Gotham: Iris Narrative Who: Iris What: Starting a new life Where: Gotham When: Now Warnings/Rating: Some talk of injury. Job hunting.
Iris knew that there was something going on in another door. There were a handful of messages that had remained public and unlocked, but she couldn't quite fit it together to paint a picture of what had happened. She knew it wasn't the door she was in, at the very least, and had no idea that anyone she knew even in passing had been involved. And maybe she should have asked, put out a general question to people. But to be honest, she felt like her own life was sand slipping through her fingers, and for once she was doing her best to keep it all held close.
The cuts on her body were healing. Not quickly. And not prettily. There were still wide gouges held together by dark red, the skin still knitting beneath the rough surface of each cut or gouge or scratch. They hurt, and for the first time in years she felt present enough to truly experience it. It was awful and painful and made her move so much more slowly than she even normally did, but the pain was something bright and sharp and kept her grounded in her body the way nothing else really did. She found that, while sometimes she wished for them in the night, when no position was comfortable and sleep was chased away, most of her waking hours found her not missing the painkillers that she'd given to the taxi driver as payment.
Besides the pain, her days were filled with the steps she was taking to sort out her life. The shelter offered advice on how to prepare a resume, how interview, even what to wear. In her stubborn insistence to not return to the penthouse (not yet, at least), she found herself again without a wardrobe, and relied on what the shelter provided - donated items that maybe didn't fit quite right, tucked in and belted where needed. She looked much less like someone that might be seen coming and going from Wayne Towers. She looked quiet, contained, and (if she kept her skin covered) normal. The shirts she wore all had long sleeves, higher collars, and were large enough that the shape of her body stayed hidden under them. It helped, too, that they were large enough to not chafe at the lines along her skin, especially in the days after she had her stitches removed, one last appointment that Bruce would have to pay for. The rest of it she would take care of with the ointment she'd been given by the doctors. And if maybe she couldn't reach a few of the cuts, couldn't twist around well enough to care for them without splitting another one open? Well. She was sure they'd be fine. She had to have faith in that, at least.
Days passed, and she created a resume that was as good as it could be. She didn't (couldn't) have contact information for the time she'd been Gus' nanny, and that was the only real job she'd ever had. She may have taken correspondence courses over the years, but none of that was available to her anymore, either. All she had was the ID that she'd kept tucked into the back pages of her journal. It was enough to prove who she was, but that was all. It was enough for her to start looking at the job openings that were on offer, to think about claiming a pair of trousers and a business casual shirt and start going out on interviews.
Each interview ended with a tense feeling across the back of her shoulders, and made her think, wonder, about the man she'd spoken with on the journals. Made her wonder if that job was still open, still even a possibility. She sat on her borrowed cot and looked at the journal. Wondering.