A/N: Angst galore. Possibly OOC, depending on how you see Reid.
Trigger warnings for self-injury and suicidal ideation.
Also, I didn't really proofread this as much as I should have because it's late and I just really needed to write. It may not be very eloquent at points. Let's just pretend that this was an intentional literary device used to emphasize certain ideas.
Reid took in a shaky breath. His heart felt jittery in his chest as adrenaline and endorphins rushed through his body.
He put the blade down. Shit. That last one was a deep one. The deepest he'd ever made, in fact. Well into the subcutaneous layer, perhaps 4mm deep.
Not deep in the grand scheme of things, certainly not enough to merit medical attention or concern, given how well-practiced he was at bandaging wounds by this point, but deep enough to make the anxiety in his chest palpable.
He wasn't afraid, not really. He knew what he was doing. Still, some sort of panic coursed through his body. His hands were trembling as he slipped the blade back into its hiding spot. He had to quit for the night before he destroyed his entire leg, which at that point he was fully capable of. See? He had this under control. He knew what he was doing. He knew when to stop.
Soon tissues were pressed onto the bloodied section of skin and pressure was applied. Each time blood soaked through the thick layer he was ready to press on another.
He tilted his head back and let the high flood his mind and he waited for the blood to stop. His heart was still pounding. By now the adrenaline rush should be over and the calm should be setting in. It wasn't. Biting his lip, he stared at the ceiling. This wasn't going the way it always had before.
When the bleeding had finally stopped (he would only later realize just how many tissues he had soaked in blood) he began the next step. This did not require clarity of mind, his deft hands were well-acquainted with this ritual. Neosporin, mostly so the gauze didn't stick. Then the gauze over the cuts. Then it got taped down tightly to keep the cuts from reopening. Then he would drift off to sleep, his new cuts aching in a comforting way, his endorphin-riddled mind like a calm sea, rocking him softly to sleep.
That was how it was supposed to go.
He pulled the thick comforter up around his neck and tucked his knees into his chest. Eyes closed, he tried to slip into peace.
Something was wrong. It wasn't working. His mind wasn't calm. Why wasn't it calm? What the fuck? Was he crying? He was sobbing! He wasn't supposed to cry. This isn't how it works. Hysterics. Cut. Calm. Sleep. That was the order that it went in. Not hysterics, cut, hysterics and sobbing. Why was he fucking sobbing?
This wasn't fair. This was supposed to work. This was all he had. This was all that he had ever had. Now it wasn't working.
If this, his only method, wasn't working, the how the fuck was he supposed to do anything?
How could he even think about any of this when his chest still hurt with the pain and chaos?
Too much. Too much. Too much.
No escape.
Crowding his mind.
Panic.
It wasn't working.
What if he cut again?
It wouldn't help, he already knew.
It hurt too much.
One human being could not take this much hurt in his chest. There had to be a way to alleviate it. He couldn't live for another minute feeling like this.
He had to escape it.
His gun.
His gun was forgotten in its holster on his bedroom floor.
His gun would stop this pain.
It was the only way to escape it. He had no other choice. He had to escape.
Cold solid metal against his temple.
All he had to do was squeeze the trigger. So simple, really. It would only take an instant. Like getting the nerve to jump off the high dive. Scary for a second, but once you did it you were free.
No going back.
Just the thin barrier between life and death. All he had to do was squeeze it and his life would be over, for good. The hurt in his chest would go away. He wouldn't cry anymore. It was almost too easy.
Then he would be dead. His mind would be free of his body, his body free of his mind.
His body would just be a lump on the floor.
JJ would call in the morning. Or maybe Emily would. Any member of the team, really.
Of course he wouldn't answer. He'd be dead.
They'd panic. BAU members not answering their phones was usually a bad sign.
Who would come check on him at his apartment?
An image of his lifeless body entered his mind. Who would find it? They'd probably cry. Someone would call Hotch. Hotch wouldn't cry. He wasn't a blinker.
Reid was wrong. Hotch would have cried.
They'd remember him, wonder what they could have done. He wondered if the M.E. would tell them about the scars, about how fucked up he'd been.
He was tired.
Over and over in his head Prentiss found his body. She was angry. She cried a lot though.
Or JJ found his body.
She cried and held him.
When Morgan found his body he swore a lot. The he punched a hole in the wall. Then he cried too.
His cheeks were cold and wet. Saltiness was on his lips. The tears kept rolling down his face.
They would be devastated. They would feel the pain that he felt.
The tears came faster now. Fuck.
A thud sounded in the room as he dropped the gun back on the floor. He couldn't do it. Not tonight.
He slid back under the warm blanket, tears still streaming down his face, and picked his phone up.
A three word text to Emily. "I'm not okay."
His blankets were warm and he was tired from crying. Before he knew it, his head was on the pillow and his consciousness was drifting into the realm of sleep.
His phone softly vibrated, just enough to pull him back into the real world.
"I know. Coffee tomorrow?"
"Thank you."
And then he was asleep.
A/N: So normal people cope with difficult emotions by writing angsty fanfiction, right? No? Oops.
Thank you to my Emily Prentiss.