Hi, hi! Gosh, I haven't written anything in so long. This is a long-ish one shot I wrote (actually it was initially a short story not for fanfiction, but I changed it a little), the first time I've put anything in the Criminal Minds fandom. I suppose it's a Reid piece, but lets just forget the fact he ever joined the BAU for a while, shall we? So, I guess a little bit AU then. I'm pretty proud of it, I have to say, and I hope you enjoy it.
Drip…drip…drip. Drip. Drip. Dripdripdripdrip.
Drip.
And you'll come to wonder when all this became monotony, and just when you stopped believing.
If you kept your eyes closed, just for a second, you could maybe kid yourself that it had been raining, and that the damp concrete beneath you was washed clean with heaven's most recent downpour. If you ignored the pounding in your ears and the taste of salt in your mouth, you could be waking from a peaceful slumber. If. But no amount of willpower will have you pretending that the familiar pull of the shackles as you struggle to sit up could mean anything but another day in Hell.
And you'll be wishing it was over before it's even truly begun.
You purposely avert your gaze from the grubby mirror you know lies opposite, and instead turn to face the door, back against the wall. Ready. Waiting. Waiting for what? You stopped trying to count the days long ago (six days nine hours thirty eight minutes) but you don't need to be statistician to know that your time should be as good as up. You'd greet Death with a welcome nod if he ever came to call, but it seems they're a little busy at the moment. Check the number and try again later. And then the door slams open. Like usual. Your eyes barely give a flicker of acknowledgment. Like usual. It all got a little less cinematic after the first eight times. Hell, first floor. Enquiries at the desk.
Later, you watch from the floor as the trolley wheels navigate the threshold and the door swings shut with a gentle whoosh,and then a bang, and all that's left is the soft thumping of a heart against the cold, hard floor, counting out the seconds with a kind of hollow resonance. Faster, slower, louder, softer, ticktockticktock nothing. Then it's back to reality and you're still there, still existing. Living? Maybe, in some universe so very far away from this one. If there was ever a time for a parallel universe, this would be it.
There was a time, once, when you trusted that things would always work out. That the world was a good place, really, and that there was no such thing as evil. That there was enough wonder and grace in everyone so that one day, just maybe, things would just wake up fixed. New. This was the calm before the storm. Keep working, keep striving, perfection is attainable. At least that's what you kept telling yourself, because it's all you ever knew. Keep reading, keep learning, knowledge is power. All you ever really wanted to do was join the softball team. At seventeen, you were accepted into Mensa, and weren't they all just so, so proud. So happy for you, bringing such an honor to the family name- today, quantum physics. Tomorrow, the Pentagon. Save the world, cure cancer, stop global warming. The world is your oyster, just so long as you save us all. Fix the earth so we can destroy it all over again.
You were a good guy once. A good guy who met too many bad guys and maybe forgot what it all meant in the first place.
Six days ten hours and twelve minutes. You try not to count but the figures are just too tempting for your mind and you squirm uncomfortably as you realize, yet again, that you have at least a couple of days left, and that means more- more pain, more blood and salt and sweat, amidst the rattling of the shackles and shudder of the cart's wheels on uneven concrete. You entertain the thought that they'll give up soon. That the next person to enter will be on your side. The good side. But angels don't belong in hell, and back comes the crushing reality that they'd probably want your secret just as much as Lucifer himself.
Tirelessly and relentlessly you worked, and for what? What were you trying to prove? That you were brilliant? You knew that. That science was advancing with ever quickening pace? Well, you didn't need an IQ of 182 to work that out. Driven by whatever ulterior motive, you'd harnessed enough power to blow a hole in the earth, all in a capsule roughly the side and shape of an aspirin. Only three easy payments of your life, non tax-deductible. And now, they wanted to know how. The ubiquitous them- you don't know who they are but you sure as hell know what they want, and they sure as hell won't be getting it, you'll swear that on your life. Oh, the irony.
You're not sure now if you were ever really, truly happy. You were content, and that was good enough, wasn't it? So long as you were working towards greatness, goodness, some wonderful cause that everyone seemed to talk about but no one ever seemed all that clear on. Still, it was never all that hard to pretend that everything was just fine, and instead you'd remind yourself that life has a kind of faultless simplicity when it's like this. Learn. Talk. Read. Research. Write. Drinkeatsleep. Breathe. But it was inevitable that you'd want something more. That you'd want to do something for yourself, for once, and maybe be just a little bit selfish. It was inevitable. Wasn't it?
Someone once told you that the human experience as a whole is more important than the individual. You never really understood what they were getting at, at the time.
From your position in the corner of the room, you detect a shadow of movement from outside the doorway, and brace yourself for what you know is coming. A moment later, you dare to raise your gaze, at the exact instant the door flies open. Then all you see is rage- complete, frenzied, fury. And this time there is no knife, no probes, no ice, no cuffs. Only anger, in its purest and most powerful form. And for the first time in what seems like an age, you feel fear. You search your Mensa-certified brain for anything and everything- a plan, a reason, an explanation that could possibly undo whatever had been done. And the best you come up with is, for once, completely inadequate. Because it equates to nothing. Niets. Rien. Nichts. Nada. The obnoxious, arrogant part of you considers that you always wanted to die a dignified death, and what better way to go than to go protecting humanity? Of course rationality wins over and you know that to die naked, shackled, and at the hands of another, is about as undignified as it comes.
Oh, the disappointment to reawaken when Death had danced so very tantalizingly in front of you. As you force your eyes open, a single, bare globe swings above you, like some bad horror film, and the ground is damp and earthy beneath you. Well, that's new. Variety. How very thoughtful, to think you might have been getting just a little bored with wall to wall concrete. It is now that you notice the pounding in your head, to match the pounding of your heart, and you find yourself annoyed at the presence of both. You try to ignore the coppery smell of blood that is not yet your own, and inch towards the shadowy corner of the new cell. There you remain for what feels like hours on end, far, far too long, and in fact you're half afraid, half hoping that they've forgotten about you. And then you hear the distant clatter of that wretched trolley, the sign of a routine which you know all too well. Shout. Slice. Whisper. Prod. Pull. Hotcoldbluntsharp. Pain. And through it all you remain dutifully silent, lips pursed blue, knuckles clenched white, and the pressing question, whywhywhy running circles in your mind, anger and confusion burning bright, blazing, red.
They are relentless, and they are cruel, but you do not break, and tell them nothing. They bring it in to you, tell you to set it off, to open it, anything, and with a glimmer of satisfaction you realize that they are getting desperate. (It occurs to you that maybe something has changed. Maybe you came close to being found. As soon as the thought is there it is gone again and you barely register that it was ever there in the first place. Optimism ran empty a long time ago). You will not look at it, and respond with nothing but silent shouts and deafening silence, and stare right back at them until your eyes burn and water. They leave, and leave the trolley this time, and at the doorway, leave you with an ultimatum. In an hour they will be back. In an hour, you will tell them everything, or they will start to take things from you (no, not a metaphor), and they will not let you die, at least not straight away (and you think to yourself 'what's new?').
You dare to look at the table, and you almost laugh at what is on it. Almost. A gun, loaded with a single bullet- how very original. Some acid, a knife, a rope. Choices, problem solving- that you can do. You wonder, briefly, what they would do if you were to tell them your secret. Kill you anyway, probably. So many paths, all ending in the same way.
Hindsight is beautiful, as are learned rules and carefully scripted words, so later, when you've made your choice and lay, blissfully unaware as dozens of armed forces swarm in, you do not have the chance to regret, or wonder, or to think what if? You have only a moment to wish that this came earlier, and to think that you would have given just about anything to be normal. And pray that wherever it is you're going hasn't ever heard of an IQ test.
Let me know what you think!