Women's bathroom is on the right. There is no door. The small, egg-white tiling creeps out of the entranceway like a disease. I walk inside.
The air is coated with a thick, putrid fog. There are only a few stalls, but the room is crowded with teenagers and middle-aged women. A lady at the mirror attempts to disentangle an antique comb from her hair, but instead pulls out her frizzled mane in chunks to reveal a bloody, flaky scalp.
I see a stall with an unhinged door, so I walk in. A middle-aged woman has sunken into the metal toilet, her knees bent up to her neck. She is entirely naked, and her eyes have rolled back into her head. Her face is positioned towards the ceiling so that only the whitness of her yees and the blackness of her nostrils show. Her skin ahs that dead, bluish look, and large ulcers fester on her corpulent legs. A little girl tugs on the woman's hairy leg and whines that she has to pee. But the woman does not wake up.
People are vomiting everywhere, some into the garbage bin (either out of habit or disgust) because all the sinks are already clogged with puke. Yellow, omelet-curd puke slides down the walls.
I run to get some help, but when I return, there is no one left but the janitor, standing in the entranceway. She expects a tip for cleaning the bathroom. I give her a twenty and then run.