It's cold. But it's always cold. You're tired. But you're always tired.

The repetition of existence is amazing and horrific.

You breathe in the loneliness and the bitter taste of regret. You turn the bottle over in your hands. Your mind, the brilliant brain everyone always talks about, half-heartedly starts thinking of statistics to stop you.

It stops when you tell it to shut the hell up.

Blissful silence.

The drawing of the needle. You flick away the air bubbles with practiced fingertips, and slide the needle into your skin.

The push of the syringe is your saving grace.

You close your eyes as you start to warm up. As you stop feeling. As the pity in the eyes of everyone who looks at you is swept away, as the blood you can still see on your hands fades, as you forget about the logical side for once in your life, as it stops mattering that you can't stop dreaming about Tobias and that nothing is okay and you can't sleep or eat or even look at yourself without wanting to run away—from what? You can't outrun your own memories; they'll be with you until you die—

Dilaudid helps. It's the only thing that helps. It blesses you with distance from your own being. To stop thinking is the greatest of gifts.

It feels like you're slowly drowning on the entire world, and the Dilaudid is an oxygen mask that is often and abruptly ripped off. When it is, you panic and swallow more water, flailing in water you used to be able to swim easily.

But you don't (do) need it; you can (not) stop any time you want. You're fine. You kept telling everyone that. Including yourself.

Did you write to your mother today?

You can't remember; you sit up too fast.

Oh, God.

You forgot to write her for the first time in seven years.

The bottle starts to laugh mockingly at you. Look what I've done to you, it whispers. You think about smashing it against the wall. You know you won't.

Because you're weak. Because you were stupid enough to willingly sacrifice yourself for comforting numbness. The bottle controls you now.

Outside, it starts to snow. You watch the snow fall and think wistfully about dosing again. No—it hasn't been long enough, you could die—

(So what?)

Someone has to see. Someone has to help.

(But will you let them?)

(yes)

(maybe)

(Oh, I'm sure)

((stop, please))

You close your eyes.

The bottle won't stop laughing.

"Shut up," you moan, and it apologizes. Its voice is silky and insincere, but you accept its apology.

The rush washes over you (at last) and you fall into fragmented dreams. Tobias tries to give you another vial, but he falls down dead before you can take it, and his blood drips through your fingertips. Your barista Mandy insists you drink too much coffee and tries to hand you a tea; you cry out, "I don't want it, I don't want it!" She frowns and drinks the tea herself. "It's perfectly good," she tells you. JJ cradles a snarling dog in her arms and asks you if you want to pet her new puppy. You wake up breathing too hard, and tremble in the moonlight before you dose again.

Someone has to see. They have to.

Criminal Minds is my favorite show ever, and Reid was my favorite character from the very first episode I watched (True Genius, by the way). This is my first foray into CM fanfiction, so please leave me a review!