I had a dream last night, which is strange. I don't usually have dreams, and when I do, they're nightmares, but last night, I was happy. I've haven't been happy in six years.

I was in the kitchen, making myself some breakfast, and my old jazz records were playing from... somewhere. There isn't a record player in the kitchen, or in the hallway, but the music surrounded me as if I was my own speaker. I was so content, and my breakfast tasted amazing. It was a huge stack of pancakes, and, although the voice and the woman behind it weren't in the dream, I remember thinking, "Eat up, Tex! You've gotta keep up your energy for the cattle drive!" My coffee wasn't bitter and the orange juice had no pulp. It was like my own little perfect world, even if I was alone.

Then I heard a knock at the door, and when I went to see who it was, she was there. She was there.

My heart dropped and my jaw felt a little slack. Before I realized what was going on, I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes and I said, "H-Helga?" She looked just as I remembered her looking on any average day: her hands were in the pockets of her jeans, and she was wearing a short-sleeved, well-fitted pink shirt, the same color as the bow she used to wear. (In real life, she stopped wearing it in seventh grade, saying something about 'outgrowing it'. It made cameos every once in a while, like at that Halloween party, or sometimes just random days, she'd tie it in her hair, but it definitely wasn't an every day thing, like it used to be.) She looked me up and down, as if her calculating gaze was searching for wounds, but, when her search inevitably came up empty, I felt her eyes zero in on something a little lower than my face. My cheeks heated up in a familiar and yet foreign way, and all sorts of fantasies played out in my mind. I shook my head to get it out of the gutter. No way. She wouldn't do that, unless this were a dream.

But, even though I wasn't exactly aware at the time, it was a dream. Dear God, it was a dream, and what a wonderful dream it was.

She just smiled at me and said in her wonderful, sarcastic voice, "Hiya, Football Head. How's tricks?" and I swear on all the graves of every person in the world, my soul just started soaring right out of my chest. Those five words... I hadn't heard them pieced together that way since high school, and I would've started immediately sobbing at the raw nostalgia, but before that could happen, she grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me into a kiss.

That kiss. The FTi, "Come here, ya big lug," kiss. The locked-in-a-closet, "I love you, Helga. Please tell me you love me, too," kiss. The kind of kiss that made my blue hat pop off my head back in fourth grade. One that almost made me faint at Rhonda's Halloween party. One that made me dizzy, one that incapacitated my movements and delayed my speech for minutes afterwards. The kind of kiss that I always craved whenever I was with her, when I hoped and prayed she would grab me by my shirt and slam me against the nearest flat surface.

That kiss.

It took me what seemed like forever to react, and I thanked my subconscious for allowing me the chance to recover from the shock without waking up. I grabbed the side of her face and pulled her lips closer to me, but all that did was make our teeth clash together in a wonderfully painful way. She let me pull her across the threshold, and, because it was a perfect dream, our lips never left each other's as I coaxed her down the hall, reached up and pulled the cord to my old bedroom, and guided her up the steep wooden steps to the attic. She kept moaning in that wonderfully Helga way that I've missed so very much, and she pulled at my hair, knowing full well that that was one of my... ticks.

I fell backwards onto my bed, bringing her with me, and as we landed, she straddled my hips. I nibbled at her bottom lip and she gave a particularly delicious moan and moved her hands from my hair to my chest. I let my eager hands slip under her shirt and explore the body that I hadn't felt in too many years, and her skin was just as creamy and soft as I'd remembered it being.

I don't know how to describe, you know, what we did in words so I'll just say this: we made love. It was soft and rough at the same time, and I was able to release a passion that I hadn't even been able to conjure up in years.

I woke up sad, but I figured I couldn't complain. I just made dream-love to the love of my life, and the elation is still in my veins. I let myself be happy. I hope this means I'm getting better, but at this point, I honestly can't tell.

That last paragraph... Gerald felt his eyes begin to water, because he didn't get better. He pitied past Arnold, the Arnold that tried to be optimistic for the first time in years, but didn't get the chance to live it out. Arnold always tried so hard to look on the bright side. It was one of his greatest attributes, but that attribute collapsed. There was no helping it. He was long gone before he was gone.

Gerald had to put the book aside for a moment to walk around and collect his thoughts. Even though this particular entry wasn't the saddest he'd read up until that point, it would definitely loom over him the most. The fact that Arnold really was trying to get better, but actually couldn't, really clung to Gerald's heart.

When Gerald figured he'd collected himself enough to continue, he sat back down, turned the page and blinked at how messy the handwriting was. Some of it didn't follow the lines of the paper at all, and the letters were either really close together or really far a part. Gerald had a hard time believing it belonged to Arnold, but then he realized... over the years, Arnold had become an alcoholic. He was drunk when he was writing this. That thought made Gerald shudder; it wasn't a particularly gruesome thought, and creepy wasn't a suitable term, but there was indeed a somewhat... haunting quality to it.

Helga is a bitch. A fucking bitch. Now that I think about everything, I bet she didn't actually love me at all. I bet she just pretended to love me just so she could be the very fucking best out of all the kids at P.S. 118, and let me fucking tell you, if that was her intention, then she was spot-fucking-on. I bet she's having a jolly-old laugh at me right about now, while I'm just drunk off my ass, crying in my bed like a fucking child. I'm going to sound like the biggest bitch in the world when I write this but I really wish my grandparents were here. Even though they were both crazy, towards the end there they actually did try. I miss the fuck out of them. But having them around was like God dangling a happy ending right in front of my nose! Helga and I were supposed to get married! We were supposed to end up together; that was how it was supposed to go! That's what Grandpa said on my thirteenth birthday when Helga-the-bitch gave me a hug at my party, and that's what Helga said when we were both finally eighteen, and that's what I'm saying now! But she left me alone, and I feel so goddamn empty inside without her, and I love her so much, and I wish she'd come back, and I want her and I to be...

Gerald blinked a few times, squinting at the illegible handwriting and praying that it'd start to make sense, but Arnold was long gone at that point. He shook his head, and turned the page. It was the shortest entry he'd come across so far, and he actually had to snort, (cynically), as he read the two words haphazardly-scrawled on the page, showing a complete disregard to the preexisting lines.

fuck alcohol

It showcased some of Arnold's humor when they were younger. (Updated language, but the same idea.) The simple, non-attention-seeking, laconic words that sounded insignificant initially, but inevitably grew funnier the more you thought about it. Words that lingered. Words that you could easily remember and think about whenever you needed a little pick-me-up. If Gerald didn't know better, he'd think that those two written words belonged to a perfectly happy frat boy after getting hammered at a party with the sister sorority.

Gerald shook his head and turned the page, despite the fact that... well, the previous entry didn't exactly take up too much space.

They say that some people are beyond help. They say that some people should just be left alone, for the sake of everybody. They call these people "lost causes," and I'm pretty sure I am one of them. The only problem with that is people are always talking to me and about me. They don't think I can hear them, but I can. I just pretend I don't.

It must've been a couple days ago. (At this point, I judge my days by how much work I have to do around the Boarding House; my sleep schedule determines shit.) I woke up at about 7 and it was still kinda dark outside, but I couldn't fall back asleep, so I figured I'd just go to the kitchen, have some coffee. Maybe force some toast down my throat.

But as soon as I got to the bottom of the stairs, I heard the voice of Susie Kokoschka, and she sounded pained, worried, and sad. A part of me wanted to make her feel better, another part of me was just curious as to what got her so wound up, and another part of me just wanted coffee. I knew that if I made my presence known, they'd stop talking. Everybody walks on eggshells around me, like they think I'll snap at any moment. That's really not true. I'm pretty composed, I think, and I can handle other people having crises around me. So, in order to feel like I belonged to something again, I stopped outside of the kitchen, and leaned my ear on the door.

"What do you think we should do? I'm getting so worried about him! I mean, I've been worrying about him every since Helga left, but now -"

"As long as he starts cooking again, I'm sure we'll all be fine. Heh heh heh!"

"Oskar -" I really wanted to punch Oskar's lights out for saying that, the self-absorbed fucker, and I guess I shifted my foot or something because a floorboard creaked under me. The room fell silent, and then Susie said, "Did you hear that?"

"Ah, it's 7 in the morning. Poor kid's probably still sleeping," Ernie said.

"He's not a kid anymore, Ernie," Susie insisted. "He's almost thirty!"

"Eh, he's still the same kid. He'll bounce back."

"It's been six years!"

"Helga was important to him. You know Arnold wears his heart on his sleeve; I wouldn't expect anything less." He sighed. "Look, I get that you're worried. I'm worried, too. Hell, you'd be surprised how often I have to take care of him when he's all tipsy and crying." I swear, if I wasn't still extremely curious as to what else they had to say about me, I would've started yelling at somebody, anybody. I just hate how they talk about me sometimes! They 'take care of me' like it's a service, but then they complain about it afterwards! I don't ever ask for anybody's help! They just give it to me, whether I want it or not, and then they treat it like I'm some sort of patient in a hospital! "I don't know how much longer it'll take, and I don't know if he'll ever fully go back to normal, but he will get better. Arnold's like a son to me. I know him. Take my word for it."

I blinked at that. I never really knew how much I meant to Ernie. He told me once when I was nine that he thought of me as a son, but I thought that faded as I got older. For a while, I was under the impression that he just sort of took care of me because I own the Boarding House. Well, I don't actually do much around here, but if something happens to me, there's nobody to give it to. He'd have to move; I just always assumed that's why he was so adamant about making sure I slept in a bed and not on the living room couch.

"Well," Susie said slowly, "if you say so."

I shit you not, there must've been a millisecond pause before Oskar said, "Fifty bucks says Arnold won't wake up until dinner time! Heh heh heh!"

My blood started boiling. If I never get to punch Rachel again, I'd be more than happy to let it all out on Oskar. And I figured that I'd heard enough, from Oskar anyway, so before anybody could answer him, I pushed open the kitchen door, and glared at him. "Anything to make a dollar, huh, Kokoschka?"

Everybody went silent and looked at me.

"Hey, Arnold," Susie said in a real soft voice, like she was waking up an infant from a nap. "How are you?"

"Well," I said, folding my arms over my chest and leaning against the door frame. "I'm awake."

"That's good," Susie said. I always liked Susie. She has a good head on her shoulders; way too good for Oskar, if you ask me, but ever since six years ago, the way she's treated me changed drastically. Even when I was an actual kid, she never talked down to me. She never tried to take care of me too much, unless I was sick or something and she had the day off and was in a fight with Oskar. And even then, it was in passing. I'd helped her more times than I can count; if anything, she should've respected me more than to say what she said next. "We, um. We didn't see you there. Are you hungry? I could make you some breakfast. There's coffee on, I could pour you a cup."

I didn't really want to glare at her, but Oskar had just put me in such a bad mood, and her patronizing me didn't do anything to calm me down. If anything, it just made everything worse. "I'm twenty-nine years old, Susie. I'm capable of feeding myself."

She got this panicked look in her eye and she turned to Ernie for help, saying, "Of course, but I just thought -"

I shook my head. "Well. Stop it." I took a step into the kitchen. I initially was planning to just ignore all of them and just pour my own damn coffee just to show them that I knew how, but then I stopped and put my hand on my stomach. I thought for a moment. It's hard to say when you're really actually hungry and when you want to just prove to people that you're alright, but I could tell that being around other people just wasn't working for me, so I shook my head and left.

I used to love people so much. People are so fascinating; the way they function and interact is one of the most amazing things in the world. But once you get grouped in with the fascination, once you stop watching from above and are shoved in with the animals... it suddenly doesn't feel as special anymore. If anything, it just sort of makes you want the entire human race to just... stop.