Nothing Is as It Seems: Gala’s Diary

“Dr. Gallagher, please—we have a situation in Room 503.”

I barely had time to smooth my hair under my cap before Nurse Violet’s urgent whisper cut through the pre-dawn quiet of the nurse’s station. The scent of burnt coffee and antiseptic hung in the air. Her eyes darted toward the closed door at the end of the hall. “It’s Ivy Peterson. She’s been begging all night—wants her clothes, wants to go home. Kept saying you promised to check on her.”

I exhaled, gripping my clipboard like a shield. “Thank you, Violet. I’ll handle it.”

My heels echoed down the hallway as I approached Ivy’s door. She was sixteen, admitted last week after a failed overdose. Her chart said ‘major depressive episode’ but, as I’d quickly learned in this hospital, nothing was ever that simple.

I knocked softly. “Ivy? It’s Dr. Gallagher. Can I come in?”

Her voice was muffled, strained. “I just want to go home.”

I slipped inside. Ivy sat curled on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, hair falling in a dark curtain over her face. Her hands trembled in her lap.

“Ivy, talk to me. What’s going on?”

She looked up, blue eyes rimmed red. “No one believes me. Not you, not my mom, not anyone.”

I pulled up a chair, feeling the weight of the room press in. “Try me.”

She hesitated, then whispered, “He visits at night. The man with the badge. Says he’ll make it worse if I talk.”

A chill prickled down my spine. Was this delusion? Or something else?

Before I could answer, her mother—Cynthia Peterson—burst into the room, immaculate in her business suit, voice sharp as glass. “Dr. Gallagher, I demand you discharge my daughter. Today. This place is making her worse.”

I stood, heart pounding. “Mrs. Peterson, Ivy is still a danger to herself. I can’t—”

“She’s not crazy,” Cynthia hissed, yanking her daughter’s arm. “She just needs to come home.”

Ivy flinched. I saw it then: the subtle recoil, the silent plea.

I forced myself to stay calm. “Ma’am, please. If you take her now, against medical advice—”

“I’ll sue this hospital,” Cynthia snapped. “And you, personally.”

The door slammed behind them. I stared at the empty bed, doubts swirling in my gut.

Later, in the break room, I confided in Violet. “Ivy claims someone’s threatening her. Could there be a staff member—someone with a badge?”

Violet’s expression darkened. “You know who’s on at night. Security. Orderlies. That new psych tech, Ben.”

Ben. I’d seen him in the halls—too smooth, always smiling. Something about him had made my skin crawl.

I pulled Ivy’s file, flipping through the notes. Night shift, complaints of nightmares, unexplained bruises. But no one had connected the dots—until now.

That evening, I stayed late, lurking near the nurses’ station. At midnight, I saw Ben slip into Ivy’s room. My heart thundered as I followed, careful to stay silent. The door was ajar. Inside, Ben loomed over Ivy’s bed, voice low.

“If you talk, I can make things much worse for you. I know where your family lives.”

I snapped. “Step away from her, Ben!”

He spun, eyes wide. “Dr. Gallagher. I was just—”

“I heard everything. Security’s on its way.”

It was chaos—security guards, administrators, Ivy sobbing in my arms. Ben was fired, arrested. But damage had already been done.

After the dust settled, Cynthia Peterson returned, more subdued. “Is it true?” she whispered, tears gathering. “All this time, I thought she was making it up.”

I wanted to scream, but all I managed was, “She needs you to believe her now.”

Ivy was transferred to a safe facility, but the case haunted me. Every time I walked those halls, I wondered how often this happened—how often we dismissed a cry for help because it was easier to believe in illness than in evil.

Months passed. The hospital moved on. I didn’t. Sometimes, I still dream of Ivy’s eyes—pleading, terrified, and finally, relieved.

I sit in the empty nurse’s station, writing this in my diary. The world outside is waking. I wonder: How many other Ivys are out there, waiting for someone to finally listen? And how do we, as caregivers, find the courage to see the truth when it hides behind a mask of madness?

What would you have done if you were me? Would you believe the unimaginable, or trust what’s written in the files?