some things just stay broken (pt 2)

She walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. The seat was cold. Fall weather was slowly creeping in and the days were shorter, which meant more time driving at night. She lingered on the seat. Thought about how she didn’t want to go to work that day or any other day for that matter. Trichotillomania. She had Googled it. She had started pulling her hair out by the roots, strand by strand. The doctor prescribed Wellbutrin but it caused violent, incessant coughing. “We’ll start you on the lowest dose of Zoloft and I’ll give you a script for Xanax to take PRN.” The psychiatrist also mentioned that he wanted her to follow-up every 60 days and also see a therapist. While the new meds did not cause any allergic reactions this time, it did not slow down the hair pulling or new eye twitching. She flushed the toilet. Marveled at how easily a mess can be flushed away. Just a little push and a problem can fade away.  She reached for the floss. There was a rapid, flurry of knocks at her apt door. She ignored it. “Probably wrong apt.” she thought. But then she heard her deadbolts unlocking. It didn’t matter that she was only in a thin wife beater and boy shorts panties. She rushed the door, throwing her weight against it slamming it shut. “Miss Merchant? It’s building security and the Philadelphia Police Department. We need to know if you’re ok?”  “I’m fine. Let me put something on.” she blurted. She grabbed her robe hanging in the bathroom and partially opened her apt door. “What’s wrong? Why are you opening my door?” she questioned with a hint of disdain in her voice. “Mam,” one of the officers interrupted. She hated being called mam. To her it meant she was no longer sexually viable; she was an elder to be respected. “Can we come in?”