summary: reader is on the last leg of her first north american tour when she ends up in PTMC being treated by one of the worlds most-chronically offline doctors ever.
The city was louder tonight as the cars honked, people shouted and ambulances sirens sounded.
Life carried on as normal for everyone else while tears trickled down your face and dripped onto your blue scrub shirt, immediately sinking in.
The wind blew through your hair, making your flyaways move faster and blow into your face but you had no intention of stopping to adjust them.
You listened to the street life and the hospital as the day shift staff ended their shift, greeting the night shift staff that were coming in to start theirs.
You didn’t even move as the door to the roof opened and someone stepped out onto it before shutting the door after them.
The railing dug into your spine as you leant back against it, your feet uncomfortably close to the edge. You make sure not to make any sudden movements.
The person makes sure not to startle you either.
It isn’t until you hear the familiar click of a lighter that it then strikes you who it is.
Your charge nurse, Dana Evans. Had she come up here purely as a chance to smoke, or had she come up here for you?
The thought flows through your mind once before you decide it’s probably for the best that you don’t decide on an answer. You’d probably be wrong anyway.
It’s silent for 4 minutes and 48 seconds before she speaks.
“It’s nice up here. I should come here more often.” Her voice is closer now, and you can hear her sneakers on the rocks as she steps forward.
You don’t reply to her. You don’t think you could even if you tried.
“You’re awfully close to the edge there. You wanna come this side of the railing?” She says, trying to hide the growing fear in her voice.
Although you were new, Dana had noticed you from the start. Immediately feeling a maternal instinct towards you, like she needed to protect you from the world. Even if you didn’t know, you were always under her watch.
“It’s cold huh?” She carries on after getting nothing from you. It’s like you’re not even there as you stare ahead at the city skyline in the distance.
She steps forward until she’s gripping the railing in her hands. Close enough to grab you if you tried to move any further forward but keeping a distance so you don’t feel like she’s forcing you to come away.
Another tear slides slowly down your face as you sniffle. You can hear her speaking and you so desperately want to answer her but you can’t. Your body physically won’t let any words come out.
“You’re bleeding.” She says softly. There’s surprise evident in her voice as her tone grows concerned now too.
“I know.” Finally breaks free. Your chest immediately heaving a sigh as it breaks and words spill out. It feels like you’ve finally woken up after being in a coma.
You don’t look at her, you carry on staring at the skyline. It looks beautiful like this, all lit up. The people in those buildings are all living a different life. You wonder if anyone is in this exact position right now. Probably not. Any sane person would seek help instead of standing on the edge of a roof straight after their shift finishes.
“Do you think you can come down sweetheart? Just climb under the railing, we’ll take you inside, get you warm and I’ll have a look at your arm okay? Come on baby.” She sounds so motherly now. This is how you’d imagine a mother would talk to their child when they needed them.
Your body follows her words before your mind even registers them as you duck under the railing and stand next to her.
She smiles softly at you, her face saying ‘well done’ without her speaking. She doesn’t want to overwhelm you and scare you off.
Your eyes look empty as they finally move to her face. You’re there, but not mentally. She wants to wrap you up in her arms and take you home, but she knows how much you hate being touched. She’s heard you express that hundreds of times to the other nurses and doctors.
No words exchanged throughout the entire walk back down the stairs and into the main hospital. Dana keeps her usual smile on her face as she walks through, greeting the nurses at the desk. When you reach an empty room, she leads you to the bed and gestures to you towards it. She makes a point of saying
“You can sit, stand or lay. Or even handstand. Just stay.”
It does well to ease the ache in your heart, it even almost makes you crack a smile as she dips through the curtain after a second.
You follow her words and take a seat on the edge of the bed, already rolling up the right side sleeve of your long sleeve that was under your scrubs.
It’s not too deep. You’ve done worse damage before. But to Dana it’s probably something that will take her a second to evaluate before working on it.
It’s a few minutes later when she ducks back in. She’s got some gauze, antibacterial wipes and a needle and thread (just in case).
She uses her foot to hook around the legs of the spinny stool while she grabs a pair of gloves out of the box, smoothly sliding the chair in time to sit on it and scorch towards you. She uses the lever to make it taller, settling herself between your legs.
She tugs the gloves on and sterilises the table before laying your arm gently on it.
“What did you use?” She asks harshly. It almost makes you recoil before she pins your arm back down again. What changed her attitude?
“Scalpel.” You gulp. This is it. This is the part where you lose your job for stealing and being mentally unwell. God you’re so stupid. Why would you do that? Why couldn’t you wait until you were at home alone?
She doesn’t reply. She pulls an antiseptic wipe out and cleans over the few cuts on your wrist. She doesn’t even warn you before doing it, now she’s upset at you. But she’s not shouting, that’s good right?
“From here?” She asks as she throws the wipe into the trash can.
You nod wordlessly, looking at your lap embarrassed.
“I’m taking your privileges away. You’ll be on desk duty instead. You won’t get to touch any instruments or medical equipment until I think you’re fit enough to.” She scalds you like a child, it almost makes you want to cry with how she speaks so monotone and disappointed. You can hear in her voice that you’ve let her down.
“Yes ma’am.” You whisper, biting your bottom lip to stop it from wobbling.
After your wrist is cleaned, she assesses it properly, turning your wrist to look at it up close with her glasses.
“Well you don’t need stitches. But I’m guessing you knew that already didn’t you?”
You nod again, she doesn’t need an answer anyway.
She starts unwrapping a gauze, placing on the cuts gently before wrapping the bandage around until it runs out. She ties it and tapes it down so it won’t move. She works in silence while doing this, before throwing her gloves in the trash and shuffling her stool back to give you some space.
“How often do you do this?” She speaks sternly. She wants answers and by the way she’s conveniently placed herself in front of the curtain, you’re not leaving until she gets something from you.
You stare at her for a while. Your throat bobs as you try and swallow away the painful lump that sits there unmoving.
“I was 163 days sober today.” You start before your voice breaks drastically. You clear your throat and carry on, you know that if you stop now then you won’t speak again. “I tried Dana. I tried, I did better this time. Honest.” Your lip wobbles again, but this time you let it.
“I know, kid. 163 days is amazing.” She nods encouragingly, her stern facade dropping now seeing the state you’re really in. She finally sees how you feel.
You dig your nails into your palm as you talk but with a glare from Dana, you rest your hands flat on your thighs instead.
“I wasn’t going to do it.” You whisper.
“Do what?” She asks just as softly, her eyebrows furrowed.
“Jump.” You answer as if it was obvious. To you it was, but to anyone else, it looked like you were ready to end it all right there.
“Okay.” She whispers. There’s no questions or open-ended sentences. She wants you to talk unprompted.
“Sometimes I think about ending it all. But I don’t think I’d ever do it. I just can’t stop thinking about it. My therapist said it’s passive suicidal ideation.” You explain, stopping every sentence to look at Dana's expressions and how disgusted she is at you.
“It's gotten worse recently. I just feel like there’s this constant shadow of darkness looming over me. I can’t do anything without feeling like I don’t deserve to be doing this. Like I don’t deserve to even be standing here with a job and a future. I don’t feel like I deserve to have so many good people in my life while I’m here causing constant sadness to their lives. I’m a burden. I have no desire for life anymore. I don’t even feel like eating most days because I think ‘what even is the point in this all’. I quit playing sports because I felt like I was ruining the team. I just- I don’t think I can do this anymore. But I don’t want to kill myself. I just- I want the pain to stop. The stupid pain in my head that tells me I’m not good enough.”
When you look up at the end, Dana doesn’t even look disgusted. Weirdly it looks like she looks like she has tears in her own eyes that threaten to fall. Good job. You’ve made her cry, you idiot. Can’t do anything right can you? You’ve let her down now too. Another person you tried to let in.
“Kid. Stop getting in your head. I can see your internal argument.” Her voice breaks through every bad thought clouding your mind currently, like cold water over a burn. “I’m just- taking it all in” she thinks for a second before schooling her face and shifting so she’s sat up with her back straight.
“You go to therapy? That’s good, I’m glad you still do that.”
The fact she doesn’t bring up anything you just spilled is comforting. Getting it off of your chest was hard enough as it is. But having to talk it through with someone would make it even worse.
“Yeah. Once a week on Thursdays, my only day off from work. Sometimes twice a week if I’m really bad.” You don’t have to explain further about what ‘really bad’ means, literally anyone would understand that.
“Is your therapist nice?” She asks, changing the directory to distract you.
“Yeah. I’ve had her for a few years, she knows everything about me and knows exactly how to help me when I’m not doing good. I do get help, I promise. I don’t always do this. I can still work. I’m okay.” You nod as you talk, speaking faster and tripping yourself up. So desperate to prove to her that everything’s okay. You want Dana to believe you.
“Sweetheart, it's okay. Having a therapist doesn’t suddenly mean your life is perfect. Hell if it did, half the people would be sectioned here would they?” She reassures, getting closer to you again. Maybe she isn’t scared of you after all.
“I guess.” You agree glumly.
“What made tonight so different? Why didn’t you call your therapist?” She asks.
“She’s on holiday. The replacement isn’t the greatest, he just tells me to take a bath or make a hot drink. But the last time I did that I poured the kettle over my hand to feel something.”
“Is that what the scar is on your hand?” She points to where the circle is on the top of your left hand. It’s a clear colour difference to the rest of your skin. It’s not that noticeable unless you’re really looking. Which Dana is.
You nod, moving it to hide it underneath your other hand.
“It was a couple of years ago. I haven’t done it since.” You whisper, now even more ashamed of yourself.
“It’s okay. I’m not judging.” She smiles. “So you couldn’t call your therapist tonight. Is that why you hurt yourself?”
You nod. “No one here knows I struggle with my mental health. I couldn’t seek out Robby because I saw what he did to Baran. I can’t lose my job already.” You explain.
“That makes sense. Thank you for trusting me. It means a lot.” Her voice makes you want to cry with how she’s so sweet now. It’s confusing how she does from angry mother to sweet mother, but it’s welcoming. It’s what you need.
Sometimes when your mind is so full of bad thoughts and hurt, someone needs to break through and tell you honestly that what you’re doing isn’t okay.
“Go home kid. Get a nice shower, make yourself a glass of water, take some painkillers and get into bed. Put your comfy clothes on and rest. You need it. It’s been a hell of a day.” She reaches out, freezing for a second before deciding ‘fuck it’ and doing it. She places her hand on top of yours and squeezes.
“Call me tonight if you need someone. Stay away from roofs and sharp things. I’ll come over if you need anything.” She says before she’s standing and taking away all of her medical supplies.
You know she’s going to fill some paperwork in about reducing your privileges before she goes home. So you pack your things up and take a slow walk to your car.
The cold air bites at your skin, but it’s welcoming. The cold has always been a cure for a panic attack. Something about the way its relentless just distracts your body and makes you fight to keep warm instead of fighting the thoughts of ending it all.
The drive home takes 15 minutes due to there being no traffic at this time of night. Your playlist plays in the background but the volume is almost 0. It’s nice to have silence sometimes.
Your apartment is dark when you open the door, obviously it was light when you left this morning.
You kick your shoes off at the door, placing your keys in the bowl and hanging your bag up.
You bypass the kitchen, there’s no point in making food if you’d throw it up later from how sick you’ve been feeling lately.
Your medication sits untouched on your bedside cabinet as you sit on the edge of your bed to start undressing.
As you undress you look around. Your computer on your desk now collected a layer of dust. Your books are on the shelf with an even thicker layer of dust. You’d lost all interest in everything you loved the second you started feeling shit again. Only this time you were struggling to pull yourself out of the sinkhole.
You drag yourself to the shower and turn the water on. It’s far too hot to stand in, but you stand there anyway. It burns but in a good way.
You mean your head against the wall and before you can stop yourself, tears are cascading down your cheeks and your body shakes with sobs as you desperately bite your lip so stop any yells escaping. No one should hear you cry, they don’t care anyway.
The shower soaks the bandage on your wrist. You’d completely forgotten about that. With your teeth you claw at it until there’s tiny strings of fibres that rip effortlessly and the bandage plops onto the floor of the shower. The water immediately stings, a feeling that’s both comforting and disappointing. You were at the highest sober date of your life and you had to go and ruin it as per usual.
As you step out of the shower and dry off, you try and shake the feeling. You know there’s razors in that drawer. You’d bought a pack of 50 replacement blades for your traditional razor. You force yourself not to open the drawer. You tell yourself to just change into your pyjamas and go to sleep. It’ll be better by morning. Right?
Who are you kidding? It’s never better in the morning. It’s always worse. It always will be worse. You’re just destined to be this way forever until it slowly kills you.
You pace your bedroom for hours and hours until your feet burn and your heart is racing. You pick up your phone to call your therapist. But she’s on holiday.
Dana. You could call her. She did say to.
But it’s 3am. Would she even be awake? She worked an entire day shift with you. Surely she’s sleeping. She has a family and private life.
You pave for another 15 minutes with your phone in your hand before you finally click on her contact. It rings 1, 2, 3, 4 times and then it clicks.
“Hello?” She speaks into the microphone, her voice tired and deep.
“Dana?” You ask. Stupidly because of course it’s her, it’s her phone number.
“Kid? You okay?” Her voice changes immediately, she sounds more awake now and there’s a rustling sound in the background. It sounds like she’s getting out of bed.
“I’m sorry. I woke you. It’s okay, I’ll go. Sorry for waking you.” Your thumb hovers over the end button but her voice stops you.
“No. No. I’m glad you woke me, thank you.” She’s moving now, you can hear keys being picked up.
“Had anything happened?” She asks as she walks.
“Not yet. But I just can’t stop thinking. I’m sorry.” Your voice breaks again.
“It’s okay.” she laughs slightly, like she’s afraid you’ll snap if you think she’s even the slightest bit upset.
“I’m on my way. Do you think you can stay on the phone to me until I get there? You don’t have to speak but I just want to know you’re okay.” The car starts up halfway through, and she’s already pulling off before it’s even warmed up.
“Yeah.” Is all you can push yourself to say.
True to your word you stay on the phone to her the entire time. Neither of you speak, but she can hear your breathing and that’s enough for her to be able to drive safely and calmly.
When she reaches your apartment door, it jolts you out of your daze and startles you. She’s here already? It’s only been like- oh. 15 minutes.
You pad your way to the door and open it to let her in. It’s still pitch black, you still hadn’t bothered to turn a lamp on since getting back. But it’s something that Dana does as soon as she’s in.
“What happened?” She asks, coming to stand in front of you. She looks you up and down like she did on the roof to check for anything else.
“Nothing. But there’s a box of razors in my bathroom drawer and I can’t stop thinking about them.” You tell her honestly.
She nods, asking where your bathroom is before disappearing. When she comes back, she holds the box and any other blade she found in there. She piles them onto your kitchen counter and comes back to you.
“Done” I’ll take them home with me so they can’t tempt you.
“Come on. Let’s get you to bed, you look exhausted.”
“I’m sorry for waking you, you must be exhausted too.” You look at her like a kicked puppy as she leads you to your bedroom.
“I’m an old lady. I’m used to not getting sleep.” She jokes lightheartedly as you reach your bed. She untucks your covers before fluffing your pillows and pointing towards it hoping you get the hint.
You do and you lay down against the pillows, letting her cover you up.
“Can I touch you?” She whispers.
For some reason you trust her. You don’t even have to think for long before you nod.
She kneels on your bed as she leans over you. Her hands hold your shoulders as her head dips down and her lips brush your forehead. They linger for a few seconds before she pulls away.
“Get some sleep, kid, I’ll let Robby know we’ll be in later tomorrow. I won’t tell him what’s happening, that’s your business.” She smiles.
You nod, blinking away tears. It had been years since you let anyone touch you. Let alone twice in one day.
You’d always been worried that anyone that touched you would burst into flames or get sick. It happened with your father when you were 14 and you’d sworn from that day on that you’d never let a person touch you for as long as you lived.
As she goes to stand up to leave your hand shoots out. Your fingertips barely graze her wrist, but it doesn’t even burn when they do.
“Can you stay? Just until I fall asleep? I don’t want to be alone.” You whisper. It feels pathetic. You wait for her to laugh in your face and call you names, but it never comes.
Instead she sits back on the edge of your bed, placing her hand over the top of yours. Where your scar sits, and she strokes your hand.
“Of course. I won’t go anywhere.”
It’s not much longer until you let your eyes drift closed. It’s even shorter between that and when your body lets sleep overcome it.
You feel asleep with your hand being held by someone who cared. Your hand was being held and that person was still alive and even after hearing about everything in your life, she was still there at the end of the day. Maybe you were capable of being loved.
A/N: the kettle hand thing is my true story. It’s healing well. But blacking out and harming yourself is a reality of mental health. These things happen. You don’t have to be ashamed.
Such a hard but relatable read, I know I won’t commit suicide bc it’s too permanent but I wish there was a way for everything to be quieter sometimes. Thank you for writing this it was absolutely incredible
