Slamming the door of her bedroom with such violence that the moan of displeasure from the disturbed attic ghoul is all too audible, even two stories down.
Pacing the floor viciously for several long moments, fists clenching then unclenching at her sides.
In frustration marching back to the door, placing her forehead against the rough wood.
Her breathing deep and ragged, her face twisted in anger, the crack of knuckles against wood ringing through the small bedroom.
The glint of the razorblade as the corner pierces thin skin that doesn't stand a chance.
Tiny droplets of blood.
All a blur.