She was shaking beyond all control. She had taken enough pills to tranquilize a small horse. Sweat began to pour off of her as she lay, naked, on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. Her body was contorted into a ball—a pile of limbs and flesh. She extended her arm, reaching up toward the sink where her razor lay. But her shaking was so overwhelming; it caused her to knock the razor into the porcelain sink. She gave up and eventually shivered herself into a coma-like sleep.
When she awoke the next morning, she was disoriented—lost. Then, she remembered what happened. She screamed in pure agony, rage pouring out of her with every shriek. She forced herself to get up, mustered up all the energy she could, and shattered the bathroom mirror with her right fist. She stared at her reflection in the shattered remnants, screeching again. She collapsed into herself, onto the floor, surrounded by shards of bloodstained glass. Tears streamed down her face as blood flowed from her knuckles.
She just wanted to escape; she didn’t want to live this life anymore—but here she lay again, unsuccessful and afraid.