The Girl with Depression

Today is the third day of the trial operation of Yale Shawn's "Star Mental Hospital." I deliberately took annual leave and brought Nina Scott for her first formal consultation. Nina Scott has been suffering from depression for three years. She was the primary beneficiary my mother cared for deeply before she passed away—when my mother was researching in the mountain region, she found Nina, an orphan, crouched in the school's storage room eating hard, stale steamed buns. My mother immediately decided to cover all her tuition and living expenses and often brought her home to stay. After my mother passed away, I took on the responsibility of caring for Nina. To me, she had long been like family. Yale Shawn proposed to me last year. He said that running this hospital was meant to provide Nina, whom my mother supported, a place for安心治疗—a safe treatment—and to help more children like her, so they wouldn't have to endure such hardship again. I believed it. He even temporarily took over managing the Star Medical Group, which my mother had founded. The doctor attending was Dr. Warren, around fifty years old, with hair so thin on top that you could see his scalp. He pushed up his glasses and told me to wait outside the consulting room, saying, 'The treatment requires absolute quiet, and having family members present will affect its effectiveness.' I didn't think much and sat down on the bench in the corridor. I still clutched the grapes Nina loved to eat, planning to peel them for her when she came out—last time after chemotherapy, she had no appetite and could only manage to swallow half a bowl of porridge with the help of these sweet and sour grapes. Only five minutes had passed when Nina Scott's scream echoed from the consulting room. That sound was not her usual plaintive cry; it was a terrified, broken scream, raw and desperate. I stood up at once. Without waiting for Dr. Warren to respond, I pushed open the consulting room door. The scene before me sent a rush of blood pounding to my head. Dr. Warren's hand was reaching toward Nina Scott's collar. She was curled up in the corner, clutching her clothes tightly, trembling like a leaf in the autumn wind. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" I rushed over, shoved Dr. Warren aside, and shielded Nina Scott behind me. Dr. Warren staggered back a few steps, still trying to argue, "You don't understand, this is our hospital's special treatment method..." I raised my hand and slapped him; the sharp sound echoed through the consulting room. Nina clung to my arm, burying her face in my shoulder, trembling as she cried. I pulled out my cell phone, my fingers shaking as I tried to call Yale Shawn—I had to ask him how he had hired such a scoundrel. A hand painted with bright red nail polish suddenly reached out. Before I could press anything, that hand snatched my cell phone away. I looked up and saw a woman wearing a white coat. The collar of her white coat was cut very low, revealing a thick gold necklace around her neck, and her makeup was so heavy it seemed she was about to attend an evening banquet. "How dare you cause trouble in my hospital?" She raised her hand and smashed the cell phone onto the ground, then ground the screen harshly under the stiletto of her ten-centimeter high heels. Glass shards scattered onto my pant legs, producing a sharp, grating sound. She crossed her arms, her eyes brimming with arrogance: "Are you tired of living?" "Who are you?" I held Nina Scott tighter, watching her with caution. "I am the principal of this hospital, Mary Scott." She rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with disdain: "Someone like you probably can't even afford the registration fee, yet you dare interfere with my affairs?" "I don't care who you are," I sneered, "your hospital's doctors are molesting patients, you do nothing, and yet you dare smash my cell phone?" "Apologize to Nina Scott immediately, or I'll make sure your hospital can't keep running!" Mary seemed as if she had heard a joke. She took out her cell phone and dialed a number in front of me.