Small droplets of water painfully exit the silver faucet, hitting the bottom of the   toothpaste smudge sink. The rhythm of the dripping sink faucet intertwines with the squeak of the shower faucet. Mounted on the wall above the sink a mirror covered in streaks of leftover Windex from its last cleaning, awaiting to be looked in. Above the mirror hanging dusty lights fill the bathroom with a fluorescent glow. Once a faint grey, the dirt scuffed walls tower above the floor, introducing a claustrophobic air that permeates the room. On the floor lays a slight layer of dust. Open wide, screaming for attention like a needy toddler, sits the medicine cabinet on the left side of the room. Its shelves cluttered with little orange pill bottles that seem to grow in number every day. The white grooved tops slightly worn down from the constant opening and closing of them. Each bottle of pills gradually decreasing in amount, waiting for the desperate call to be filled up again. The sticky white labels are slowly peeling off  and curling at the corners leaving behind their adhesive. These labels simply read Oxycodone, Vicodin, and Meperidine—the friendly little pain killers.