Chapter Text
You looked around the crowded emergency room and sighed heavily as you sat down.
“I really don’t need to be here,” you told your best friend who had insisted on bringing you there. You felt so pathetic as you kept the blood stained white towel pressed against the injury on your arm. You had been drunk, depressed and happened to carry a razor blade in your wallet, so you cut yourself a bit deeper than planned in an acquaintance’s bathroom during a party. You had forgotten to lock the door properly and your best friend had found you in there with blood dripping from the open wound on your arm. Your friend had quickly grabbed the towel and instructed you to press it against your injury, so you did. They then went on to gather your things and took you to the nearest ER.
“Don’t be silly, you need to get stitches for that,” your friend said insistently.
You had to wait for quite some time before it was finally your turn to see a doctor. The doctor hastily cleaned your wound and gave you stitches. You were about to stand up and leave when she stopped you.
“I would like you to speak with a colleague of mine before you leave,” she said insistently and looked at you sympathetically. “You can get help for this,” she told you earnestly.
“Okay,” you mumbled and didn’t dare to leave the examination room. As you sat there and waited, you texted your friend and insisted that they should go home - or rather, back to the party - since your hospital visit might take longer than expected.
You had been sitting scrolling on your phone for about fifteen minutes before someone came to check on you. You could have just left, but you didn’t dare to leave in case someone would come after you.
“Good evening,” a tall man with kind blue eyes said from the door. “I’m doctor Tom Hiddleston and I’m a psychiatrist,” he introduced himself and shook your hand.
“I’m [first and last name],” you replied quietly.
“It’s nice to meet you, [your name]. I would like to ask you a couple of questions about your injury and about how you’re feeling. Would that be alright?” the doctor asked and you nodded in response. “Great, could you tell me what happened to your arm?”
“I… I cut myself,” you mumbled.
“Did you do it on purpose?” he wondered and you nodded again. “Do you know why?” You shook your head at him. “Do you have thoughts about ending your own life?” You hesitated, before nodding at him. You might as well tell the truth. “Do you have any plans for how you would do it?” You swallowed nervously before nodding again. You felt strangely relieved to finally tell someone about it. “Here’s what I think we should do. I would like you to come with me to the psychiatric ward and we can sit there and talk some more about how you’re feeling right now. I would also like you to fill in some papers. Does that sound alright to you?” You thought about it for a moment, before nodding at him.
You followed the doctor out the door, down a corridor, into an elevator, through another corridor and finally through a door with the words Psychiatric Ward written on it.
“Here,” the doctor said and opened the door to a room with chairs, a desk with a computer and a whiteboard. You sat down on one of the chairs and he smiled at you. “I’ll be right back.”
You didn’t have to wait long until he came back with a few papers for you to fill in. There were questions about how you were feeling and you answered them honestly. It was a relief to finally get to tell someone about how you felt, how bad it really was.
After you had filled in your answers, the doctor skimmed through the questions on the questionnaire and calculated the results.
“According to your answers, you’re severely depressed,” the doctor informed you with a concerned look on his face. “You also have severe anxiety.”
“Okay,” you replied quietly.
“And you haven’t had any contact with the psychiatric care?” he wondered and you shook your head. “What about your health care center?” You shook your head again. “So you don’t take any medications?” Again, you replied by shaking your head at him. “I can help you with your depression and anxiety,” he told you. “Would you like me to help you?” You nodded at him. “How about we get you started on an antidepressant right away and have you stay here for a couple days just to make sure that you’re okay? Does that sound alright to you?”
“Okay,” you agreed. For some reason, you felt like you could trust him.
“I’ll make sure to find you a bed. I’ll be right back,” he said before leaving the room again.
He came back a couple of minutes later with a psychiatric aide and gently placed a hand on your shoulder as if to reassure you that you were going to be alright. “[Your name]. This is Jane, she’ll show you around the ward and to the room you’ll be staying in for the next couple of days. Does that sound okay?”
“Okay,” you agreed.
“I’ll get you started on some antidepressants starting tomorrow and I’ll also prescribe an anxiolytic that you can take up to three times a day for your anxiety. Just ask one of the nurses and they’ll give it to you. Do you think you can do that?”
“I think so,” you mumbled insecurely.
“If it’s difficult for you to ask for help verbally, you can always write a note and hand it to one of the staff members and they’ll help you,” the doctor suggested helpfully and handed you a notepad and a pen. “Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes,” you replied, glad to have been given an alternative way of communicating.
“Good,” doctor Hiddleston said with a smile. “I’ll see you again on Monday and we’ll follow up on how you’re doing. It might take a few weeks until the antidepressants begin to have an effect, but the anxiolytics are pretty quick-acting and should have an effect about twenty minutes to half an hour after you’ve taken them,” he informed you. “Do you have any questions?”
“For how long will I stay here?” you wondered.
“For as long as you need to,” doctor Hiddleston replied. “Just take the weekend to get some rest and we’ll talk more about it on Monday.”
“Okay,” you agreed. You felt really tired, so you didn’t mind staying at the hospital over the weekend. That way you would have a perfect excuse not to interact with anyone. You felt like you had made a fool out of yourself by hurting yourself at a friend’s party like that, and you just wanted to hide away from the rest of the world anyway.