There they are. Looking back at themselves with their tired eye. They slept just now, didn't they? Why do they still look so dead? It doesn't matter, they still have to go in. No matter how bad they look they have to go in today, because if the previous ramblings haven't secured the fact they will get fired, this is a reminder. They will get fired. Hopefully it's just the shadows, not that they care about their appearance much these days. Their manager says it's off putting to the customers though, granted it prevents some would be shoplifters. Some. Not all. It's not like they care if someone steals a bag of chips, or a lighter, or anything really. They should, but they don't. They say they do when the manager counts stock and discovers some stuff unaccounted for. All they have to do is proclaim that the thief was on their bad side, or that they were restocking cigarettes and vape pens and whatever bullshit is behind the counter. The place didn't have security cameras, it could never be verified that they simply watched. Maybe if it was a local business they'd be inclined to care more. But it's not. They feel they care an adequate amount.
That's enough of that. They take their toothbrush, place a dab of generic toothpaste, and scrub at the plaque on their teeth that's slowly building up. It burns. Their gums are inflamed. They can't be asked to do more about it. Their teeth might fall out, but who cares, there's dentures. Apathy seems to be the flavor of the day. They wouldn't have gotten up if it wasn't for their obligations to their job they didn't even want to work. They spit into the sink. There's blood in it. They rinse out the brush and place it back in the cup, then lean down to splash their face with water and scrub half heartedly with water. They'd do more if they felt like it. That's a lie. They'd do the same amount, even if they wanted more. They grab the rag next to the sink, balancing on the edge of the counter to dry their face. They look at themselves again and question how they look worse.
"Who cares?" They ask themselves. It's then they realize they had forgotten their medication so they don't do this in front of others. They open the medicine cabinet, not before giving a half glimpse at their hair and deciding to leave it to last night's product to hold it together though. They grab one of the prescription bottles amongst the general ones cotaining aspirin, some sleeping pills, others in those orange bottles that are like the one they search for but aren't pressing currently, and the empty ones they've been collecting. Some fall from the shelf into the wet sink as they pull the one they seek from the back of the cabinet. They take two between their fingers with a practiced motion before dropping the chalky things into their palms. They set the open bottle on the counter and resolve not to close it, opting to stare at the round orange pills in their hand. They sigh. "Fuck you."
They swallow them dry in one gulp, then turn to leave the bathroom and their apartment to finally catch that train.
Good job. The most basic of tasks has been done. Now get the fuck out.