She sobbed, went into the bathroom and turned on the lights. More light to expose what hid in the shadows, more light to remove fear. Making a cup with her hands, she splashed cold water on her face and neck, then washed down four aspirins. Her reflection in the mirror mocked her with blanched, white skin still patched with gauze. Her eyes stared into the distance, hurt and confused.
"I can't go on like this," she said aloud, her voice a whisper. "I can't work, can't sleep, can't rest. I don't know me. I'm not Tanya." She stared into her own eyes as she intoned the words, informing herself of her problems, then left the room. She didn't bother to turn off the light.