[ WP ] In the wake of a disaster of apocalyptic proportions , the entirety of your home and all of your possessions are destroyed - except for the contents of the medicine chest in your bathroom . Survive .

There's a Q-Tip on the shelf. A toothbrush and three quarters a tube of toothpaste. Some generic-brand mouthwash that tastes like rubbing alcohol and shame. A bottle of Essie polish in `` Roarrrrange''. Wait, really? Roarrrrange? I guess I never checked the name of it before, I just really liked the color on the shelf. Is n't that a fucking clever name? Some lotion that keeps disappearing from my room and ending up atop my fourteen-year-old brother's nightstand. An expired bottle of aspirin. 
 
 Well, shit. 
 
 If this is the end of it all, I'm ill-prepared. 
 
 I'm not left with much to work with here. It's like we're picking teams in gym class, and somehow I'm left with the asthmatic kid, the girl on her period, and the kid who thinks it's okay to wear jeans to gym class. Each thing left in my cabinet is just as useless as the next. Except maybe the polish. The polish on my nails has started to chip, and if I'm going to die, I'm going to die looking damn good. 
 
 I sit down on the toilet and rest my right hand on the counter first. In slow, measured strokes, I paint over the tips of my nails, being careful not to slip. One finger after the next, I glide the brush over each finger, pausing between to admire the result. Roarrrrange. That really is a great name for a nail polish. Much better than anything the Kardashians came up with for their collection. Somehow, I feel more confident, more fierce. 
 
 I guess it's time to assess the damage. I dump the trash out of the can and pull out the plastic bag that had been lining it, stuffing it with everything I've found in the medicine cabinet. Who knows, maybe something will be useful at some point. Stepping out of the bathroom, I turn to the stairs, taking them one at a time. The fire has charred much of the wood, but I think they're structurally sound. I hope so at least. 
 
 My shoes are at the end of the stairs. Well, one of them is. The other is probably in a pile of ashes somewhere. I put on the one I can find and move on. The walls are mostly charred; pictures are burnt and their frames falling to the ground. But really, who gives a shit. It's not like my parents were particularly great. But everyone certainly thought they were, and I guess that's all that matters. 
 
 I hear a stirring from across the living room. Stepping over rubble and still-burning debris, I see my mother struggling to stand. She is the only person keeping me here. She's always been the only person keeping me here. God, what a selfish bitch. 
 
 The drapes beside her have caught fire, and her bloated body is only a few feet away. I take a few steps closer to her. I'm almost smiling now. This is wrong. This should be so wrong. But I ca n't let her continue to be dependent on me. 
 
 She's struggling to speak, but I ca n't let her. Unscrewing the cap to my mouthwash, I empty the contents of the bottle, tossing it at the drapes. Within seconds, the fabric is engulfed in flames, and my mother with them. 
 
 She chose to leave once before, and now I have too. 
 
 And shit, I've smudged a fresh coat of polish.
