Page 6 of Chosen Beta

It’s silent in the room, and I don’t know what my patient is thinking right now.

I need to be careful.

I crouch down and check under the bed.

It’s not her hiding spot.

I didn’t think it would be.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” I call out, as I turn to the closed bathroom door. “I’m here to help you. That’s all. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She doesn’t respond, and I have no choice left but to attempt to access the room she’s hiding in. I close my fingers around the handle. Turning it, I hold my breath.

The door opens when I push inward.

She didn’t engage the lock.

I open the door slowly, giving her time to process the action, and, hopefully, showing her that I’m not trying to scare her.

God only knows what she’s been through.

Of all the patients I’ve seen since I came out here, she’s the only one who hasn’t been able to give us any information beyond the basics we gleaned through nonverbal answers to basic yes or no questions.

Without a psychologist on staff, it’s hard to tell if she’s mute by choice, or if she has some sort of disorder, most likely caused by trauma.

The painfully thin redhead crouched by the side of the shower cubicle stares up at me, blue eyes wild and unfocused. There’s something in her hand, something she’s clutching tightly enough to turn her already pale knuckles white.

She shakes her head when I step into the room.

I stop and put my hands up. “I’m here to help.”

Her frown is the only response I get.

“You’re suffering from malnutrition. We need to get you back to bed, and back on your meds. You need rest to recover.” I attempt to take another small step toward her, and she pushes back against the wall, lifting up her fist to reveal what I can now see is a toothbrush handle, oddly shaped, almost as if it’s been sharpened into a point.

Her threat is obvious. She’ll stab me if I come any closer.

Whatever trust she might have once had in people is long gone.

It’s not hard to understand why. She was just released from a terrible situation.

Unfortunately, my training didn’t cover dealing with this type of severe trauma.

It’s time to admit that and find out if it’s possible to get her the help she really needs.

She’s still staring at me, waiting to see what I’m about to do, her weapon raised.

I have no doubt that she’s willing to use it.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d lower that weapon.”

She looks at the sharpened toothbrush, so I think she understands what I’m saying.

It doesn’t make enough of an impression to get her to lower it, but if she understands, then we can talk, and I can find a way to reason with her while I wait for someone with experience of mental abuse to come out here and make some real progress with her.

“I need to let the nurse get her trolley and leave. I’m not going away. Okay?”

I’m not sure if it’s a twitch or an actual shrug, but she seems to acknowledge what I’ve said.

---