The slick click of her tongue
sliding away from the roof of her mouth
as she opens her red stained lips,
and pops the tablet past them.
The faucet runs, currently the only noise in the house
and she fills a little paper cup,
listens to the dribble as the water slowly fills it
the pill is becoming sour in her mouth.
She raises the cup, faucet still running,
to her lips and quickly knocks the medication down her throat,
shivers as it grazes against the muscle there.
The water follows soothingly after it,
and she takes another swig for good measure,
then another to wash the taste out of her mouth.
She spits it out, and looks at herself in the mirror.
her hair is sticking up all over the back of her head.
she hasn’t had it cut in months,
hasn’t washed it in days.
She’s vaguely starting to resemble her father and wonders
“Is this what death looks like?”
She has no idea.
The coroner wouldn’t let her see the body.