A/N: This oneshot is for the Chit Chat on Author's Corner writing challenge: Fanfiction Challenge Round 14: All the Colors of the Rainbow.
Disclaimer: I do not and will not own Criminal Minds.
The eyes were as he saw them, and that was a pair of rich cobalt buckets. Fogged and clouded by the mist of death, they were as vivid and glossy as they were in life. As he knew it was imperative for him to not look too deeply into them, and as he wanted to divert his attention to something else, he simply couldn't depart from the rarity of the color so readily. Instead, he managed to distance himself from the eyes, that happened to be drowning him in their deceased ferocity, by moving several inches in the opposite direction, away from the moderately scarred face, save for the eyes, to the lower portions of the body that were laid on top of the cold, damp autopsy table.
The body was as she saw it, and that was a mangled heap of flesh. It wasn't that she wanted to see the corpse as a mangled heap of flesh, she honestly didn't, but that was set in front her, on the table. Bruises were applied to the thighs and the ankles, which the latter was fatefully broken, and to the wrists as well. She wasn't absolute on her judgment, but she believed that the wrist had suffered the same reassignment as the ankle. The cuts on the face varied from modest scraps to sharp gashes, and the only malady she could identify as a 'gash' was the medium sized one over the right eyebrow. She too didn't want to stare too hardly and too strangely at the body, but she felt the need to do so to obtain the understanding that was needed.
"She looks nineteen." Blurted out her companion, and in a whirl of movement, she latched her eyes onto his. Then he returned the stare and instantly corrected his slight mistake, "I mean late teens to early twenties, out of the regular age range for the unsub."
Numbly the woman nodded and turned to the doctor who observed them without a word, "Excuse me, do you know how long she was dead?"
"Uh…she was found exactly twelve hours ago," the doctor shifted his movement and hovered over the young female's body. There he checked her eyes and her limbs, examined the deeper gash on the back of her cranium, "From what we examined then, she was probably dead for about eighteen hours, tops."
Together the man and the woman went into silence and stared at the body beneath them. Young and pretty, young and pretty, cobalt eyes, decomposing body. There were questions that needed to be answered, and questions that may or may not be answered. She was white female with straw-like yellow hair and wide cobalt blue eyes. If her flesh wasn't dead and internal organs removed and done with, she would have had peach colored skin with a jagged tooth smile. Her straw-like hair would appear full and clean, hovering over one of her eyes. That, Jennifer Jareau, was able to see.
"You'd think it was the strangulation that killed her," the doctor's fingers grazed over the neck, pressingly softly to where the bruises remained, "the girl had cervical cancer, untreated and rapid, she would've died no later than a month without it."
"Are you implying that this is a blessing in disguise?" Sharply he turned to the doctor, and his eyes narrowed.
Surprised that the sharp words were aimed at him, the doctor shook his head and took several, attentive steps closer to the body, "Of course not, you twist my words and meaning. This girl was weaker than a healthier one, as it is plain to see, but there are numerous bruises and cuts on her torso. Her nails are cracked, and some are even torn, but not by an opposing force. Do you see?"
"She fought." The man said it with certainty, "Before he killed her, she fought. The other victims weren't as fortunate to accomplish that."
"A broken wrist and ankle definitely hinders the ability to walk or even run, but she was able to gain miles from the original dump area. We've traced the footprints, and the results aren't wrong, she fits the bill." Again, the woman's eyes fell onto the corpse of the girl, her mind attempting to conjure an image of her final moments. Run. Run. Sheer will power maintaing her weakening constitution, her strength evading her, with the unsub not far behind. Tears streaked her dirt stained face, and it were the tears that brought little cleansing to her filth. Blood was pressed firmly to her forehead, it cracked and flaked about; the woman knew that to be true. The gash throbbed horribly, blinding her vision and causing her thoughts to unravel and fuzz. But she knew, the girl knew, that she had to get away. Though her body was weakened, though her physical construction was falling apart, she was determined to live and prayed that the determination she held would be enough.
But it wasn't...and that dangling thought made her want to bend over and vomit.
The many vivid images she produced began to disperse as the gentle clicking of a phone call ending obscured her thoughts. "Yeah, I got it, we'll be there." She turned to her companion, questioning marked on her face. "Another victim has been found. She's closer in the age range. Hotch wants us back for a briefing."
It was defeating to hear the word but not at all surprising. Another victim. Immediately, her imagination carried her to what this woman was. An older woman, no doubt, but would she carry the similar scars and damages like her younger predecessor. Did this woman have a name and an age, an identity, which this woman lacked? There questions, too many to count, that Jennifer Jareau wanted answered, a natural human instinct, and there were questions that she wished burned alive and then buried six feet under. When her blinked to Spencer, a silent agreement landed between them, and she knew that he shared her thoughts. They said their goodbyes and pleasantries to the doctor while they moved out of the building, shielding their eyes from the blinding light of the sun.
Rushed in union they hurried to the car that was parked in an empty parking lot. Together their creativity beatryed them as their respective minds forged various scenes and stages involving the most recent victim. She was a woman they had yet to meet and never would beyond the phisical forms, which wasn't normal at all. Pulling the stick into drive, they drove out of the confinements of the parking lot in the car that the police station provided for them. She at the steering wheel and he in the passenger seat, she watched emotionlessly as a garbage bag was brushed in her sight, leaves swirling kindly around it. She couldn't help but think it was a horrible slight against nature, that garish blue of the lone garbage bag wafting around the parking lot was the only thing that seemed to give any life to the greying afternoon.
A/N: This isn't much; it is a drabble! What popped inside my brain for this prompt was death. Also, I do not like writing Reid because I am a huge Reid fangirl, and I'm afraid I'll mess him up. I don't think I used him well enough in this setting though or J.J. Anyone who decided to read, review, or anything else of the sort thank you very much. I do accept all sorts of constructive criticism!
Have a great weak!