It's a Graves thing (soundofwings) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-11-22 16:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | death |
Who: Iris
What: Things are changing (narrative)
Where: Hospital and on the move
When: In the days after her fight with Sam
Warnings/Rating: Talk of injuries. Some angst, but I swear I tried to turn it down this time.
Her face was swollen enough that her first trip into the bathroom had her staring at the mirror for long, silent moments. She’d known that a number had been done on her, could tell from the way everything ached and throbbed, the way the world still swam when she moved too quickly, the tight hot feel of the skin over cheeks and nose, the difficulty focusing her eyes and in pulling a full breath of oxygen. Painkillers flooder her system in addition to her usual medications, and she found that there were certain things she just couldn’t gather herself to care about.
The thought that Sam had beat her on purpose, had specifically invited her over for it, the words she’d shouted as the blows hit, those memories were swiftly pushed away as best she could. She tried not to think about it, tried to focus on anything else. But they snuck back when she wasn’t alert enough to be on guard, and she discovered that she could still cry, even through pain and prescription.
It was the morning of her third day in the hospital when she was told she was being discharged. It was the morning of the third day when she discovered that (with the newly documented violence in her situation), the facility was recommending (strongly, with no chance for appeal) that she find some other place to live. It was the morning of the third day when the police detective showed up and began asking questions. Based on the statements of one Samantha Alexander, Iris’ relationship with (and possible role in the crimes of) Ian Russell was being investigated. And perhaps she could be so kind as to answer their questions. And stay in the city, where she would be available for further investigational procedures.
She didn’t have it in herself to refuse.
By the time the discharge paperwork was completed, Iris was dressed in a clean set of scrubs, her belongings in a plastic bag, and she’d managed to secure a place in a new facility across town. Maybe it was a little older, a little run down, a little more accessible to anyone in the city that needed help. Maybe the doctors had heavier case loads and the people that worked there more stressed. Maybe there was very little organization for days off-site, even under the supervision of a responsible adult. Maybe it wasn’t where she wanted to be, but was running out of time and options as the sun began to set. Promises of immediate cash were needed before she could guarantee herself a room. (It was, luckily and thankfully enough, not the hospital that Sam had been taken to. Not that Iris was aware that Sam was in the hospital at all.)
They took her belongings, not that there were many. Just the once-light dress and sweater that would never again be anything other than a dark, crusted red. The flat shoes, which they replaced with thin socks that had rubber grip marks on the bottom so she wouldn’t slip on the polished tile floors. The book – that they deemed to be alright to keep in her possession, as patients were allowed to journal and it appeared innocent enough to them.
She sat in the common room, startling slightly every time one of the other patients shouted or drew too near. Most of them just stared at her, the way her face was swollen and discolored. She shivered in the short sleeves of the scrub top, wishing for a thick sweater that she didn’t have. She was glad when she could slip away, go to her room, and curl up in bed with a sigh.