Only 17

She is shaking uncontrollably. Her knees are pulled to her chest and when I address her, she briefly unburies her face from her hands. The face that greets me is far too young to be in her predicament. I know that she doesn't need medical help but the officers onscene aren't going to deal with her so I am left with no choice.
I ask her name and she replies in a small terrified voice. She tells me she is only 17.

“They told me you tried to cut your wrists,” I pose the statement as more of a question. Her head is buried in her hands again & she nods in reply.
“Can I see?”
She obediently pulls her arm out of the folds of her coat and shows me where there are multiple superficial scratches down her entire left forearm. None of them are bleeding currently. I ask her several questions about why and how she attempted to cut her wrists. She answers all of them calmly and patiently. The officers began to wander away. This girl is of no threat to me or anyone else and they want as little to do with her as possible.
“We need to go up to the hospital to get you checked out,” I tell her.
Her terrified eyes meet mine. “Do I have to go?”
I crinkle my face into a semi-frown and nod. “Sweetie, we don't get a choice about these things. Any time someone tries to hurt themselves, they need to see a doctor. It'd be good for you to talk to someone. C'mon, we'll get you on our cot and we can talk more on the way there.”
She is reluctant but I know that she implicitly trusts me at the moment. She obligingly crawls out of the van and wanders toward our cot nearby.
“I've never been in one of these before,” she confesses as we move her into the ambulance.
“That's a good thing. Hopefully this is your only time.”
She attempts a weak smile as I turn on my monitor and wrap a blood pressure cuff around her arm. She watches quietly.
“I'm gonna call the hospital and let them know we're on our way,” I explain.
When I hang up the phone, she is staring at me. “What was your name again? Amber? Thank you, Amber.”
I tell her I'm happy to help. She then begins asking me about what the numbers on my monitor mean. I explain each one, what they mean and whether hers are normal or not. She is holding onto every word.
“Thank you for being honest with me. Nobody tells me the truth anymore. If something is wrong, I see someone make a face but they tell me everything is fine. I hate it. Thanks for not doing that.”
“You're welcome.” I am just doing my job. I am just doing what comes natural to me...what I know I need to do. But I won't tell her that. Right now, her entire world hinges on me and this is more than just a job.
We arrive at the hospital a few moments later. We gently wheel her into a room set aside for psych patients. It is devoid of all equipment except a bed. It's walls are a sickening tan color and it feels cold. We carefully scoot her onto the waiting bed. I wrap her in warm blankets and offer her a smile. There is nothing left I can do. She is part of “the system” now and she is no longer my patient. I hope that the next caregiver makes her feel as safe as I have tried to do.
“Take care,” I tell her. She thanks me again and I hesitantly make my way out of the room.