It's a Graves thing (soundofwings) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-05-05 16:47:00 |
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Entry tags: | alfred pennyworth |
Who: Iris
What: Released from Prison (narrative)
Where: Women's correctional facility -> Willows -> Fancy hotel
When: Today/after this
Warnings/Rating: Angst? Some abusive language.
It had only been a few more hours after Iris encountered Wren and MK that she was fetched by guards and taken to be released. At one point, one of the officers attempted to apologize in his own way, stating that the safety of the child had to be put first. That they had been going on strong evidence when she was arrested. Iris knew he was wrong and simply stared at him until he went quiet and looked away. She only replied to questions when it was necessary, the most important one being whether or not she would need a cab called.
The answer to that one was yes.
At some point, she knew she would have to contact a string of people, some for apologies, some for thanks and acknowledgement that she was in their debts. But for the moment, she simply wanted to return home, shower in her own space with a locking door that she controlled, and then possibly sleep forever.
Her homecoming wasn't quite as home-like as she had hoped, though. When the cab finally dropped her off and she made her way to her door, there were signs even on the outside that the police had come and gone more than once. She might have even been able to handle that, but someone else had been by as well, and their signs were more overt. Permanent marker scrawls, bad penmanship and awful words. More than one person had put the news broadcasts together with their quiet neighbor, and the evidence was in the angry letters: Child Killer. Psycho Bitch. Fuck you, whore. You'll burn in hell. I hope you die. Iris stared at them with her hand poised to unlock her door, but even though they blurred with forming tears, the words stayed the same.
When she finally shook herself enough to let herself into the apartment, the sight there didn't help to calm her much. Once again, the police had been through, tearing the place from top to bottom, looking for any sign of Gus or any clue that would lead them in the right direction. Iris' fingers shook as she carefully set her keys down on the table near the door, and she surveyed the mess, hoping to find the determination to tidy it again, to at least make it liveable enough to help return her life to normal. But the deep well of strength, fragile though it sometimes was, was empty of even the slightest bit of energy to push on, and she finally allowed herself the tears that she'd fought off the entire time. Her legs refused to hold her, and she folded to the floor as she sobbed.
Minutes passed, then more, the sun's angle moving across the floor as Iris poured herself out: the grief, anger, helplessness. With that gone she felt emptier and more hollow than she could remember ever feeling before, even in the first weeks at the hospital in Georgia. Tears dried up, salt tracks on her skin and puddled inside her glasses, she finally pushed herself to her feet with an effort that nearly broke her. Her legs wavered but held, and by trailing her hand along furniture and walls for support, she made her way down the hallway. Every room she passed through or looked into was in the same state of disarray, including the white tile of the bathroom, but she simply pushed things to the side and started the hot water. Door closed and locked behind herself, oversized towel at the ready, she undressed while ignoring the small injuries she'd collected, and climbed under the spray to attempt to wash the last days away.
Time passed without her tracking it, and when she again opened the door, steam billowed out into sunlight that was once again even lower in the sky. Wrapped in terrycloth, her bedroom was the next stop. As she dressed, something comforting and more casual than she was normally prone to, she gathered her other clothes in her bed, finding things that she would need over the next days. A hotel didn't seem like the cozy sort of retreat she'd been wanting, but neither was her apartment. More than that, it felt invaded, and a place that she could no longer abide. She would hire someone to take care of it - to pack things up and move her someplace else, but for the night she needed to escape.
A cab ride, a high-priced hotel, a room that resonated with comfort and quiet, a concierge request for a drugstore box of hair dye and a polite but insistent refusal of the use of their own on-staff hairdresser. People had watched Iris as she moved through the city, recognition close behind their eyes, and it had set her already frayed nerves even more on edge. If she had any hope of leaving the room again and still being sane, she had to change something, and that something was her haircolor. Newly dark, it provided a mask against the world. It was still wet when she climbed into the oversized bed, and dripped color onto the pillowcase, but she found that she couldn't care. Sleep pulled her down, Alfred's calming voice in her mind accompanying her into dreams.