"What's wrong with you this time?" her mother said doubtfully as she approached young Molly's bed.
"I'm sick," Molly responded. "I keep shaking."
Her hand touched Molly's forehead with a light sigh. "Hm. You're burning up. How long have you been shaking for?"
"Since I woke up," six-year-old Molly said quietly. "I keep seeing things, momma. Something scary is in my room."
Her mother smiled, despite knowing her daughter was afraid. "It's not real, Molly. Nothing can hurt you while I'm here."
"It looks real," Molly whimpered.
"I know it does. It's just the fever. I'm going to call a doctor."
"Don't leave me!" Molly cried. "The monster, it-"
"Let me ask you something," her mother said. "Did you see this monster before today?"
"No."
"So you've never seen this monster before you became sick?"
"No, but-"
"So, if you only see the monster now, when you are sick, doesn't that mean that the sickness is causing it?"
Molly sighed. "I guess."
"I promise you," her mother whispered. "The only monsters in this world are the ones we all see."
"Humans?" Molly asked. Her mother nodded.
"Not all humans but some. That's why nothing can hurt you when I'm here because I can see them, too."
"Okay, momma."
"I love you. Now I'm going to call that doctor. We'll get you well again."
We'll get you well again. Molly repeats her mother's words to herself as she stands at the window of a private cubical. Only humans are monsters.
"Molly?"
The voice comes from behind her. She doesn't flinch. She watches the sun lighting up the clear, blue sky with a brand-new day. A day she shouldn't see.
"My name is Doctor Alan Ranch. I'm a psychologist at the hospital. I understand you've been given a physical examination which concluded some mild bruising to your wrists and arm but they should heal over the next few days. I'm here to ask you a few questions about the events of tonight."
Molly takes a deep breath and turns around with her lips twisting into a fake smile that pains her to form. "I'm fine, really. My wrists hurt a little but that's all. I climbed over the wall to get a better view of the water and I slipped and thankfully someone was there to help. It's been a long night and I'm really tired."
"I understand," he says, walking closer with a clipboard to his chest. The man is tall, middle-aged, and has slick, gelled dark hair. He wears glasses, so it's hard to tell what his eyes are like. Not that she cares. "But, I'm afraid you won't be leaving just yet."
"This is pointless," she argues. "I've been here hours, can't I go home?"
"Molly, we've already contacted your legal guardians," Alan says. "And the police have spoken to them. We know that you left them a suicide note."
Crap. She had forgotten about that. How did she forget? Why did she write it! She wasn't expecting to be saved or interrupted, she didn't expect any of this, how is she supposed to lie her way out now?
Alan glances down to his clipboard. "We're aware that you are already seeing a child psychologist, Helen Jackson, and she's been informed of the incident and will be coming to speak with you."
"You're wasting your time," Molly says. "That letter was written weeks ago when I was feeling suicidal. I'm not anymore. My sessions with Helen are helping. I am trying to get better. Holding me here will make things worse. You can't hold me here against my will anyway, I have a right to leave."
"Molly, do you understand what the term 'emergency detention' means?"
She shakes her head.
"It means that under state law your foster parents can sign a form which detains you in our care for mental health treatment if you're believed to be a risk to yourself."
"I didn't jump!" Molly shouts. "Why won't anyone believe me? I'm not suicidal, I'm not depressed. I'm not anything. Given my history and the hell I've been through I understand why they would think that but it's not true, I swear."
"It's not my job to assess what is and isn't true," Alan says quietly. "It's my job to assess your well-being. And I can't do that after one session. You'll be detained in the mental health unit for five days and in that five days I'm just going to talk to you. If you're well then you can go home in five days and forget about all of this."
"Five days?" Molly mutters. She turns back to the window and starts chewing on her nails. "I can't. . . I can't be here that long, okay? I can't."
"It'll be fine. There's nothing to be afraid of," he assures her soothingly. "It's just a precaution more than anything. Anything you say to me during our sessions will be strictly confidential but the final assessment will be passed on to a panel to assess you for release. If there's anything that you don't want the panel to know then you should let me know. Do you understand that. Molly?"
"I understand," she says, not looking at him. "I'm not exactly new to therapy."
"It isn't new to me either," Alan chuckles, attempting to make a joke. Molly is silent. "I'll be back to check on you this afternoon and we'll conduct our first official session. Until then I suggest you get some rest."
Molly glances at the bed in the cubical and finds her eyes growing heavy. She is tired. She's exhausted. But how can she sleep? How can she rest? She can't. Five days is too long.
"Are my foster parents here?" Molly asks.
"They are. Would you like to see them?"
"No," she says, sitting down on the flat, white-sheeted mattress. "I don't want to see them."
"I'll tell them you're resting," he says. "They've brought some of your belongings, would you like someone to bring them in for you?"
"Could you. . ." She bites down on her lip, afraid to say it, but then she looks at him and finds the courage. "Could you ask Charlie to bring them in? I want to speak with him."
"Charlie?" he says in confusion.
"He's the one that, uh, saved me. He came with me in the ambulance."
"I'll ask if he's still around but the likelihood might be that he's left. If he has then I'll send a nurse in to bring them to you. Get some rest, okay?"
"Okay," she whispers.
She waits until he leaves and then she darts her eyes around the room. The door isn't locked but the unit will be. This isn't her first time in a mental health unit, her first time was when she was sixteen and she suffered her first breakdown. Her foster parents didn't know what to do with her so they left her there, alone, for a whole month. Five days is nothing compared to that lonely month but it will feel longer now that she's finally ready to go.
Even though she knows she won't find much she looks around for something to aid her desire. There isn't anything hanging from the ceiling, not even curtains and the lights are implanted into holes. The window is locked and the blinds are too thin to use. They'll only have showers available, not baths, and if they bring her medication they will be on a dish and not in a tube. They will minimize her contact with anything sharp and they will process all of the belongings that will be brought to her.
Molly lays down on the bed. Her head is spinning with worries, with fears. She never imagined she'd have to feel fear again. Why is it so hard to be free? They want to help, she knows that, but why can't they see?
Charlie saw it. She saw it flash in his eyes like disco lights the moment she told him about her past in the ambulance. He understood it even if it can't be understood.
Now, she just needs to make him understand it a little better. That's if he ever comes back. She wouldn't blame him if he doesn't. Who would want to be saddled with this? Not even the doctors want to go there so Charlie will be out of his depth. But he might be her only chance.