Hello!

I'm not new to the world of HA, but you may not have seen me around! I haven't posted anything in a long time—in fact, I got rid of some old stories I wasn't happy with and changed my pen name for a fresh new start.

I am working on a longer story right now but it's become something of beast, and I'm happy to have "Helga Who?" to work on while I tame my other saga into submission! As some of you may have noticed, the concept and title are similar to the tv show "Samantha Who," but I didn't want to put that in the summary because the story doesn't actually follow events that happen in the show (I've only seen 1 or 2 episodes)--I just thought the idea of Helga losing her memory and relying on the people she's hurt to help her remember who she is would make for an interesting story.

Like everyone, I love to hear what you all think, so definitely submit a review if you have a chance!!

love,

Finn!

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

From somewhere that seemed like another part of the universe, a girl who had just realized she was lying in an unfamiliar bed suddenly heard voices mingling together in hushed conversation, though she wasn't sure why they were there or what they were saying. She felt like she'd been listening to them forever, and yet was somehow only now aware of their presence.

Beep.

She was almost sure she wasn't dreaming.

Beep.

She blinked. Her vision was slightly hazy and the light filling the room was entirely too bright, but she was starting to focus in on the details of the space around her: stark white walls, the silver gleam of an object on a table, a small television hanging down from the ceiling, a machine sitting next to her bed with its bright green lights and steady beeping sounds.

Be-

At the exact moment that she realized she'd been opening and shutting her eyes in time with the sounds coming from the machine, the voices around her suddenly exploded and—just like being sucked under by a monstrous wave—she felt the conscious world crash down on her. She had no idea what was going on, and it was starting to frighten her—there were too many sights and sounds happening all at once for her to make sense of them, and her head was starting to throb. She shut her eyes tightly—apparently opening them had sent them all these people into a frenzy, and she prayed that shutting them would make the chaos stop.

"Yes, I'm sure she's awake! Her eyes are open! Well, they were open."

"Where's Emily?"

"Go call Doctor Benton!"

All around her, people clamored about, rushing back and forth and talking at one another. She gathered that whatever they were saying was about her, but no one addressed her directly. Suddenly from the whirl of energy flying around the room, she sensed someone approaching her slowly, coming closer and closer until they were just inches from her head. She was struck by a sudden and terrifying realization that she didn't know who these people were or what was happening to her. For a moment she kept entirely still, and whoever was standing over her stayed jut as still. Then she felt her nose twitch, and realized that this someone was hovering over her so closely that she could feel their breath on her forehead.

"Helga?"

The voice was soft and trepidatious. Without thinking, she opened her eyes and was met with the face of a woman staring intently at her with a warm, if tentative smile.

"Helga," the woman started slowly, moving back a bit to give the girl in the bed some space, "how are you feeling?"

The girl blinked a few times. She looked past the woman standing over her and for the first time found herself able to focus in on the room as a whole. Everyone had stopped talking and rushing around, and now there were four people standing completely still and staring at her, clearly waiting for something to happen. The woman leaned in closer once again.

"Helga?"

The girl in the bed looked up at her and studied her face for a moment, seeming to take in all of her features before replying.

"Who—who's Helga?"

Only seconds before, the entire room's attention had been fixed on her, and yet now that she'd spoken to them they were all talking amongst themselves again. She couldn't make out what was being said, but she could tell they were concerned about something. Despite her curiosity about what exactly was going on, however, she suddenly felt overwhelmingly sleepy. Somewhere in the distance she heard a voice call a name, and then everything went black.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Out at the nurse's station, Doctor Benton covered the end of a phone receiver with his large hand and called over his shoulder to the young RN who kept inquiring about the girl in room 203.

"Yes—I got through! Hang on—" The doctor turned his attentions back to the phone and resumed explaining the situation to a rather confused party on the other end of the line.

"Yes, that's right. Somewhere along Route 80. Well, she sustained a closed head injury but she's already starting to show signs of consciousness, which is incredibly promising. Um . . . yes, we have tried contacting someone else."

The doctor had had to make some difficult phone calls in his day, but this one was turning out to be stranger than most.

"Why am I calling you? Well, you were listed as an emergency contact on one of the cards we found in her wallet, so . . "

The man on the other end of the phone not only wasn't displaying any sign of concern, he actually seemed annoyed that he'd been contacted in the first place. Still, he was staying on the line which was more than could be said for any of the other people the hospital had attempted to reach on behalf of Miss Helga Geraldine Pataki. Perhaps it was the thought of his own daughter that endeared the girl in room 203 to him, but whatever it was, Dr. Benton resolved that he wouldn't let this man get off the phone without at least agreeing to come down to the hospital—not that THAT was turning out to be an easy task.

"I—yes, we did . . . yes, we called him."

Dr. Benton attempted to assure the girl's reluctant acquaintance that he'd attempted to contact her immediate family along with a cousin up in Maine and a Ms. Heyerdahl.

"Mm-hmm. Yes we tried that number too—sir, there is no one else. Yes, I'm sure. Look, if you could just come down and see her, help us fill in some details . . . "

He paused, waiting for a response—some kind of empathy—that never came.

"Look, if you can't make it, the hospital can arrange for someone to take her to"

"No, I'll come," the man on the other end of the line said, finally. "I'll come down there"

"Wonderful! Do you know how to get here? All right, then just come up to the ICU and check in at the desk. She's in Room 203. All right, we'll see you soon."

A sense of relief washed over Harry Benton as he hung up the phone. Through the years of dealing with trauma, death, injury, disappointment and heartbreak, there would always be those few cases that made it past his learned and necessary emotional detachment from the patients who came through the doors of his hospital.

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Room 203 was what the doctor had said, he thought, trying at once to remember and forget all the details of the conversation he'd just had. It'd been five minutes since he'd hung up the phone and he still was not entirely convinced that this wasn't all part of some elaborate nightmare.

The room was pitch black; he hadn't bothered to turn on the lights when the doctor had called. In truth some part of him—all of him—had been hoping it was Katheryn. And now . . . now his brain was too hazy to even begin to process what had just transpired. He lay there in the dark, wishing he hadn't answered the phone at all, or that he'd hung up on the doctor, rolled over and just gone back to sleep.

But he hadn't.

He sighed heavily and looked over at the digital clock that was glowing on his night stand.

2:07 AM on December 13th, Arnold thought to himself. The day I promised myself I'd never see again.

Though he knew they'd both said it too many times to remember during their tumultuous stint as—well—whatever they were, when he'd told Helga almost two years ago that he wanted her out of his life for good, he been sure that that was the end of it all. In fact he'd moved halfway across the country to make sure of it. Now, despite his best efforts, it seemed more and more that he was back where he started—literally and figuratively.

Lying there in the dark, he remembered those little crabs he used to watch as a kid, ever scuttling for shore but doomed to be sucked up time and again by the relentless undertow until they were finally carried off, never to be seen again. Now more than ever, he was convinced that some cruel twist of fate had been slowly but surely dragging him back into the mouth of the beast all along.

He reached for the bottle of Advil he kept on his bedside table and washed two of the pills down with the remains of the scotch he'd poured himself earlier in the evening, in a cup that Katheryn had forgotten in the kitchen cabinet.

After staring up at the ceiling for an indeterminate amount of time, he finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of pants that had been lying on the floor. He threw an old sweater over the tee shirt he'd worn to bed, and made his way to the door without bothering to brush his teeth or do anything about the hair that was sticking out from his head in every direction.

As he trudged out into the cold December air, he resolved that it was far too early—or far too late—to allow himself to feel anything other than apathy towards the whole situation.

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Well, what do you think?? I just thought of the idea for this story last night and wanted to get it out there—I know it's a bit depressing, but it'll pick up . . . eventually ;)

I'm going to try to update this on a regular basis, so check back soon for the next chapter!