A/N: It's written in my profile already, but...no, I don't own "Hey Arnold!", much as I wish I did, nor any of the mentioned characters.
"Yes, Helga."
Are those the only words that can come out of my mouth? They are meaningless syllables of obedience, cloaking my feelings and concerns and making me as idiotic as one who does not think at all. But I think. My mind fills with thoughts and worries. I fear for those who are scared, and I sympathize with their pain. Yet my tongue, about to convey some of my insight, falls short of my emotion, and the words emerge again and again.
She is my best friend and my worst enemy, my ultimate tormenter. She paints me into the background of her otherwise colorful life, throwing me from comrade and confidante to observer. And true to my abilities, I observe. I see far beyond what she tells me, and I know what she tries to hide. She is pitiful in her attempts, but luckily everyone else is as equally dense as she wants them to be.
Why can't I speak? Why can't I protest, telling her that I hate being her shadow and her mere pet? I am a person, as real as she is, with a heart and a mind and a soul. Yet I am pushed further and further into the background, merely this and merely that. I am not fully a human being in any respect, and thus I am nothing. I am just a stray pencil mark conflicting with the drawing of a perfectly formed character. I will be erased in due time, after my purpose is fulfilled.
What is my purpose, exactly? Is it to obey the every breath and command of my comrade, to keep her out of trouble while trying to manage my own world? Why can't I have a chance for a life? What's wrong with me and so special about her? At least I treat people as people, no matter how they look or act or respond to their surroundings. A human is a human, yet somehow I am not viewed as one.
I have become sick and tired of my treatment, and I can't take it anymore. I don't deserve to be below Helga in any rank or order, despite what she and the others seem to think. I am me, I am smart, I am strong-willed, and I am a person. I am not a misguided mark on a page, but rather a three-dimensional personal who actually exists. I am Phoebe Heyerdahl, and you know what, Helga?
NO.
"Yes, Helga."
Are those the only words that can come out of my mouth? They are meaningless syllables of obedience, cloaking my feelings and concerns and making me as idiotic as one who does not think at all. But I think. My mind fills with thoughts and worries. I fear for those who are scared, and I sympathize with their pain. Yet my tongue, about to convey some of my insight, falls short of my emotion, and the words emerge again and again.
She is my best friend and my worst enemy, my ultimate tormenter. She paints me into the background of her otherwise colorful life, throwing me from comrade and confidante to observer. And true to my abilities, I observe. I see far beyond what she tells me, and I know what she tries to hide. She is pitiful in her attempts, but luckily everyone else is as equally dense as she wants them to be.
Why can't I speak? Why can't I protest, telling her that I hate being her shadow and her mere pet? I am a person, as real as she is, with a heart and a mind and a soul. Yet I am pushed further and further into the background, merely this and merely that. I am not fully a human being in any respect, and thus I am nothing. I am just a stray pencil mark conflicting with the drawing of a perfectly formed character. I will be erased in due time, after my purpose is fulfilled.
What is my purpose, exactly? Is it to obey the every breath and command of my comrade, to keep her out of trouble while trying to manage my own world? Why can't I have a chance for a life? What's wrong with me and so special about her? At least I treat people as people, no matter how they look or act or respond to their surroundings. A human is a human, yet somehow I am not viewed as one.
I have become sick and tired of my treatment, and I can't take it anymore. I don't deserve to be below Helga in any rank or order, despite what she and the others seem to think. I am me, I am smart, I am strong-willed, and I am a person. I am not a misguided mark on a page, but rather a three-dimensional personal who actually exists. I am Phoebe Heyerdahl, and you know what, Helga?
NO.