"Helga! How lovely to—oh my. Dearie, what on earth happened to you?"

Flowers forgotten, Ms. Angelo rushes towards Helga with a look of distraught.

"Accident," Helga mutters, ducking her head. While she looks uncomfortable to be fussed over by the woman she also doesn't pull away, which wouldn't be noteworthy except for the fact that not even Helga's mother is granted the same allowance. Arnold burns to know how the two of them came to be so close.

"Are you alright? No, of course you aren't, you're covered head-to-toe in bruises. Are you sure you shouldn't be resting at home?"

Helga shakes her head, and the woman tsks in disapproval. "Well, as long as you're sure. Are you heading up to the secret garden?"

What secret garden? Arnold wonders as Helga nods once.

"Alright, dearie. Just don't overexert yourself, alright? If you need anything, ring for me."

Another nod, and then Helga stiffly pries herself out of Ms. Angelo's hold and walks to the back of the shop. Arnold follows her to an inconspicuous door covered in ivy that leads to a stairwell, and then up two long flights of stairs.

Arnold is brimming with curiosity as they step past another door and into what he realizes is the rooftop greenhouse. Helga shuts the door behind them and walks through the verdurous labyrinth with the practice of someone who's done so dozens of times before. He eyes the flora and woodwork that adorns the sprawling space as she guides him to a shed that he discovers houses gardening equipment and machinery. Helga ditches her coat—and it's then that he realizes she's wearing clothes that look to be one wash away from disintegrating completely—and bustles around until she's carrying an assortment of tools.

As Helga begins setting up near a planting box bursting with undulant foliage, Arnold marvels at seeing a side to Helga Pataki that he's never known before.

He watches as she moves from box to box with confidence, and Arnold hates that he can't ask any of the questions itching his throat even though he knows she's more likely to threaten him into silence than answer him.

It's strenuous work—he knows this from experience—but he can't tell if she enjoys it or not as the severe lines on her face don't ease even once.

By the time they reach the last box in the third row, one that's bustling with asters and daisies and coneflowers, Helga is damp with sweat and covered in dirt.

She plucks a daisy from the box and slides cross-legged to the ground. Twirls the flower between her slender fingers for a suspended moment before plucking out a single petal.

"He won't wake up," she says.

Arnold startles as she plucks another petal. "He will wake up."

Pluck. "He won't wake up."

Pluck. "He will wake up."

Pluck. "He won't…"

And on and on it goes. Arnold watches the morbid game, invested despite himself in what the outcome will be even as his heart grows heavy at the doleful sight.

Helga plucks the final petal and crushes it between her fingers.

"He will wake up," she whispers like a prayer, bowed over the petalless flower like it's an instrument of prophecy. "He will wake up. Arnold, please, please wake up."

And then she's crying again, and Arnold is, too, though he has no physical tears to spill.

"I will," he swears vehemently to her, trying to manifest his will to the vast universe and whatever gods may be listening. "Helga, I promise I will."

Once more he prays that it's a promise he can keep.


Helga leaves the garden four hours and eight daisies later. After returning her tools to the shed and washing up in a small fountain, she trudges down the stairs and out of the flower shop while Ms. Angelo is too preoccupied with customers to notice.

The sky is a mirage of blood-orange and periwinkle as they step out into a darkening city and towards Helga's house. The walk takes longer than it should, and Arnold isn't sure if it's due to the exhaustion weighing Helga down or her own reluctance to return to a place that only masquerades as a home. He thinks it might be a combination of both.

Arnold counts himself so damn lucky that he's always had a warm home to return to and a loving family waiting for him to get back.

He feels his yearning for both like a bone-deep ache and has to force down the spiraling fear of never being able to have either again.

"I will wake up," he says for the umpteenth time, determined to speak the words into existence.

The first thing Arnold hears when he walks into Helga's house is Mr. Pataki's booming laughter. He and Helga follow the sound to a rather domestic scene of her parents eating dinner at the dining table—Chinese takeout, by the look of it. Mr. Pataki is enthusiastically regaling Mrs. Pataki with some work tale when he finally notices Helga hovering in the doorway.

An outsider looking in, Arnold thinks sadly. Just like me.

A ghost in her own home.

"Oh, Ol—I mean, Helga!" Mr. Pataki rumbles. "Your mother wasn't feeling up to cooking today so we ordered out. We, uh, kinda forgot you were here, kiddo. I'm sure you can scrounge something up for yourself, though."

And with that, he turns around and continues his story.

"Are you freaking kidding me?" Arnold exclaims, arms spread in disbelief. He looks to Helga to gauge her reaction and frowns when she merely rolls her eyes and stomps into the kitchen like this isn't the first time she's been left behind to fend for herself.

Like she's used to being nothing but a second thought to her parents, if they ever think of her at all.

Arnold has been sticking around the Pataki household for two days and already he feels like he's choking, the injustices against Helga building like a scream in his throat.

No wonder Helga is the way she is—a blizzard in human skin that freezes everyone out.

"This isn't right," Arnold rages, fire to her ice, as Helga rummages through her kitchen before finding a can of soup in the oven of all things. "How can anyone treat their own kid this way?"

Helga grabs a spoon and a bottle of water before leaving the room, and Arnold can do nothing but swear and follow.

They're almost to the stairs when she abruptly stops in her tracks and Arnold only just manages to keep himself from phasing through her.

"Don't just stop like that!" he grits out, rattled by the near-miss. "You have no idea how awful it feels to…"

He trails off when he finally registers Mr. Pataki's abrasive voice and realizes it's what seized Helga's attention.

"—and I admit I was pissed at first 'cause you know how hard I've been working towards this deal," Mr. Pataki is saying to his wife, "and it would be Helga to ruin it, but it all worked out in the end. Turns out Perry is a sucker for a sob story. Get this—he was impressed that I was working so hard despite my kid being in a car accident. Said my work ethic was unrivaled!" Mr. Pataki slaps his knee and chortles. "Your husband is a bonafide genius, woman!"

Mrs. Pataki responds with a drunken giggle and utters something that Arnold can't hear, and Arnold—

He sees red.

But before he can even think of going full poltergeist on them—and he's not sure how he'll accomplish it but damn if he isn't furious enough to try—there's a clatter from beside him as Helga drops everything she's carrying.

"You disgusting piece of shit," she hisses, every inch of her shaking with a rage Arnold reciprocates.

Mr. Pataki stops short and the boastful grin melts from his face.

"What was that?" he intones slowly, swiveling towards them.

"I said," Helga says through gritted teeth, "that you're a piece of shit."

"H-Helga!" Mrs. Pataki exclaims, her soused flush nowhere to be found as her skin takes on a sickly pallor.

Mr. Pataki, on the other hand, is turning red.

His chair grates on the tiles as he stands up, both hands coming down to lay atop the table. Towering over Helga, even from so far away.

"You little—"

"I almost died!" The air splinters from the sharp whipcrack of her words. "I almost died, and Arnold might still, and neither of you even give a shit because you're too narcissistic and self-absorbed to care about anything that doesn't directly affect you!"

"Hel—"

"No! No! Just shut up! Arnold's in a coma—he could be dying—all because he saved my life and you're over here boasting about using him to win brownie points with your sociopathic business buddies, but of course you are! Because this is exactly who you are, Bob! And I can't believe I'm stupid enough to actually be shocked by it!"

"You listen here, you little shit," Mr. Pataki thunders, tablecloth bunching under his fists. "Every day I work my ass off so you and your mother can have food in your stomach and a roof over your head. It's because of those sociopathic business buddies that I can afford to house and clothe your ungrateful ass!"

"Bob—"

"Oh, and I'm supposed to be grateful for you doing the bare minimum you're legally required to and then throwing it in my face every chance you get—"

"I wouldn't have to remind you of everything I do for you if you'd give me the respect I damn well deserve—"

"Hah, respect—"

"Why couldn't you have been more like Olga, huh? She always—"

"Well, Olga ain't here, Bob! She fucked off the second she graduated college because guess what, she can't stand your obnoxious ass either!"

"Enough!" Mr. Pataki roars, slamming his fists onto the table hard enough to make the whole structure shudder. "Everything's always my fault with you, huh? Because god forbid Helga G. Pataki ever takes responsibility for anything! Have you considered that the reason you're all banged up and that friend of yours is half-dead in a hospital is because of you, girl? Because you weren't paying attention when you were crossing the street? Because you needed to be rescued from your own stupidity? But no, that would be too self-aware for you, huh? Easier to just blame Big Bob for everything and take a load off! Well, it ain't happening this time! You should be thanking me for turning this fiasco around and getting something good out of the mess you damn well made!"

"Robert, that's enough!"

Miriam's shrill voice pierces the air like the echo of a gunshot, and the silence that follows is so deafening that Arnold's ears ring.

He swallows heavily as Helga's shaking worsens to the point that it looks like she's unraveling at the edges, and Arnold isn't surprised when she promptly turns on her heel and bolts upstairs so she can fall apart in the privacy of her bedroom, away from the prying eyes of those who've put her in this state with with their rough handling, and mistreatment, and neglect.

Arnold has to run to keep up with her. He phases through the door she slams shut and watches as Helga snatches a picture frame off a shelf and hurls it across the room where it shatters against a wall. She must find some satisfaction in the violence, in the destruction, because she does it again and again with various objects until not an inch of the room is left unscathed.

Arnold finds himself pacing, spurred on by a helpless fury he can't shake no matter how hard he tries. His impotence rages inside of him, and Arnold has never been prone to wishing harm on others but right now all he wants is for Robert Pataki to hurt as badly as his daughter does. For him to hurt worse.

The burning intensifies when gasping sobs meet his ears, and he turns to see Helga kneeling far too close to a pile of broken glass, her face in her hands as she cries her hurt and anger into them.

"Wake up," Arnold croaks, as if this is a lucid nightmare he can will himself out of. "Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up—"

The fabric of reality ripples around him.

Something inside of Arnold lurches, and suddenly the world shifts and he's falling upwards through clouds so cold they burn and towards a sea of stars so bright he's blinded even with his eyes closed and the last thing Arnold thinks of as the sea parts and the darkness dwelling within reaches for him is Helga.


Miles away, in a harsh white room that smells of antiseptic and soap, a boy's eyes briefly flutter open.

No one notices.


...