The wave of nausea pushes her forward, further into the toilet bowl. The yellow bile with the crumbly white powder from the Prozac trickles slowly into the water. It’s the third time today, more heaving left than anything else. Too weak to move, she lets go of the bowl and lies down. The cold of the tiles instantly cools her, and for a moment the world is still. A cough finds its way out and the choking propels her back to the bowl. Barely breathing, she holds on to the white ceramic and forces the air through her nose. Slowly, and slightly, the oxygen washes through her body.