Time, Truth, and Hearts- a Hey Arnold fanfic
I wanna stand up
I wanna let go
You know, you know, no, you don't, you don't
Help me out
Yeah, you know you gotta help me out
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the back burner
You know you gotta help me out (time, truth, and hearts), yeah
- All These Things That I've done, The Killers
Title: Time, Truth, and Hearts- Chapter 1
Series: Hey Arnold
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: eventual Arnold x Helga
Warnings: a few instances of adult language, character death, erm...nothing else for a few chapters
Summary: Near the end of her middle school career, Helga G Pataki's life starts to fall apart. Things just seem to get progressively worse, who will come to her rescue and keep her from falling apart too?
For the most part, I’ve lead a pretty good life. Like everyone else, I have my dysfunctions and setbacks, but nothing too severe. Not until I was in my final year of middle school. My not so outstanding life suddenly fell apart one day in the middle of December of 8th grade.
For some odd reason our gym teacher had decided to take us sledding instead of having us play basketball. I think she saw that all of the kids were starting to get a bit stir crazy being trapped in the school, so she let us romp in the newly fallen snow. We trekked our way back into the locker room, our fingers swollen and numb, our bodies covered with sweat from all the effort used to climb back up the hill.
For once, I was considering actually using the showers. None of us usually did because we didn’t have enough time in between the actual end of class and the next class. But I had gotten too deep in conversation with Phoebe to have enough time. The first bell rang while I was in the midst of undressing. I cursed and changed as fast as I could.
I barely made it into math class before the second bell rang. With a relieved sigh, I closed the classroom door behind me and made my way to my seat. Quickly I weave through the desks until I make it to an empty one next to Phoebe. In front of her is Gerald, who is leaning casually to the side of his seat so he can whisper to her quietly.
Sitting in front of me is my long-time crush, Arnold. His spiky blonde hair has grown longer, drooping down over his neck and face. He’s gotten a little taller, but so have I making any new inches added to his height irrelevant when in comparison to me.
He turns around a little, smiles to me and whispers, “Hey, Helga. Running a little late today?”
I tossed my head to the side and reply, “It’s not really any of your business, is it?”
From the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head, an amused smile on his face, before turning back around. In the past few years, Arnold and I had come to terms with each other for the most part. I still pick on him quite a bit, but not half as much as before. In turn, he’s become less tolerant of it. Hair boy actually grew a solid backbone. So, we reached a medium of minimal insults and more casual, non-malicious conversations.
The teacher finally hushes the class, beginning to write random equations on the board from our most recent homework assignment. She calls on a few students to work the problems out on the board when the room phone rings. “Continue with the problems, kids,” he calls gently, moving to answer the phone.
“Hello, this is Mrs. Fisher…yes, sir, right away. Yep. Thank you.” She hangs up the phone, looking straight into my curious eyes. “Helga, the principal would like to see you.”
I suddenly feel panicky. There is no way they found out it was me that put red food dye in the all the cartons of milk making all the milk in the school pink! There’s just no way!
I sigh begrudgingly, my chair scraping against the tiles of the floor harshly as I stand up. A wave or murmurs crashes over the classroom as I make my way out, all the kids probably gossiping about why I’m being called to the office. The last thing I hear is Mrs. Fisher trying to shush everyone; the last thing that catches my eye is Arnold’s concerned and confused expression.
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The principal here in the middle school was a good guy. He’s young and sharp, nothing like good old Principal Wartz, meaning that he wasn’t half as gullible. I knock on the door, but don’t wait for a response before opening the door and sliding in.
“Hey Jones, old buddy, what’s up?” I’m expecting to see him smiling at me wisely and tolerantly, amused by my complete disregard for his authority, but that isn’t the cast this time. Instead, he’s seated behind his desk, elbows resting on top of his paper work, serving as a crutch for his head and he rests his chin on the back of his joined hands. His disposition worries me. I must be in big, big trouble.
“Have a seat, Ms. Pataki.”
Solemnly, I do as he asks.
We sit in silence for a minute or two, and I’m wondering if he’s gearing up confront me about something bad like my continuing pranks or gradually falling grades in math and science.
I’m proven wrong when there is a soft knock on the door. In enters Mrs. Brosnihan, my guidance counselor. Now this is getting suspicious. She walks over to Principal Jones, nodding to him before standing behind his desk and greeting me kindly.
“Alright, what’s going on here? What’s with the silent treatment?” I ask, obviously annoyed.
Mrs. Brosnihan takes a deep breath before smiling sadly at me, “Helga, sweetie, something’s happened…to your father,” she voices hesitantly.
“Happened…to Bob?” I ask, a feeling of dread choking me a little.
Mrs. Brosnihan has to tear her gaze from mine. Her expression becomes twisted with something akin to guilt or remorse.
Principal Jones picks where she left off, his steely hazel eyes staring dutifully at me. “Yes, Helga. He suffered from a massive heart attack early today.”
My eyes widen in shock, my heart beating in my ears. A heart attack? No, that’s just not possible. Bob was always harping on about how he was healthy as an ox; he can’t have a heart attack.
“Yeah, but he’s ok, right?” I ask, almost desperately, standing abruptly from my seat. “I mean, people live after having heart attacks all the time!”
The two adults before me spare each other worried glances before Mrs. Brosnihan speaks, “I’m sorry, sweetie.”
I slam my fist on Mr. Jones’ desk. “Don’t call me sweetie!” I scream, “This isn’t funny! Bob is fine! Dad…he’s…he’s ok…” The rage that was just filling my heart to the brim evaporates, leaving only dread and heartbreak in its wake.
I crumple like a piece of paper tossed in a campfire, falling unceremoniously into my seat. Mrs. Brosnihan zips around the desk to my side, placing a comforting hand on my arm. I look up at her; my face blank while my heart is a tizzy of panic and despair. I can’t seem to physically or vocally articulate the acute pain in my heart.
“Helga, dear. If you need to talk, please don’t hesitate. I can also set you up with a grief counselor as soon as possible.”
I just shake my head dumbly, unable to even blink. Principal Jones stands up and moves to my side as well. “You may go home if you’d like. I’m sure your mother will want to see you,” he says, almost emotionless.
I look up into his handsome brown eyes and see only pity. He feels for me, but for my own strength he keeps his emotions in check. With a slow nod, I begin to stand up. Mrs. Brosnihan’s hand slips dead off my shoulder, her inability to help me probably making her feel defeated.
I leave his office, completely ignoring the concerned stares coming from the secretaries. I walk through the halls in a stupor, completely alone due to the fact that class was still in session. I find myself in a bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror.
So much of me has changed in the past 4 years. My awkward pre-teen body has finally started to grow into itself. My boyish physique, the insufferable way my hips and waist were aligned perfectly, finally started to fill out into a more feminine figure. My thick neanderthalic brow finally thinned out enough to become two parts.
I was finally growing up. Suddenly the realization hit me that my father would never see me all grown up, he’d never see me get married, and he would never see his grandchildren.
“What is wrong with me!?” I scream, wanting to pound my reflection’s face in. I can’t cry, I can’t seem to summon the tears that are appropriate for such an immense sorrow that I’m feeling. Because Helga G. Pataki doesn’t cry…is that really the reason?
I leave the bathroom, going to my locker and extracting my jacket and book bag. It’s all so manual, so automatic. This is what I do every other day, it’s like nothing has changed except for the growing desperation in my heart.
Soon the school is behind me, but I don’t head home. I go wherever my feet want to take me, trudging through the newly fallen snow. The streets are empty like the school hallways, everyone realizing it’s too cold to be out and about.
The farther I walk, the higher the desperation in my heart rises. It crawls up my chest as I walk by the butcher’s and the grocery store, it makes it’s way into my throat as I pass the park and it finally pours out of my mouth in a breathy, almost inaudible scream as I reach good old PS 118.
With the last of my strength, I haul myself over the fence encroaching the playground and make my way over to the swings. I sit down on one; the bottom of it almost buried in snow due to its low height and the amount of snow, and finally just let myself go.
The tears come freely now that the shock of Bob’s death is gone. I whimper like a pathetic fool, my warm breath coagulating in the cold air. It feels cold enough to freeze the tears clinging to my eyelashes and cheeks, but my face is hot enough to keep them liquid.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, crying, letting the snow fall around me as fast as my tears. At some point I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore, or my feet or even my face. It was freezing, but I could barely register that fact.
Eventually my tears subside, leaving me gasping for air. My lungs ache from the cold air I inhale and from wailing so powerfully. I think I’m having a panic attack because I just can’t seem to catch my breath and the world around me is start to black out and my head feels like it’s going to explode.
“Helga?”
I whip my head around, frozen tendrils of my hair whipping my face. On the other side of the fence is Gerald, Phoebe and Arnold, all looking at me with astonished expressions.
My self-defense impulses kick in and the desire to run and hide from the world becomes overwhelming. I try to stand up, but my legs are numb from sitting and the cold, so they only collapse under me. I fall in a heap onto the ground, my body imprinting the immaculate snow beneath me. “Helga!” all three of them gasp, and the chain links of the fence start to rattle as I’m sure one of them tries to climb over it.
I struggle to gain control of my body before any of them can get a good look at my sorry state of being. Unfortunately for me, my limbs are so numb that I can barely feel them. I shiver with strain as I struggle to push myself to my feet, only with no avail.
“Helga,” I hear and decidedly masculine and familiar voice say, “Are you ok?”
Not him, anyone but him. Why does he have to be the one to see me in such a pathetic state?
I look up through my unruly blonde hair to see Arnold crouching beside me, his hand on my shoulder. I’m so cold I couldn’t even feel it. His green eyes are so full of concern, so kind and welcoming, that I can’t force my fresh set of tears back down.
From my position on my hands and knees I let all my weight crash to the ground, burying my face in the snow as I cry hopelessly again. How can I let myself act this way? In front of Arnold, none-the-less? I’m stronger than this! Aren’t I?
“Helga!” Phoebe gasps, her voice closer than it was before. She and Gerald must’ve scaled the fence soon after Arnold had. She drops down next to me in the snow, huddling over me, trying to lift me up.
With Arnold’s help, they get me into a sitting position. For a moment, I completely disregard their onslaught of inquiries to let myself stare into the gray, overcast sky. The snow seems like it’s falling down from nowhere, just appearing beyond the endless gray of the sky. A few flakes fall onto my eyelashes and cheeks, instantly melting against my skin and joining the lingering tears.
I’ll probably never be able to think of snow the same way again, after today.
Phoebe who is shaking me vigorously pulls me from my reverie. “Helga! What’s wrong? Helga!”
“He’s gone…” I reply quietly.
“Who?” This time, it’s Arnold that’s asking.
“The old man…Bob…”
I look at Arnold from the corner of my eye. He still has so much compassion in his eyes and I wonder if it’s there because he cares about me, or just cares in general?
“He’s gone; dead.” I state quietly, but firmly.
Both Phoebe and Arnold inhale sharply, holding their breath.
I cast my, now tired, eyes back up to the sky. I would really like…to wake up from this dream now…
“C’mon Helga, let’s get you home,” Arnold says calmly, standing up and offering me his hand. I take it and he pulls me to my feet, but I just can’t seem to find the strength to stand. I fall into him and he manages to keep his balance with my extra weight added to his.
He holds me up, his arms wrapped around my torso to brace me. “You can’t stand, can you?” he asks. I shake my head, unable to find my voice anymore.
He maneuvers so that my front is pressed against his back. “Wrap your arms around my neck and when I pull you off the ground, wrap your legs around my waist, ok?” He instructs me gently, sensitive to my fragile state of mind. I do as he says, somewhat surprised at how little effort he exerts to carry me. Not that I’m fat or anything, he’s just stronger than I remember.
We travel somberly, a line of young teenagers trekking down the sidewalk towards the section of the city filled with houses and apartment complexes. I rest against Arnold, relieved to have some support. I inhale deeply, trying to take in his scent, but all there is is a burning sensation. It’s too cold to smell anything. I allow myself to revel in the heat of his body and the movement of his muscles beneath me.
Just for a little while, I want to let myself enjoy this. It reminds me of a time when we were younger and he carried me the same way. Just for a while, my father is still alive and all there is are Arnold and I.
I wanna let go
You know, you know, no, you don't, you don't
Help me out
Yeah, you know you gotta help me out
Yeah, oh don't you put me on the back burner
You know you gotta help me out (time, truth, and hearts), yeah
- All These Things That I've done, The Killers
Title: Time, Truth, and Hearts- Chapter 1
Series: Hey Arnold
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: eventual Arnold x Helga
Warnings: a few instances of adult language, character death, erm...nothing else for a few chapters
Summary: Near the end of her middle school career, Helga G Pataki's life starts to fall apart. Things just seem to get progressively worse, who will come to her rescue and keep her from falling apart too?
For the most part, I’ve lead a pretty good life. Like everyone else, I have my dysfunctions and setbacks, but nothing too severe. Not until I was in my final year of middle school. My not so outstanding life suddenly fell apart one day in the middle of December of 8th grade.
For some odd reason our gym teacher had decided to take us sledding instead of having us play basketball. I think she saw that all of the kids were starting to get a bit stir crazy being trapped in the school, so she let us romp in the newly fallen snow. We trekked our way back into the locker room, our fingers swollen and numb, our bodies covered with sweat from all the effort used to climb back up the hill.
For once, I was considering actually using the showers. None of us usually did because we didn’t have enough time in between the actual end of class and the next class. But I had gotten too deep in conversation with Phoebe to have enough time. The first bell rang while I was in the midst of undressing. I cursed and changed as fast as I could.
I barely made it into math class before the second bell rang. With a relieved sigh, I closed the classroom door behind me and made my way to my seat. Quickly I weave through the desks until I make it to an empty one next to Phoebe. In front of her is Gerald, who is leaning casually to the side of his seat so he can whisper to her quietly.
Sitting in front of me is my long-time crush, Arnold. His spiky blonde hair has grown longer, drooping down over his neck and face. He’s gotten a little taller, but so have I making any new inches added to his height irrelevant when in comparison to me.
He turns around a little, smiles to me and whispers, “Hey, Helga. Running a little late today?”
I tossed my head to the side and reply, “It’s not really any of your business, is it?”
From the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head, an amused smile on his face, before turning back around. In the past few years, Arnold and I had come to terms with each other for the most part. I still pick on him quite a bit, but not half as much as before. In turn, he’s become less tolerant of it. Hair boy actually grew a solid backbone. So, we reached a medium of minimal insults and more casual, non-malicious conversations.
The teacher finally hushes the class, beginning to write random equations on the board from our most recent homework assignment. She calls on a few students to work the problems out on the board when the room phone rings. “Continue with the problems, kids,” he calls gently, moving to answer the phone.
“Hello, this is Mrs. Fisher…yes, sir, right away. Yep. Thank you.” She hangs up the phone, looking straight into my curious eyes. “Helga, the principal would like to see you.”
I suddenly feel panicky. There is no way they found out it was me that put red food dye in the all the cartons of milk making all the milk in the school pink! There’s just no way!
I sigh begrudgingly, my chair scraping against the tiles of the floor harshly as I stand up. A wave or murmurs crashes over the classroom as I make my way out, all the kids probably gossiping about why I’m being called to the office. The last thing I hear is Mrs. Fisher trying to shush everyone; the last thing that catches my eye is Arnold’s concerned and confused expression.
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The principal here in the middle school was a good guy. He’s young and sharp, nothing like good old Principal Wartz, meaning that he wasn’t half as gullible. I knock on the door, but don’t wait for a response before opening the door and sliding in.
“Hey Jones, old buddy, what’s up?” I’m expecting to see him smiling at me wisely and tolerantly, amused by my complete disregard for his authority, but that isn’t the cast this time. Instead, he’s seated behind his desk, elbows resting on top of his paper work, serving as a crutch for his head and he rests his chin on the back of his joined hands. His disposition worries me. I must be in big, big trouble.
“Have a seat, Ms. Pataki.”
Solemnly, I do as he asks.
We sit in silence for a minute or two, and I’m wondering if he’s gearing up confront me about something bad like my continuing pranks or gradually falling grades in math and science.
I’m proven wrong when there is a soft knock on the door. In enters Mrs. Brosnihan, my guidance counselor. Now this is getting suspicious. She walks over to Principal Jones, nodding to him before standing behind his desk and greeting me kindly.
“Alright, what’s going on here? What’s with the silent treatment?” I ask, obviously annoyed.
Mrs. Brosnihan takes a deep breath before smiling sadly at me, “Helga, sweetie, something’s happened…to your father,” she voices hesitantly.
“Happened…to Bob?” I ask, a feeling of dread choking me a little.
Mrs. Brosnihan has to tear her gaze from mine. Her expression becomes twisted with something akin to guilt or remorse.
Principal Jones picks where she left off, his steely hazel eyes staring dutifully at me. “Yes, Helga. He suffered from a massive heart attack early today.”
My eyes widen in shock, my heart beating in my ears. A heart attack? No, that’s just not possible. Bob was always harping on about how he was healthy as an ox; he can’t have a heart attack.
“Yeah, but he’s ok, right?” I ask, almost desperately, standing abruptly from my seat. “I mean, people live after having heart attacks all the time!”
The two adults before me spare each other worried glances before Mrs. Brosnihan speaks, “I’m sorry, sweetie.”
I slam my fist on Mr. Jones’ desk. “Don’t call me sweetie!” I scream, “This isn’t funny! Bob is fine! Dad…he’s…he’s ok…” The rage that was just filling my heart to the brim evaporates, leaving only dread and heartbreak in its wake.
I crumple like a piece of paper tossed in a campfire, falling unceremoniously into my seat. Mrs. Brosnihan zips around the desk to my side, placing a comforting hand on my arm. I look up at her; my face blank while my heart is a tizzy of panic and despair. I can’t seem to physically or vocally articulate the acute pain in my heart.
“Helga, dear. If you need to talk, please don’t hesitate. I can also set you up with a grief counselor as soon as possible.”
I just shake my head dumbly, unable to even blink. Principal Jones stands up and moves to my side as well. “You may go home if you’d like. I’m sure your mother will want to see you,” he says, almost emotionless.
I look up into his handsome brown eyes and see only pity. He feels for me, but for my own strength he keeps his emotions in check. With a slow nod, I begin to stand up. Mrs. Brosnihan’s hand slips dead off my shoulder, her inability to help me probably making her feel defeated.
I leave his office, completely ignoring the concerned stares coming from the secretaries. I walk through the halls in a stupor, completely alone due to the fact that class was still in session. I find myself in a bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror.
So much of me has changed in the past 4 years. My awkward pre-teen body has finally started to grow into itself. My boyish physique, the insufferable way my hips and waist were aligned perfectly, finally started to fill out into a more feminine figure. My thick neanderthalic brow finally thinned out enough to become two parts.
I was finally growing up. Suddenly the realization hit me that my father would never see me all grown up, he’d never see me get married, and he would never see his grandchildren.
“What is wrong with me!?” I scream, wanting to pound my reflection’s face in. I can’t cry, I can’t seem to summon the tears that are appropriate for such an immense sorrow that I’m feeling. Because Helga G. Pataki doesn’t cry…is that really the reason?
I leave the bathroom, going to my locker and extracting my jacket and book bag. It’s all so manual, so automatic. This is what I do every other day, it’s like nothing has changed except for the growing desperation in my heart.
Soon the school is behind me, but I don’t head home. I go wherever my feet want to take me, trudging through the newly fallen snow. The streets are empty like the school hallways, everyone realizing it’s too cold to be out and about.
The farther I walk, the higher the desperation in my heart rises. It crawls up my chest as I walk by the butcher’s and the grocery store, it makes it’s way into my throat as I pass the park and it finally pours out of my mouth in a breathy, almost inaudible scream as I reach good old PS 118.
With the last of my strength, I haul myself over the fence encroaching the playground and make my way over to the swings. I sit down on one; the bottom of it almost buried in snow due to its low height and the amount of snow, and finally just let myself go.
The tears come freely now that the shock of Bob’s death is gone. I whimper like a pathetic fool, my warm breath coagulating in the cold air. It feels cold enough to freeze the tears clinging to my eyelashes and cheeks, but my face is hot enough to keep them liquid.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, crying, letting the snow fall around me as fast as my tears. At some point I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore, or my feet or even my face. It was freezing, but I could barely register that fact.
Eventually my tears subside, leaving me gasping for air. My lungs ache from the cold air I inhale and from wailing so powerfully. I think I’m having a panic attack because I just can’t seem to catch my breath and the world around me is start to black out and my head feels like it’s going to explode.
“Helga?”
I whip my head around, frozen tendrils of my hair whipping my face. On the other side of the fence is Gerald, Phoebe and Arnold, all looking at me with astonished expressions.
My self-defense impulses kick in and the desire to run and hide from the world becomes overwhelming. I try to stand up, but my legs are numb from sitting and the cold, so they only collapse under me. I fall in a heap onto the ground, my body imprinting the immaculate snow beneath me. “Helga!” all three of them gasp, and the chain links of the fence start to rattle as I’m sure one of them tries to climb over it.
I struggle to gain control of my body before any of them can get a good look at my sorry state of being. Unfortunately for me, my limbs are so numb that I can barely feel them. I shiver with strain as I struggle to push myself to my feet, only with no avail.
“Helga,” I hear and decidedly masculine and familiar voice say, “Are you ok?”
Not him, anyone but him. Why does he have to be the one to see me in such a pathetic state?
I look up through my unruly blonde hair to see Arnold crouching beside me, his hand on my shoulder. I’m so cold I couldn’t even feel it. His green eyes are so full of concern, so kind and welcoming, that I can’t force my fresh set of tears back down.
From my position on my hands and knees I let all my weight crash to the ground, burying my face in the snow as I cry hopelessly again. How can I let myself act this way? In front of Arnold, none-the-less? I’m stronger than this! Aren’t I?
“Helga!” Phoebe gasps, her voice closer than it was before. She and Gerald must’ve scaled the fence soon after Arnold had. She drops down next to me in the snow, huddling over me, trying to lift me up.
With Arnold’s help, they get me into a sitting position. For a moment, I completely disregard their onslaught of inquiries to let myself stare into the gray, overcast sky. The snow seems like it’s falling down from nowhere, just appearing beyond the endless gray of the sky. A few flakes fall onto my eyelashes and cheeks, instantly melting against my skin and joining the lingering tears.
I’ll probably never be able to think of snow the same way again, after today.
Phoebe who is shaking me vigorously pulls me from my reverie. “Helga! What’s wrong? Helga!”
“He’s gone…” I reply quietly.
“Who?” This time, it’s Arnold that’s asking.
“The old man…Bob…”
I look at Arnold from the corner of my eye. He still has so much compassion in his eyes and I wonder if it’s there because he cares about me, or just cares in general?
“He’s gone; dead.” I state quietly, but firmly.
Both Phoebe and Arnold inhale sharply, holding their breath.
I cast my, now tired, eyes back up to the sky. I would really like…to wake up from this dream now…
“C’mon Helga, let’s get you home,” Arnold says calmly, standing up and offering me his hand. I take it and he pulls me to my feet, but I just can’t seem to find the strength to stand. I fall into him and he manages to keep his balance with my extra weight added to his.
He holds me up, his arms wrapped around my torso to brace me. “You can’t stand, can you?” he asks. I shake my head, unable to find my voice anymore.
He maneuvers so that my front is pressed against his back. “Wrap your arms around my neck and when I pull you off the ground, wrap your legs around my waist, ok?” He instructs me gently, sensitive to my fragile state of mind. I do as he says, somewhat surprised at how little effort he exerts to carry me. Not that I’m fat or anything, he’s just stronger than I remember.
We travel somberly, a line of young teenagers trekking down the sidewalk towards the section of the city filled with houses and apartment complexes. I rest against Arnold, relieved to have some support. I inhale deeply, trying to take in his scent, but all there is is a burning sensation. It’s too cold to smell anything. I allow myself to revel in the heat of his body and the movement of his muscles beneath me.
Just for a little while, I want to let myself enjoy this. It reminds me of a time when we were younger and he carried me the same way. Just for a while, my father is still alive and all there is are Arnold and I.