Mr. Huntington | By: Jessica

Mr. Huntington

                   The reason behind all the ugly traits that I personalized can be traced back to the minute I was born. But we, as in my parents and I, found out about it when I reached the age of twelve.

            I was walking back home from school. I was wearing some comfortable jeans and a sweater.

            I entered the house, took off my shoes, and ascended the stairs to go to my room. I collapsed on my bed out of fatigue. 

            Soon after, my mother walked in.

“Honey, did you forget to buy the groceries on your way?” she asked me.

            “Yeah, sorry,” I muttered.

            After that, my mother left my room, and probably went downstairs.

            Unexpectedly, I felt this kind of anger bubbling inside of me, starting in my head, and travelling its way through the rest of my body like fire. I groaned so hard that my throat felt scratchy.

And I cried.

           

            When my mother came in for the second time, she ran towards me.

             I was sobbing and kicking the duvet and pillows off the bed. My head felt like it was shrinking.

            “What’s the matter?” she asked frantically.  

            And I answered her truthfully, “I don’t know.”

            After that day, my parents were watching my every move, asking me for my thoughts, examining my behavior and surfing the Internet for the meaning of all of this.

            The Huntington disease.

            My name is Chelsea. I’m twenty years old, but people think I’m seventeen years old. I’m from Canada, but I live in Boston, Massachusetts. I have long blonde hair. Not dirty blonde, though. People like layered short hair on me –I cut it that way once. I have blue gray eyes, and my face is dotted with a small amount of faded freckles. I don’t have dimples, but I have a defined jawline and a small mouth. I’m not considered tall or short, and I’m neither the skinniest nor the fattest. I have small feet.

            And here I am right now, walking in those small feet through the campus halls, which are filled with students and professors, and trying to avoid any kind of human interaction.

            The air is humid, the navy blue carpet absorbing all of it and releasing a horrible smell. The white walls are covered with ticking clocks and posters that you would typically see in universities and schools.

            I sit on a surprisingly comfortable chair; my body sinks into it, but in a way my muscles can relax in.