Who: Iris What: Being arrested (narrative) Where: Residential facility -> police station -> anonymous apartment When: Right now? Warnings/Rating: Sads. Apathy. Self-pity. More apathy.
The police had shown up again late morning, after a string of hours (had it already been days?) where Iris barely slept, barely ate, and spent most of her time in the common area, curled up in one of the chairs and watching the tv. The high profile of the families involved had bumped the story up to some of the national news channels, especially those that loved the more salacious type of news, and so she was able to watch, almost constantly, as their stories cycled past. There were programs on each of the families involved, detailing past history of all of the members, and some of the reporters had been putting in long hours to try to find more on the Alexanders as well. Iris watched the segments that put the puzzle pieces of her life together into someone that would hunt down her sister with an eye to murdering her.
It made her sick, unable to eat even if she'd thought of it, staring at the created woman on the screen, trying to reconcile the fact that it was meant to be her. At one point, she saw an interview with her parents, and buried her face against her knees until their voices disappeared from the television. The staff tried to carry on with their jobs around her, but most everyone avoided her if they could. Dishes of simple food were left on the small table nearby, but no one forced her to eat (as they might have otherwise), and when they grew too cold they were removed again.
It took her a moment to register when the police arrived, the repetitions of "Miss Morgenstern" finally making their way through her self-induced television trance. She blinked up at them, and without them having to say anything, she nodded and finally unfolded herself from her chair. They allowed her enough (supervised) time to change her clothes, brush her hair and teeth, and present herself far better than the woman that had sat catatonic in front of the television since her last visit to the presinct.
When she was escorted to the car, she was glad that they didn't handcuff her, at least, and she kept her gaze down and turned away from the cameras that were still gathered at the edge of the facility's property. She knew that the news would have more footage within moments to splay across the screens for everyone to see, but she'd found a place within her mind (just before the hard core of anger that was finally starting) that was numb to it. Numbness, self-pity, anger, apathy, she cycled through all of them during the ride in the back of the squad car, around and back again until it was a constant sort of swirl of emotion that finally, forcefully, ended up in numbness. It was the numbness that continued through the line up, following directions to step forward, listening to what they told her to do. It lasted through her actual arrest, the things that needed to be completed to indicate that she was the guilty one.
It seemed like years (holding rooms, paperwork, numbness) before her lawyers were able to intervene, the bail being set at an amount that most people wouldn't even be able to dream of. But the accounts from her parents were still accessible, and she was able to post the money. She wasn't violent (not to anyone but Sam, they said), and with even more paperwork to indicate where she could and couldn't go, she was released. For the moment. The trial would come in its own time, and then things might change again. Likely would.
Her return to the facility offered no reprive. If she had given it any thought, she would have realized that while she was at the station, of course the police would have been in her rooms. Searching. Looking for that final thing that would tie her to the shooting. They hadn't found it, of course (though at this point, Iris was beginning to wonder if something might just appear). But after they were gone, the staff of the facility had followed them, putting her belongings into bags - slick black and meant for trash. They were waiting for her upon her arrival, along with her mandatory discharge paperwork. Maybe she should have been surprised. Or panicked. But the sight of the bags only made her sigh and sign where she was told. And then she took her bags, tried to ignore the shouting and cameras outside, and left again.
She ended up at her lawyers' office, not knowing where else to go, and was thankful (as much as she could be) when someone there took pity on her. An apartment was arranged (single bedroom, small, furnished plainly and with a small amount of food in the refrigerator), the police notified of her "new address", and they used a back exit from the offices when someone drove her there, losing the media circus in the process. When the door clicked behind her, she locked it immediately and left her bags near the door, crossing the modest living room and slipping into the bedroom. It was as anonymous as any hospital room she'd stayed in over the past years, the sheets holding a faint trace of bleach and detergent. There was no television for her to turn on in the bedroom, so she simply dug herself a grave under the covers and slipped into it, still in the clothes she'd worn to be arrested in. Sleep wouldn't come, but she remained there, still and silent.