“Good,” I murmur. “That’s good.”
I continue with my assessment, noting everything. The scrapes and bruises that have already started to form. But no obvious fractures thankfully. Her pulse, though, is still racing. And her eyes keep scanning up and down the street. Like she’s waiting for someone to come back.
She reminds me of a patient a few weeks ago. She’d been called in by a restaurant worker who saw her wandering the street, looking lost and scared, eventually hiding behind a dumpster down an alleyway. We’d picked her up, Scott noting that her behavior was unusual and considered that she might have a mental illness.
But not long after we dropped her off at the ED, police were being called in. I never found out what happened to her since she wouldn’t tell me anything during assessment and transport aside from “he’s coming back.” We never found out who “he” was. But she had the same look as the girl in front of me. The same grip marks on her arms and bruising in various stages of healing. Someone had gotten to her too. At the time, I’d considered a domestic dispute but now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a serial attacker assaulting women.
I blink, forcing myself back to the present. The woman in front of me shifts, wincing as she moves.
“Where does it hurt the most?” I ask.
“My arm,” she laments quietly.
I nod, gently palpating the area. She tenses again.
“Hey, it’s just me,” I remind her.
Her gaze locks onto mine, searching like she’s trying to decide something.
“You’re sure he won’t come back, right?” she whispers.
The question hits my memories, reminding me again of that patient a few weeks ago. It takes significant effort to keep from spiraling into thoughts of something much more serious than this singular woman, and possible victim. “I’m not gonna let anyone come near you,” I say carefully. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
It’s not a lie; it’s just not a full truth either.
Her lips press together like she isn’t convinced.
I spray her scraps with an antiseptic and bandage what’s necessary, but there isn’t much more I can do for her. She needs pain meds, a rape kit, and maybe some therapy, not the limited amount of help that I can give her.
“She’s good,” I say, glancing back at the men behind me. “No major injuries, just superficial trauma. She can be transported if she wants, but I don’t assess her to be in a state of lacking decision-making capacity.”
I pull myself to standing while that officer who feels like a thorn in my side nods his head. Then he starts talking like he’s the one in charge here. “Alright, we’re going to need a statement.”
She recoils slightly. “I didn’t… Th-there’s nothing-”
“You were found stumbling out of an alleyway,” he presses. “Someone called it in. You expect us to just-”
“She said she fell,” I cut in. As much as I want her to get better care and probably a police report, I don’t want this guy bullying a woman who’s clearly scared of men and presenting her as a danger to herself.
His gaze snaps to me. “And you believe that?” he asks flatly.
I hold his stare. “No,” I admit, even though I know she can hear me. Maybebecauseshe can hear me.
A moment of silence passes amongst everyone, tension tightening in the space between us. I feel Alex’s eyes burning into me.
“Look,” he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “We deal with this all the time. People get spooked, make something out of nothing-”
“Those aren’t ‘nothing’,” I say, nodding towards her arms. “That’s a grip pattern.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, burrowing them between her front side and her legs to keep them out of view.
He scoffs. “Or she grabbed onto something when she fell.”
Is he dense? My blood starts to boil. “She has symmetrical bruising on both arms. Explain that.” I shouldn’t be doing this in front of the patient but I’m much more inclined to seem unprofessional in front of her than to let him try to brush this off or to blame her.
“Coincidence.”
“She’s exhibiting signs of acute stress response, hypervigilance, refusal to identify herself-”
