"That which the dream shows is the shadow of such wisdom as exists in man, even if during his waking state he may know nothing about it... We do not know it because we are fooling away our time with outward and perishing things, and are asleep in regard to that which is real within ourself."
Paracelsus

December.

Monday.

One week later.

04.36

They normally came when she was asleep. Crawling through the shades, their high-pitched, maniacal screams, their forceful and penetrating voices, vibrant and glowing eyes, their claws dirty and blood stained. The dead. They haunted her, but usually only in her sleep. Because of December, she hadn't gotten a lot of sleep. Especially not after her fall out with Morgan. His words bugged her like sand in her clothes that, for some reason, she couldn't get rid of. Like a coffee stain in her favourite shirt that, somehow, wouldn't go away. But mostly, it was December. The month was reminiscent of choices she could have made, life altering, life changing choices that would surely, without a doubt, have made her life completely different. Probably more comfortable too, as they would have changed her as the person she was. She wouldn't be the cold, almost emotionless, hard-hearted person she was today. December was about forgiveness, regret and shame, all wrapped up together with a nice ribbon on top; as if it was a present. Perhaps it was. Because who she was, was the sole and lone reason why she excelled in her profession. Why she was good at what she did. December stood for a lot of other things as well, like loss and loneliness. Like waking up in cold sweat and sleepless nights. Darker nights and shorter days. Icy cold and harsh winds. Empty houses and shattered dreams. She hated December. Because December stood for all those things, and those things, brought along the nightmares.

She usually could handle them; the shaky hands, the blurry vision, the sheets wrapped around her, nearly suffocating her. She could handle the darkness, for she had fought against and with it for a long time. She lived and breathed in darkness. It was like a companion and her personal devil, all at once. But in December, they got worse. They built themselves up until they climaxed in February. Then the storm was over and the calm was slowly restored back in her life. Around July/August, it would built itself up again, reach a critical point in December, January was the calm before the storm and in March, in March it was all over again. There was peace in March and a disturbed April would awaken her again. During the summer, she would prepare herself for the ever reoccurring battle ahead of her.

Abby found herself sitting in front of the large back windows that gave her, now that the trees were stripped down to only their wooden shells, a slight view on Quantico Creek. Noting the time, it was dark outside and the trees slowly wept with the wind, steadily and softly. Birdie the German shepherd was lying next to her as she carefully smoked her cigarette in her shadowed house. It was quiet except for the faint buzzing of her computer that was turned on twenty-four/seven. It constantly scanned Atlanta's newspaper internet sites, kept an eye on the cases that were currently handled by the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC), the activities in ViCAP and, of course, her security system that was also running every single second of every single day. The slightest sound of her cigarette burning reverberated into her ears like gunshots and she pondered how she had gotten herself into this position all over again. Year after year, she promised herself that she wouldn't do it again, that she wouldn't put herself through this again. But year after year, she broke her promise. She usually never broke promises, especially not the promises she made to herself, but this was an exception. This was something different, something that, despite her best efforts, she had no control over.

The red light of her answering machine kept showing the number 'eighteen' and the glow casted a rather sinister look throughout her house. In December, she refused to listen to her answering machine. Those close to her, knew that, and never left messages during that particular month. Deception expert Cal Lightman was set keen on finding out why, but he never figured it out. He kept pushing her, he kept asking, he kept reading her like a book, but unfortunately for him, she was written in a language he didn't master, one that he didn't know. Basically, it was just like everything else. Abby was speaking a language nobody understood, not even best friend Miles and they could talk without words and still know exactly what they were saying. December stood for solitude, isolation and desolation. She was alone in December.

"Abs?"

Well, perhaps not completely alone. Almost startled, Abby looked over her shoulder and found Derek Morgan in the hallway leading to her master bedroom, office and the stairs. He was leaning against the faux crushed fabric stripe in antique gold tone wallpaper covered walls, his arms crossed before his arms.

"What are you doing here? And at this hour?"

She smiled apologizing and comforting. "I couldn't sleep."

"You okay?" She couldn't see his face in the darkness that fondled around his body, but she could hear the gentle concern in his voice. "I'm fine. Go back to bed."

Morgan sighed and instead of turning around, seeking the warmth of the king sized bed, dropped his hands and made his way to Abby, sitting down next to her as she lit another smoke.

"What's on your mind?"

She wanted to say that there were a million things on her mind, thousands and thousands of morbid images burnt into her eyes, hundreds and hundreds of heartless, echoless screams that made her want to winch, the endless stream of information that ran through her head like she was a computer, the few emotions she contained inside of her were slowly breaking out of their containments and the burning fury was reaching its boiling point. She wanted to say that, she really did. But she couldn't. Because she was Abby Franklin Scott. And at this particular moment, in this setting where she found herself sitting in front of her windows, smoking like it was her last day, at half past five, with this God that seemed to be able to read parts of the book she was, there could only be one thing on her mind.

"I can't do personal."

He was silent for a moment and chewed on his thoughts. She wanted to give him the time to ruminate and chew some more, but she needed to get it out for the walls of her limits were being pushed, the cages were rattling in anxiety and need for space. One thing off the list, was one less thing to think and worry about.

"I can't do my job if we're getting ourselves on a personal base. I need to keep it separated."

"What about Reid? About the SCU?"

"SCU was a mistake. And Reid…" She haltered and hesitated. "I don't know about Reid. This needs to remain what it is, casual sex, an affair, whatever you wish to call it. I need that and that's my choice. If you can't make that same decision." Her voice trailed off again and she let Morgan to fill in the blanks. In the wake of the silence that rose, she remembered one of the dreams she'd been having, and she realised that it was another thing off her mind; those dreams wouldn't reoccur again.

December.

Monday.

A few hours earlier.

She was at home, lying on the camel microfiber futon sofa, reading a final report on violence under children from the age of seven to fourteen. In the last couple of year, their numbers had increased dramatically and the FBI finally decided to start investigating, searching for answers and solutions. She and Derek had discussed it thoroughly many times during dinner. Sophie would often ask about it, as if the information should concern a six year old angel. Perhaps it should, if only to teach her to never do anything violent. Then again, Sophie wasn't really the one she worried about; Abby hoped she would never have to pick up James at any police station. He was not even five but already had his doubtful moments. Sophie inherited her father's inner peace and outer calmness, the ability to think before she acted. Other than that, she didn't look at all like her parents; except maybe her level of intelligence. Abby couldn't help but pray that James would outgrow the aggressiveness he got from his mother, and passed on the 'killer gene'. Derek said he´d outgrow it. Abby remembered her own childhood and what she was like, and she was already looking at law school students that held promising futures to blackmail into helping her son out in the possibly near future.

As she glanced at the clock, she sighed deeply. She was still a special agent, but lost her wild hairs and started teaching five years ago, after Sophie was born. She craved an enormous pleasure from teaching profilers in spe, but only ever some time, she missed the action. The adrenaline that rushed through her veins like a poisonous drug, the thrill of a good chase and the shaky legs from a fearful moment. Derek was still a profiler and became team leader around the same time they found out they were going to be parents. He led his own team now and just wrapped up a big case in Baltimore. He'd promised he'd pick up the kids from school. Abby swung her legs over the edge of her favourite, comfortable couch and headed towards the open kitchen. Whilst she turned on the cooker hood, her left hand went deep in the drawer under the shimmering black top of the kitchen island and sought the carbon box she somehow, never got rid of. Another glance at the clock told her she had time to brush her teeth and put on some perfume before they came home. She didn't smoke secretly, but she did smoke discreetly. She had quit during her pregnancies, but started again shortly after giving birth to two of the most wonderful monsters in the world. Derek knew, he still teased her about her weakness. But Abby didn't want to be 'the smoking mum', and so she kept it discreet.

The pasta was ready, the tomato sauce done, as the little meatballs were. The front door opened, her kids came at her screaming and yelling about their trails and victories and that daddy picked them up from school which was 'like so super cool mom'. A quick peck on her lips before he took off their coats. The kids were out setting the table, she received the famous smirk of Derek Morgan and he greeted her like he always did when he'd been away on a case and the kids were out of sight ("Eeew! Mom! Dad! You're kissing again!"); he loosely wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed her deeply and passionately to illustrate the words 'I missed you'. Abby would kiss him back intensely as if saying 'Welcome home'.

December.

Thursday.

Four days later.

23.19

She wasn't sure what to feel. Numb, distant, solemn, sober, calm, sad. She didn't know. And so she sat still in her office chair behind her desk, staring at the small amount of paperwork she had wanted to finish before calling it a day. A couple of hours ago, they arrived back at the Headquarters after four long and tiresome day of running through the forest in search of their Unsub and his eight year old daughter he kidnapped. Abby was actually feeling rather tired and planned out her evening; finishing the paperwork, quickly scan through the four new cases that were brought to NCAVC's attention before heading home and taking a long bath. Instead, the phone on her desk had rung. Former deputy Peggy Sue, one of the two Unsubs that terrorized Odessa, Texas for a long period of time, was found dead in her cell. The beautiful suicide of white sheets. Abby always wondered how prison guards could be so stupid. Just as she recollected her mind, gathered the bits and pieces that were scattered all around her desk after the silent blow she unexpectedly took, her phone rang again. It was Miles and his news made her unsure of what to feel.

It had been almost two and a half hours since the call, and she remained seated in the same position, one hand up to her face, her index finger rhythmically but slowly brushing past her upper lip, the other hand loosely placed in her lap. Morgan had left over three hours ago, just as Prentiss, Reid and Garcia. Hotch's office was still on lockdown, and she doubted her supervisor would come out any time soon. Rossi's door was open and there were still lights on, but he too would soon head home. JJ was in her office on the other side of the hall, probably wrapping up some last paperwork. So except for Hotch and Rossi, and JJ across the hallway, she was alone, left to herself with her sewer clouds above her head and the growing abyss at her feet, her thoughts freely playing with her mind until they drove her crazy and the beast inside her howled in despair. Eventually, just like everything, it reached its end and Abby decided she had to make up her mind. Going over the pro's and con's, the good sides and the bad sides, the reason why and the reasons why not, she debated in silence, her fingers soundlessly drumming against her desk. As Rossi exited his office and haltered when he saw her sitting in her chair at this hour, she stood up and rubbed her nose whilst she headed towards Hotch's office. Almost inimical and begrudged, she passed Rossi's feature in his doorway and knocked on Hotch's door. Once she heard him reply, Abby opened the door and said down in the chair in front of his desk without uttering a word.

Hotch as well, remained silent and he gave her the room she needed to form and say words that she clearly had trouble speaking out loud, as if they were razorblades on her tongue, deadly rain that hung in the air, wordless, breathless and speechless.

"I would like your permission to go to Atlanta next week." Whilst she spoke, Abby raised her head to gingerly and warily, look at Hotch.

"What for?" His voice was softer than the question asked and she could see a cautious but mostly concerned shimmer in his eyes. Abby sighed, brushed her index finger past her lip again. "You know Paul Newman?"

Abby's comment caused Hotch to briefly lean back, tilting his head back slightly and he laid down his pen before folding his hands and resting them on his paper-fondled desk. "He's the one responsible for the death of three of your team members."

She only nodded and looked away, at the darkness that seemed to ooze through the windows in his office, calling out to her, asking her to come and play, welcoming her like long lost lovers in desperate need of a touch. "They set his execution date. Wednesday, next week. Consider it a personal day."

Hotch nodded and Abby rapidly rose from her chair, as if it was set on fire. She headed back towards the exit, mumbling a thank you before she closed the door behind her.

December.

Friday.

Next day.

03.37

"We've got him Frankie, we got him."

Milo Bronckovic stood in front of her, his face sweaty, the moisture on his forehead reflecting the sun that burnt high in the sky above them. His pupils were dilated, slightly, but dilated, she could see his pulse rapid and clear in the vein in his neck, his breath speed increased. They got him.

Miles was her best friend for several reasons. The first being the only person that understood her 'talent', her 'gift'. The darkness inside of her that she embraced and took it as a part of her, using it in her own way. She understood darkness, and monsters and all the morbid things that some people were capable of. If you could still call them human. First time she told him was after handling an important case in Chicago, Illinois, which was unusual. The Special Crimes Unit usually only worked cases in Georgia and sometimes, the surrounding states. She managed to predict their Unsub's next move, and nailed every detail. Whilst the rest of the group kept his professional distance, Miles came to her house later that night. Abby had been afraid that she might spook him, freak him out and scare him away. Because she liked him and they had quite a few good laughs. Instead, he sat her down and ordered her to talk him through it. Miles believed in logic, hence he became a technical analyst. He didn't understood Abby's logic, but he was fascinated by it, just like he quickly became fascinated by everything the team did. He developed a sense for the job and two years after being hired by Angie Wills, SCU team leader, he was asked for the program to become a profiler.

Second reason why he was her best friend, was that he understood her, like nobody else could. He understood the meaning of her expressions and phrases like 'Peechy' and 'I need a drink' or even her answer whenever she was asked how she was or how she slept, 'I'm good, you?' and 'Oh man, I slept like a baby'. He understood it. They spoke the same language, which was at first odd to Abby, because she never had a friend that could read between spoken lines like that. Sure, they all lived among profilers and they of course, could tell that whenever she said she slept fine and looked like hell, she had a bad night. But not Miles. No. Miles got her. He just did. The third and final reason why she loved him like she did, was because of his strange, horrifying sense of humour, something they had in common. Abby remembered the first time she found about it. They were working a case in uptown Atlanta where a psychotic man randomly set people on fire. She called Miles about information they needed and answered the call with the question if he felt like barbequing. Miles replied that he preferred his steaks medium, not crispy. They held a lot in common besides their humour; their appetite and need for food any minute of any given day, their believes and ideas, society's vision on truth and lies, their ability to drink until they almost passed out. They were a match made in heaven, but then without the erotic encounters.

Right now, she stood in the middle of the street, a tall, abandoned cemetery on the other side of Noah's Ark road. Her heart was beating fast, sweat dripped down her neck into the collar of the white blouse she was wearing. The sun burnt on her skin, making it dry up and tighten around her muscles. She longed for a shower where she, once the cool water ran down on her body, could smell the scent of that same sun. It was one of the things she loved the sun; the scent it left on her skin. The scene was brightly lit by the fire-y orb above them and red and blue flashlights were barely visible; the sirens turned off. He was here. She could feel it. He was the dirt that stuck under her fingernails that she desperately tried to get rid of. He was the annoying transpiration gliding down her back and side of her head. He was the mouse that chewed on her shoes and ate all her food. She had him now, he had pitfallen in the mousetrap she had set out for him. She had him now. They had him.

"What's next?" Miles' words broke her solitary moment and she glanced at him. On her right stood Ricardo 'Cuba' Pino, whom was the first to ever enter the SCU. Behind the squad car next to the one Abby stood behind, were Angie Wills and their team leader, Trevor Harrison safely directing their troops. Harrison met her eyes and he nodded. As he spoke into the small radio attached to his vest that allowed him to communicate with his team, Abby's eyes returned to watch the cemetery.

"It's your call Frankie" Harrison told her through the radio.

Abby reached deep inside herself, closed her eyelids behind the pilot sunglasses, took a deep breath, and she became their Unsub, running down their profile. What would he do? She knew what he would do, she knew.

Think Frankie, think. There's a hostage, her life depends on me. C'mon Frankie, think! The profile, he's a classic narcissist, thinks he's better than everyone else, feels superior. He plans everything. But he wasn't expecting this, he wasn't expecting us. That's why he took Claire Houston, collateral damage. World War II maniac, obsessed with everything, idolises Hitler.

"Frankie?" Cuba was pushing her, requesting her attention.

Shut up. Okay, okay, an escape plan. He knows this place, he grew up here. He must have a plan. So why is he still waiting? Why is he still here? He was on his way to his next victim, he had the gas, the tanks, he has everything. Why's it so hot?

"C'mon Frankie, give me something." Harrison again, over the radio. Wills joined in shortly after. "Frankie, we need to do something."

"Let her think guys." Miles jumped in, trying to get them off her back.

"We don't have much time." Ben 'Laker' Ooster replied through her earpiece, standing a couple of cars on her left, with Gina 'Angel' Angeholis and Holly 'Lewy' Lewis. It was one of the rare cases they actually worked on together, with the entire team. Normally, one group would take a case and a small group took a smaller case, sometimes even two.

It's hot. That's impossible, it's-.. It's too hot for this month, impossible. I'm burning up. No. Focus, Frankie, focus! Do I have a fever? Wait, no, focus. Focus! Right here, right now. He knows this place, he grew up here, he knows this place! How long has he been here? He could already be long gone.

"How long has he been inside the building?" Abby opened her eyes and everyone reacted to the sound of her voice in their ears in their own way.

"We've been standing here for about ten minutes, uni's been here another five as well, so let's say fifteen minutes?" Laker calculated, estimated and suggested, all at the same time. That's what he did. You gave him questions, parts of something that needed to become whole, he put it together, logically and scientific and then he would question himself. Like any natural born researcher and philosopher did. 'Question yourself', he always told them.

Abby sighed. "Worst case scenario, he's long gone. Good change that we might find his escape route. But I'm guessing he's long gone."

"That means Houston is either dead or with him." Wills replied.

"Let's hope he took her with him, that'll slow him down." Harrison glanced at Abby again, and she caught his glare. Whatever she did, whenever he would look at her, she would find respect and trust in his eyes. Perhaps even pride. But that would be because he was like the father she never had, and they quickly established a father-daughter relationship.

"Fuck!" She kicked the car in front of her and spun around on her heels. If she hadn't pondered for so long, they might have him. Twenty-four people would be his final number. But no, she had to think and consider and reconsider as if she was Laker. This wasn't like her. Then again, perhaps it was. She hadn't been feeling well all day and yesterday, feel exhausted, tired and ill. Miles was sure she was walking around with a fever, but she didn't want to believe him. And of course, it was December. December always did strange things to her.

As Abby stood with her hands placed on her hips, annoyed and angry at herself, facing the forest that was once behind her, Harrison, Laker, Angel and two uniforms headed towards the cemetery. The rest of the team gathered around Cuba and Miles, leaving Abby alone in her furious rage, all noting the scorching air that hung around her. Rats were eating at her conscious, hands gripped her feet and pulled her down. There was something, right underneath her and it wanted her attention desperately. Wills immediately took lead, with Harrison inside the building, and started to come up with a plan of action.

'Those other people' Paul Newman turned and faced his twentieth victim, well-known Jewish politician Bill Franks and watched him through the window. Franks had no clue he was being watched, as he and his wife set down for dinner. Newman talked to him, recording everything. It was his way of communicating with his victims, as he was never around near their deaths. They usually died in their cars or bathrooms, small spaces that he could easily control, contain and shut down as the poisonous gas crept into the rooms or cars. He taped everything, from the first time he saw them and marked them as his next victims, till their deaths. It's what led them to Newman in the first place, Miles managed to track the connection between his computer and the small webcams. 'Those other people don't mean anything. I want something big. Something good. Something that will make them remember me, like they all remember Hitler. Let's see if you're it, mister Franks, be my Jews and my Army. But first, let's see how long you will last.'

Abby ran the tape through her head over and over again. What was it? What wanted her attention? What part of her brain called upon the memories and why? What was she telling herself?

I want something big. Something that will make them remember me.

Stupid.

Her eyes popped open once she heard his voice. She saw him as her father, he took her under his wings, he taught her everything he knew. He guarded her, protected her, pulled her back down by her hairs whenever it was needed, slowed her down when she was going too fast. He was everything she ever really wanted. And now she heard his voice and she froze on her spot. The fear hit her so hard, tears welled up her eyes. All the hairs on her body rose, surgical knives ran up and down her back, her knees became wobbly, ardent, hurting chills conquered her body like she was only a small square of unmarked land.

"It's a trap! It's a trap! Get out, everyone, get out!"

He coughed between words. Paul Newman used Sarin and Sarin set in quickly. It only needed a minute. Or less. They tried to get in, but Newman must have kept this as his last resort, his very own Reich Chancellery. It was shut down, no way in, no way out. It took HAZMAT forever to clear the scene and by then, all they could do was carry out the bodies of their friends, Claire Houston, and as bittersweet result, Paul Newman's escape route. Seven days, fourteen hours of sleep, three more dead bodies, endless new streams of information and a three-day forest hunt later, they got him. Finally.

December.

Friday.

Same day.

03.45

They say dreams only last for five till twenty minutes. As Abby shot up from her bed, panting, her own distant screams still reverberating through her bedroom, sweat running down her body, it felt like she relived that day again. It had been four years since they were killed and two years since she last dreamt about them. She was on the verge of breaking into tears, frustration ran high and for a moment, she felt contained. Strapped down into this small space, confined in the shades that were wrapped around her like a blanket. She couldn't breathe. Slowly, forcefully and brutally, panic set in. She gasped for air and tried to pull herself together. She was Abby Franklin Scott, and Abby Franklin Scott did not cry. Abby Franklin Scott did not panic or freak out. She kept it cool, controlled and without too many emotions.

Abby kicked the sheets away, angrily and fierce, she was back watching the forest, blaming herself for questioning herself, waiting too long, letting him escape. Stumbling into the open kitchen, she found her smokes and her hands trembled as she lit on. But nicotine didn't help. Not this time. Pacing around aimlessly and restlessly didn't help either. She lunged forward, and before she realised it, the tall cabinet next to the hallway that lead to the study, her bedroom and the stairs, laid broken on the floor, glass scattered around the room, books and maps and reports and information crumbled down underneath the weight of the crippled wood. Hazily, she made it to her bathroom where she ran cool water over her wrists, avoided her reflection in the mirror with her cigarette pressed between her lips. She let it drop once she felt like she couldn't breathe and suffocation begun again. Abby rested her hands on the edge of the sink and leant forward. She needed to calm down. This was not happening. Not again.

The chains were broken, the cage was torn apart, the fog thickened, control was scared away; the beast was lose, running around inside her body, dancing a quickstep with the monster that was let loose from his cage. Calmly, but shaking in emotions and the lack of control, she looked up to meet herself. She stared at herself, stared deep into her own eyes and she could see it. Icy. Set on fire. Rage. Fury. Cool. The world was spinning and she was going too slow. She could see it. December.

Soon, February would come. February would be even worse.

And then she slammed her fists into the mirror, breaking down whatever she could find in her bathroom until there was nothing left within a minute. Or less. December was in her house, inside of her.

And February would be even worse.

"It is only when we silent the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers of truth that life reveals to us, as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts."
K.T. Jong