The door always squeaks. The medicine cabinet. She notices it more in the morning. Like the sound of construction outside the window. A dull grinding pain behind the eyes that sometimes strikes more relevant than others. This morning the whine of the hinges feels like a swift punch between her shoulder blades. And she rocks the mirrored door back and forth with two fingers of her left hand. Another on her right hand dripping blood into pools on the counter. Caught the sharp edge of the scissors fishing out an earring from the debris. The red spots collecting into a larger shape. The way rain eventually does on the slick surfaces of a driveway-the stairs on the back porch. Splats against the grey laminate in time now with the aching cabinet door. She can't stop the bleeding. The noise rising from the hinges. Numb to the sound. To the words she might or might not be saying out loud. In her head.

It's time to get up.
She calls.
Get up.

He might or might not hear her from the folds of the loose sheets in the other room. They'd not even taken the time to make the bed. She sticks her finger in her mouth. Sick with the metallic taste of blood stuck against the back of her throat. She watches the light reflecting from the door to the larger mirror where she stands when she forgets she's standing where she is on the floor. Like a gigantic signal lamp. No one answers. Flash. Flash. She hears her neighbor in his apartment. The water on the other side of the wall splashing into his shower. And wonders what he looks like naked. Pictures him taking a shower with all of his clothes on. The awkward way he looks when she passes him in the parking lot. Pants too short. Sweaty even in winter. In her head he's wearing something hideous and unremarkable. Tan. In the shower, she's sure, he looks like a gigantic baboon. All hair and ass.

She flicks the door so it bounces against the opposing mirrored wall. It makes a sound like dropping a quarter into an aluminum sink. Dumb. Metallic and hollow. The silent door open.