I stand staring at her too-thin figure, red hair straggly and blunt around her ears where she has chopped at it with the scissors. Some of the hair is still in the sink, the scissors glinting temptingly on top. Steam is rising from the bath behind her. I want to caution her that when she steps into it the heat will sear her pale skin, but I know that's the idea. Dark circles cling beneath her haunted blue eyes, a bruise is blooming on her chin, and a savage scratch ladders her left cheek. There is blood under her fingernails.

There's a packet of aspirin on the top of the toilet cistern next to a glass of water. Two are missing. Her clothes are bundled up underneath the sink, a plastic bag nearby waiting for them, as she has been told to do. They told her not to wash, either, but it would be beyond her endurance to obey that particular instruction.

She closes her eyes, and takes one deep breath after another. I have known her long enough to recognise this as panic control; something inside her is preparing to snap and she is doing her best to restrain it. Soon her breathing steadies a little and she looks at me once more. Her hands are clenched into fists, probably involuntarily.

She glances backwards at the razorblade on the side of the bath and raises an eyebrow at me. I shake my head slightly, almost imperceptibly. She knows my feelings on that. Little cuts on her thigh, some fresh, others almost healed, testify that she disagrees with me.

With a final deep sigh, she turns away from the mirror, and so do I.