It's a Graves thing (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} soundofwings) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} doorslogs, |
It wasn't the end, and she gave a frustrated little sob at the next memory. Alfred knew the tiny cat, and they both knew the tired young man sitting there. The owner of the memory (Miss Stephanie, Alfred provided, even though he's not her Alfred) was worried, and it only made Iris worry more. She was still dealing with the strange disconnect of knowing people through the door well enough to possibly consider them a friend, but that distance didn't make her worry any less. In a city like Gotham, it made her worry even more. They both seemed so young in that moment, and while there was nothing awful happening immediately, she wished desperately for both of them to take care of each other.
There was a pause, enough of a break for Iris to begin to catch her breath and hope that it (whatever it was) had passed. She was shaky, both mentally and physically, but was clinging on desperately. And it was working.
But then the last memory reached in and turned her inside out. Once she was herself again, she found herself with her arms wrapped around her stomach folded over them so that her forehead nearly touched her knees. Eyes squeezed tight, she let out the screams that the owner of the memory could not, echoing around the hotel lobby. Shoulders shaking, the screams tapered off into harsh sobs as the memory refused to completely let go of her. She could still see the woman behind closed eyes, feel the warmth of blood on hands and face. The hate was stronger than anything else she'd felt in too long, and her entire world vibrated on a tightly wound string. In those moments, still half caught in the memory, she wanted to find someone, anyone, to hurt. Her fingers dug into her arms without even realizing it, sobs still harsh and loud.