Author's note: I am going to warn you right now: I take forever to write stories, so I might not to be able to finish this one until I'm so old I would be using a walker and live in a nursing home. But I truly hope you, lovely reader, will enjoy every chapter you read :). Second warning: I have not checked my misspellings in this chapter (and English is not my first language), so if you find something funny in the text please forgive me and feel free to let me know.

I want this story to be somehow inspired by the story of Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, although I have no idea how this is going to work out. Let's just hope it won't be as crazy :)

Chapter 1:

The day was gray. Not only because of the dark clouds shrouding the skies above, frowning down at him as Spencer Reid walked through the streets, but every person he passed seemed to be covered by their own gray misery. Spencer sighed, and rubbed his arms, not only trying to keep the cold at bay, but also as if by doing so he could shake everybody's misery off him. But it seemed as if every person he passed, every dark expression he saw on their faces, struck him and stayed in his mind.

He shook his head and chuckled miserably, hating his depressed mood. Even the red roses he was holding in his hands looked gray. He imagined it was his own head that was making everything seem devoid of any colour, as if there was some great, invisible vacuum somewhere out there that was sucking everything from him, every happy thought, every hope, everything he considered beautiful.

But he couldn't help thinking like he was at that moment, as he forced his feet to take a step, and then another one, and to keep walking before he decided to turn back and throw the flowers in a dump. Because that was exactly what he wanted to do at that moment, as deep down he felt a rage building up inside of him, ever so slowly creeping up from inside him and trying to burst through the surface. And he couldn't let that happen, because, after all, what could his rage accomplish? It was too late for anything. It was easier to let the misery wrap him close and steal the colours away from everything his eyes touched, it was easier to look at the world as it turned gray in his mind than let his rage act and make him see red everywhere in madness.

Spencer shook his head again, thinking how idiotic it was that people assigned the colour red to rage and anger. Red like the roses he was holding. Red was the colour of love too, and of blood, and God knows he had seen too much of that already.

He took a deep breath, taking in the smell around him as he did so. It had rained about half an hour ago, and the smell of the wet ground and leaves served as a tonic to slightly wake him up from his misery. The world didn't seem as gray anymore.

Life goes on, he thought to himself, looking down once again at the roses sadly, and so must I.

He looked up as he approached the place he was dreading to go to, his heart beating madly against his cold chest as he read the inscription set up against rusted green bars: 3rd Street Cemetery.

He walked through the gates, feeling as though a weight was dragging him back, as if each of his feet were getting stuck to the concrete and he had to use all of his strength to lift them up just to take another step. He walked through the cemetery, ignoring the row of tombstones that stood straight and rigid and gray around him. He felt as if the names engraved on each of them glared at him, accusing. He didn't deserve to be here.

He had failed. He hadn't been able to save her.

He stopped in front of a small tombstone. It looked insignificant in comparison to the tall trees that stood guard behind it. A cold breeze blew around him, moving his hair strands around his face playfully. The tree branches above the tombstone swayed with the rhythm of the breeze, shaking old leaves and whispering secrets.

Spencer knelt in front of the tombstone, not caring that his knees were getting wet from the damp ground. He gently set the roses down and stared at the name engraved on the cold stone.

Maeve Donovan

He hid his face in his arms and stayed in that position like the miserable man he was for the longest time. But no matter how hard he tried, for some reason he couldn't bring himself to cry.

It had been all his fault.

If only he had acted sooner. If only he had known what to do. If only… why hadn't he had the courage to do what he knew he had been supposed to do?

But no matter what he asked himself, he knew he could never come up with the answer. It was too late to ask himself those questions if he couldn't change what had happened. The truth remained, highlighted and bold in his dark mind: Maeve Donovan was dead, and he had failed her.

He stared at the roses he set on her resting place. Red like the colour of rage and of love and blood. Red like the streaks of life that had rolled down her face from where she had been shot.

And despite the way his misery choked him and turned the world gray and colourless, despite the fact that he hated the colour of his nameless rage, he would always think of red as the colour describing Maeve Donovan. A shade of red that would forever haunt his mind.