Ellen, Part 1

Ellen stared at the mirror, pondering how it was possible someone else’s reflection could completely replace her own. The person staring back at her wasn’t the star student destined to be valedictorian, nor the class president, head of four clubs, and member of ten more. The person holding her gaze so gallingly steady was an HIV ridden horror, the disease practically crawling under her skin, draining the life from her eyes and the color from her limbs. But the answer she desperately avoided was that this wasn’t a different person.

It was her.

She didn’t have anything against people with HIV or AIDS. They were regular people, just with a shorter expiration date. When she had initially learned of her own contraction three months prior, her world had changed. She had thought, surely, the six-month result would be different. When it wasn’t, she felt as broken as when Jeremy had looked at her and knowingly shared his cursed disease.

Jeremy hadn’t contacted her since he had betrayed her trust, but she hadn’t been keen on tracking him down either. She hadn’t been keen on facing anyone, lately. Life didn’t seem like it could continue the way it had. Once you were doomed, what was the point in pretending nothing had changed?

“Ellen, sweet,” her mother called from the doorway, smartly dressed in a heather gray suit and her bob tucked perfectly behind her ears. “Unless you want to attend school in your nightgown, I suggest you change.”

Ellen stared a moment longer at the sickly image before turning to her mother. “What’s the point? In a few years, it won’t even matter.”

“Fifteen years is not a few. And even if it won’t matter then, I am not supporting you unless you attend and finish college.”

“Dad would support me.”

She scoffed. “Your father only supports us because the court requires it.”

“Maybe he’s changed,” Ellen said softly.

“People don’t just change over night, sweet.”

“I did.”

Her mother opened her mouth a couple of times as if to say something, but ultimately bit her lip and looked down the hall. Ellen turned back to the mirror, contemplating the day ahead. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, mother,” she said, turning her face from the deceptive device before her, forcing a smile.

“I’ll have your breakfast ready then.”

As she disappeared, Ellen gazed a while into the horrible lie of a reflection. She could no longer stand the notion of what had become of her because she had thought Jeremy loved her.

“Stop lying to me!” she screeched. Ellen stormed across the room, grabbing a bottle of perfume from her dresser and throwing it at the mirror; both shattered in an excellent explosion of glass.

~*~

Her mother had informed the school counselor of the morning’s incident. She didn’t, as agreed, mention HIV. It was a custom within the family not to discuss unpleasant details that were no one else’s business and would eventually fade from everyone’s memory. Ellen’s case had nearly led to a divergence of practice as her mother wanted the school to know in case of emergencies; Ellen had convinced her to treat it as anything else.

That is how she found herself sinking into the overly soft couch in Mrs. Hardylen’s office.

Her counselor swiveled in the cushy chair to face her, smiling brightly as though the world could forget its worries so long as she believed the sun was shining.

“Your mother tells me you had an episode this morning,” she began. “She also tells me that you’ve been suffering bouts of depression lately and aren’t comfortable confiding in her.” Ellen sat stoically, staring through the cheery woman before her to her terribly malevolent imaginings. “She wanted me to talk to you about it. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes.”

“Your teachers have noticed a difference in the last few months as well, Ellen. I’ve received messages about your slipping grades, lack of participation, and growing tendency to daydream in class,” Mrs. Hardylen said, genuine worry lacing her voice and causing a deep crease to appear between her brows. “Are you sure you don’t have something you wish to discuss?”

“I’m sure,” Ellen tartly said. She hated being treated like a child; if people could even begin to understand, she would gladly share. But that wasn’t the case.

“A few of your teachers also noticed you scribbling away sometimes in a journal…is that it?”

She clutched the pale blue hardback to her chest, wanting to protect her thoughts from prying, unworthy eyes. Her journal never questioned and understood everything. Within its covers she, the real Ellen, was safe. Every moment of doubt, anger, and overwhelming depression was carefully documented to relieve her from herself.

“May I go?”

“May I see the journal?” Mrs. Hardylen reached forth an open hand.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You might be surprised,” she said, her hand still outstretched.

Ellen stared blankly back, her hands white and shaking with the ferocity of their grip. The journal was the last bit of herself she could hold onto and she didn’t want to relent it to anyone.

Mrs. Hardylen’s hand fell gently back onto her lap as she leaned back. “I guess that will be all for today.”