It's a Graves thing (soundofwings) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2014-02-03 11:14:00 |
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Entry tags: | death |
Who: Iris
What: Getting some help
Where: The apartment she's currently staying in
When: Since her arrest up until now/recently. But before all of the Valentine's/cupid things really kicked in and before Sam woke up (?).
Warnings/Rating: Talk of ongoing mental health issues and their effects, mostly
The apartment was small. Quiet, even when she had the television turned on (which wasn't all the time - only when she felt able to pull herself out of bed). She had a phone, but no one every called it. She had her journal, and looked at it regularly, but seldom actually wrote in it. She didn't leave to go anywhere, and the days passed. Days in which her sister stayed in a coma and everyone thought she was to blame.
She wasn't certain how long it was from the time when she had been dropped off to the first visit from one of her lawyers. Long enough that she should have eaten more from the refrigerator and cabinets. Long enough that she should have showered at least once. Likely far more than that. But she hadn't. The strangeness of someone knocking on her door had forced her to answer it (television on in the background, still playing a news station that ocassionally cycled back around to more of the same information on "the case"). The lawyer had taken one look at her and slipped into the apartment while pulling out his phone. He sat her down on the sofa while he spoke to the person on the other end of the line, and when he hung up, he went to the kitchen to make her some tea. The group of them knew enough about her to know the types she liked the most. The types that had been there on her counter next to an electric kettle, waiting for her to make a cup. It hadn't happened.
When he handed it to her, it was brewed strong and sweet, too many leaves and too much sugar, but she was glared at until she began to sip at it, and it was just easier to wrap her trembling hands around the mug and comply. She couldn't get herself to still, even by focusing on them, and more than once almost dropped the mug into her lap. Every time she fumbled, her lawyer caught it with sharp eyes, and a frown stayed on his face.
Time ticked past with no conversation, and then someone else was knocking on her door and being escorted inside. In contrast to her be-suited legal representation, the new person in the apartment was a woman in brightly-colored scrubs with a soft voice and an expression that spoke of both sadness and steel. Introductions were made, and "Sandy" was revealed as Iris' new nurse. Hired now to visit every day, to make sure Iris got out of bed, showered, ate, did the little things needed to keep herself alive. And it started right then.
She wasn't certain how much time passed after that. Her life became, for just a bit, a blur of being escorted to the bathroom, stripped and bathed like an oversized doll with arms that were too heavy and weak to fight anything off. Her hair was shampooed and then combed out for her, woven back into a single, clean braid, and she was helped into clothing that was layered and heavy and smelled surprisingly of fabric softener. The clothing wasn't her own - wasn't the sort of thing she usually wore - yoga pants and thick socks, long-sleeved tshirts and a new, fleecey hoodie - but it was comfortable and warm, and she didn't question where it had come from. Then she was returned to the couch and given another mug - this one of soup (chicken noodle with only a few noodles, a few pieces of celery and carrot, and two chunks of actual, real chicken). It took her what seemed like forever to eat even part of it, and she got to a point where she could only stare at the still half-full mug and sigh. Sandy was there to take it again with steady hands, saying soft, encouraging things with her warm voice about how they would work on making it easier again.
When her two guests were finally satisfied with the (small but seemingly monumental) progress, they finally made sounds about leaving again. But this time, it was with Sandy's promise that she would be back the next day, and that the procedure would be the same. Bathe or shower, dress, food. It shouldn't have been much, but just the thought of it was exhausting. And pointless. The thoughts showed in her expression, because Sandy was there again with a reassurance and encouragement. The feelings would pass, her lawyers would make sure that everyone knew that she didn't shoot her sister, and then things could work on getting better. "Better" seemed so beyond anything she could hope for, but Iris just nodded.
Her television was turned away from the news channel, over to a channel that played movies for families - nothing too grim or sad - and her "guests" showed themselves out, Sandy taking an extra key with her. Iris stayed on the sofa, wrapped in the two thickest blankets she could find, and sometime in the middle of the afternoon, she actually got up to make herself another cup of tea before turning her scant bit of energy to her journal to research a Valentine's gift.