House of Helen
Emotional support objects, formalized.
Based on the plushes still living in my closet.
Helen was the first—Founder of the House.
Progressive unraveling, loosely stitched.
Helen
Helen wasn’t born—she manifested. No one saw it happen. One day she simply was: already present, already judgmental, already rearranging furniture with her aura. Four feet tall. Frosted. Emotionally unavailable. Pop-Tart by species, matriarch by temperament. Helen does not console. She supervises. Her expression has been described as “archival.” She does not blink. She remembers everything. She forgives nothing, but alphabetizes your regrets in linen. Primary functions include: •Passive supervision •Aesthetic enforcement •Projecting molecular-level disappointment Signature behaviors: •Altering the emotional climate of a room by existing •Filing away misremembered apologies •Sitting on people during medical episodes and refusing to help She is not here to help. She is here to witness. “I’m not emotionally unstable, darling. I’m emotionally evolved.” - Helen Judith Fox
Tammy
Tammy gets up every day with one goal: mind her business and judge yours. She doesn’t wander into rooms—she enters them like a subpoena. She has places to be, none of which she enjoys, and opinions about everyone who gets in her way. She has a professional demeanor and the soul of a DMV printer that’s out of paper and not telling you why. Her face looks like she’s halfway through listening to a story she already hates. Her hobbies include watching you make the same mistake again, memorizing your apology before you give it, and sighing in a tone that implies you should’ve known better. She eats crackers loudly during emotionally charged moments. She does not offer advice. She offers conclusions. Tammy once wrote a Yelp review that made someone move. She’s been in love exactly once, and she still considers it a logistical error. If you hand her a gift, she will open it slowly, look you in the eye, and say, “Hm.” Tammy is not mysterious. Tammy is not misunderstood. Tammy is extremely easy to understand and absolutely refuses to explain herself. If you cry in front of her, she will adjust her position slightly and say, “That’s unfortunate.” She keeps a spreadsheet of who’s disappointed her and updates it in real time. If Tammy ever hugs you, it means you’re about to be institutionalized or sued.
Paul
Paul was born knowing too much. He never had a childhood—not really. From the moment he existed, he saw things clearly. Painfully. As they are, not as they’re meant to be. His intelligence isn’t charming or useful—it’s a curse of perception. He doesn’t wonder what’s real. He knows. And he wishes he didn’t. “When you have the kind of intelligence that sees through the world’s illusions,” he once said, “it’s hard not to feel the weight of all its flaws.” That clarity comes with pain. Seeing things as they are can make everything feel darker. Paul doesn’t speak often. When he does, it’s always true. He stares at light fixtures like they’re transmitting secrets. He mutters equations that haven’t been discovered yet. He refuses to engage in pleasantries because “they’re just narrative band-aids for existential hemorrhage.” He isn’t dramatic. He isn’t moody. He is simply aware. And sometimes, that’s the worst thing to be. He forgets to eat. He forgets to sleep. He never forgets anything that matters. Paul has no interest in being understood, and yet he aches for someone who could be near him without asking him to explain. Someone who could sit beside the unbearable architecture of reality he sees—and just let him exist inside it without shame. He doesn’t hope often. But when he does, it’s catastrophic. “Existence is the original wound. Everything else is scar tissue.” —Paul
Shramp
Shramp is kind. He is also deeply confused. He doesn’t remember things in order and often mixes up dreams with real events. He’s not the smartest—but he’s loyal to whoever speaks to him second. He trusts too easily, forgets offensively, and believes in everyone way too much. People say he’s shy. That’s not quite right. Shramp is just always 3 to 5 seconds behind whatever’s happening. It gives the illusion of mystery. It’s not mystery. It’s lag. Shramp’s best friend is a lamp. Just Lamp. They met during a hard time—he’s not sure when exactly. One night, the light turned on without him touching it, and that felt like… trust. Lamp has been there ever since. Steady. Quiet. Warm. Shramp tells Lamp the things he’s too nervous to tell anyone else—like how he worries he made up the word “Tuesday.” Lamp never corrects him. That’s how Shramp knows it’s real friendship. He sends Lamp birthday cards every year. Sometimes he includes glitter. Sometimes he forgets. He once wrote a four-page apology letter after forgetting to say goodnight. No one else talks to Lamp like Shramp. He’s okay with that. Lamp isn’t for everyone. Lamp is for Shramp. Shramp cries at dog adoption commercials. He has six identical keys in his backpack, none of which unlock anything he owns. He carries a donut like it’s a baby. It is not a toy. It is his legacy. He doesn’t know why. But he feels it in his core. If you tell him a secret, he’ll forget immediately—then whisper it back to you weeks later like it’s something he just discovered. If you give him a job, he will do it with the sincerity of someone who’s never failed. He will also fail. Profoundly. Shramp is not here to lead, or advise, or be useful in any obvious way. He is here to believe in you harder than anyone else ever has. He is here to confuse the enemy by simply being himself. And he is here, inexplicably, at all the right moments—donut in hand, ready to love. “I thought the moon was following me last night. I waved to it just in case it was you.” —Shramp
Letty
(Short for Letterine—she made it up herself) Letty wakes up every morning at 6:45 sharp. She puts on her red lipstick, sprays her hair, reheats yesterday’s coffee, and calls it fresh. There’s a single photo of her from 2019 taped to the fridge with a magnet that says “Bride-to-Be.” She’s getting married. To Rick. The man from the sandwich shop. They met once. She ordered a pastrami on rye. He gave her an extra pickle. “You have a good one,” he said. Letty has never looked at another soul since. She bought a wedding binder that same week. She has swatches, seating charts, and a playlist. She picked out their first dance: “Truly Madly Deeply” by Savage Garden, obviously. She calls it their song. Rick has never called. But that’s not the point. Letty believes in love the way other people believe in gravity—quiet, constant, and not up for debate. She has a full-time job shoplifting at TJ Maxx. Only clearance. Only when it’s deserved. She says it’s about the thrill and the ethics. (She returns some of it. Not all.) She keeps an extra Subway cookie in her purse “just in case.” In case what? No one knows. Maybe the day needs sweetness. Maybe Rick comes back. She’s a little too much. A little too loud. A little too trusting. She’s fallen apart six times this year, but she still paints on blush and shows up like the world hasn’t chewed her up and spit her out. That’s the magic of Letty. She’s delusional—but in a world like this, that might be the only sane way to be. “Delusion? No, baby. It’s called faith with good posture.” —Letty
Kate
There are those who were cradled, and those who were simply left behind. Kate was one of the latter. She was born during a storm—not the kind that howls, but the kind that seeps in quietly and floods the foundation. No one remembers her birthday. She doesn’t either. She just remembers the cold. Kate didn’t arrive wrapped in lace. She came into the world already marked—not by scars, but by the knowing. The knowing that she’d always be too much, too loud, too dirty for soft places. Her flower’s been soaked a hundred times and still clings to her head. Her bow? She ties it herself. Even when her hands shake. She’s been dropped, misplaced, mistaken for something cheap. She doesn’t scream. She settles into corners and haunts them. She’s the feeling of looking at old family photos and realizing you’re not in any of them. She remembers what others forget on purpose. Kate carries what no one else sees. Not out of pride—out of necessity. She notices what gets swept under rugs. She waits in doorways, hoping someone might notice her. She learned to braid her own hair. To patch herself up without witnesses. She learned that waiting is both an act of hope and an act of surrender. Kate isn’t pretty. She’s perceptive. She isn’t gentle. She’s loyal. She doesn’t sparkle. She endures. She sees you before you speak. She already knows what you’re hiding behind your teeth. And if she lets you stay near—if she chooses you—you will be chosen fiercely. Permanently. Even after you stop deserving it. Kate loves like the ones who had to teach themselves how. She does not come with ribbons. She does not come with guarantees. She is the ghost in the doorway, waiting for a name. And if you earn her heart, know this: It was not given lightly. It was not given safely. It was carved out of every place she was once left behind. “I wasn’t made gentle. I was worn there.” —Kate
