Rorie hand-railed her way down the stairs, blinking and stumbling, and eased into her chair at the kitchen table. Christine sat consuming grapefruit and coffee and reading the paper, dressed and groomed to a sales-ready shine in her weekday fashion — bathrobe and hair pulled back loose and frazzled for the weekends, but still coffee and grapefruit and the paper, always that trifecta. Rorie poured cereal, poured milk, scattered sugar over it all. She ate slowly in the quiet of the kitchen.

“Those goddam dogs were at it again.”

Rorie nodded. “Yeah, I heard ‘em.”

“Noise violation. I should call the cops on ‘em.”

“Mmm.”

Christine looked at her daughter, set her coffee down. Rorie’s face was hanging, bags under her eyes, only half awake over her cereal. “Rorie, how did you sleep last night?”

“Kinda–”
(SHITTY)

Rorie’s eyes jumped wide, and she started in her seat. Her spoon clattered against the side of her cereal bowl; small flecks of white milk sprayed on the surface of the kitchen table.

“Rorie?”

“Uh. Not very good.”

Christine put her hand on Rorie’s, squeezed gently. “Are you alright? Are you feeling sick?”

Rorie shook her head, pulled her hand away, took another bite of cereal. She chewed and spoke. “I just couldn’t sleep. I dunno.”

“You look awful.”

“God, thanks Mom.”

“I just mean you look exhausted, honey.”

“I’m okay, I’m just–”
(CRAZY)
“–um, I’m–”
(PSYCHO)
“–I’m sorry I have to go to the bathroom.”

Rorie jumped up from the table and ran upstairs to the second floor restroom. She closed the door behind her and locked it, and planted her hands on the sink. She watched herself in the mirror, and whispered low.

“Emmy?”
(EMMY?)
“What are you doing?”
(WHAT ARE YOU DOING?)
“Stop it!”
(STOP WHAT?)

Dripping, shrill mockery. Obnoxious. Sneering. Unfamiliar.

“Emmy, stop doing that.”
(WHO’S EMMY?)
“Goddammit–”
(LOOK, KID, EMMY’S GONE.)
“What–”
(THAT’S WHAT YOU WANTED, YOU GOT IT. SHE’S GONE. OUTTA HERE. FINITO. DIDN’T LET THE SCREEN DOOR HIT HER ON THE ASS ON THE–)
“Who the fuck are you?”

A knock on the bathroom door. From the other side, Christine said, “Rorie? Honey? You okay?” She spun toward the door, eyes reeling around.

“No, Mom, I’m–”
(NUTS)
“–I’m, I’m fine. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah!”

Rorie turned the faucets on the sink and splashed warm water on her face, speaking quietly into the splatter and stream.

“Who are you?”
(A VOICE IN YOUR HEAD. AN AUDITORY HALLUCINATION. A PARANOID DELUSION. YEAH, P.D. CALL ME P.D.)
“I don’t believe this.”
(I DON’T REALLY CARE.)
“Just shut up. Go away.”
(BUT I JUST GOT HERE. C’MON.)
“Go away!”
(OH, SHIT, DON’T START CRYING. I HATE THAT SHIT. FUCKING CHICKS.)
“Get out of my head!”
(CHRIST, LISTEN TO YOU. SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT.)
“Now!”
(HEY, FINE, TOOTS. I GOT SOME THINGS TO DO ANYWAY. I’LL BE BACK LATER, THOUGH, MAYBE YOU CAN BE A LITTLE NICER THEN.)
“Go!”

Rorie stood for long moments staring her self in the face, water dripping off her nose and chin and lips, waiting for a response.