A/N Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds. Story Warning: Strong M, as always. Hey there! Sorry for the long wait, but I'm back. And here's something new, and different. Please, enjoy!

An Ingénue and Her Muse

Your fingers dig until they bleed, and yet, Silly Girl, you never get that diamond ring

..-. .-. . . .-.. -.- ... ... . .-. -.- .- - …

I

The first fatal blow is swift – a fiery pinprick through the gut, delivering an agonizing whiplash that takes a few months to fully process.

It settles into your bones and oozes profusely, until your limbs feel stiff and heavy.

Your mind becomes an unstable landfill of vicious thoughts…

Of memories.

And broken promises.

One wrong step – too close to a pressure point, and that's all it takes for the dark veil to seem to descend over everything. Turning your once vibrant world of color and whimsy into nothing more than ash and dust. Anything you now do seems to summon a difficult…

'What's the point?'

Clutching the nearest surface, catching yourself before you end up face flat on the floor, becomes a daily ritual. A survival technique that fades into a soothing habit. Because if you can feel the cool textured surface of the wall beneath your shaking fingertips, and hear you labored breath then that means you're still alive.

And that's something, right?

Right?

But this time…this time it's different.

It feels as if a serpent has wrapped itself tightly around your lungs. Viciously squeezing, making it seem like surrendering to a brutal suffocation is the only escape from your misery.

In the far recesses of your mind you somehow manage to list the symptoms, and immediately recognize that you're suffering from claustrophobia – your third worst fear, right behind clowns and creepy crawlies – which seems absolutely ridiculous, considering you're standing in a wide-open space. Yet, your hands are clammy, and your staccato breath has become a discomfort.

Breathe Garcie, just breathe.

You're fine. Everything is gonna be okay.

Just breathe…

Hoping your kind, inner dialogue will bring you comfort. Though once you open your eyes, realization strikes like a lightning bolt. The cause of your sudden panic attack is from ending up down the wrong hallway – yep, the one you've been avoiding for weeks.

The one that belongs-belonged to your best friend.

Keep breathing...

The walls around you seem to stretch, and spin, and go on for miles, though you've only stopped a few feet away. And the moment your vision clears and the thunderous roar in your ears dissolves into a distant hum, you can't help but spot the soon-to-be dark and almost completely empty office.

And that, is all it takes.

For the poorly stitched wound you've been valiantly trying to prevent from festering to rip wide open, and knock you breathless.

The impact is jarring – lodging in the back of your throat, springing tears to your downcast eyes – and forces you to slam into the wall behind you. Knees locked in place, there's nothing you can do but remember how to breathe. A simple function that proves painfully foreign. It's your Heart's resistance from your Mind to continue. A loss of control, that relies on muscle memory to keep you afloat.

Sense manages to claw its way back into your consciousness and you find yourself now standing in the middle of his office. Hoping to feel anything other than sorrow. The room is bathed in harsh fluorescence, and the acrid aroma of bleach and pine cutting through the air is like a hot cattle prod digging, scorching...mocking your misery.

Twirling around once, twice – trying to find any semblance of familiarity in the place that holds precious memories now hidden in white cardboard boxes – only to feel your laminated badge graze the top of your thigh. An intrusive reminder that you're still at work, and you're going to need to regain your composure.

A tedious, exhaustive task you don't have any willpower to achieve.

Shoulders that are taut with agitation quickly straighten, though before those deep honey eyes can lift off the ground, your breath hitches as you catch the shattered, jagged little pieces, of your broken heart strewn across the floor.

There's nothing pretty about it. It's messy. Though you have a morbid curiosity to keep staring.

Wanting to sift through the debris after an explosion. Needing to find answers that were already lost.

Leaving a gaping hole in the center of your body. Pulsing with molten fervor, and a persistent stinging behind your eyes that blurs your vision once more.

You don't move, becoming frozen in time, like a statue carved out of glorious marble – never to exist, only to be admired from afar, through hooded eyes and impish smirks. Not wanting the wedges of your favorite heels to trample through the room – staining the carpet, or losing the fine splinters through the thick woven fabric – you stay rooted to the spot, exactly where he left you.

Logic has always been your companion, and it tells you, through a strangled whisper – raw, and graveled from the back of your subconscious – that you can't move yet, because the bleeding remnants of your heart can't be damaged any further, especially not by those pretty, uncomfortable heels you insist on wearing.

How could you possibly survive, if you go and make the situation even worse?

Simply…

you can't.

So, your back goes rigid, and your knees become weak. And the tears that tease your long lashes, get furiously wiped away from the back of your hand. That's all you can do.

That, and breathe.

As painful as it is, you breathe.

Tight, quick, shallow breaths.

Breathe, and watch the setting sun behind you, disappear through the slanted blinds, until the warm, golden hues leave the room, and with it, a part of your soul. For your Heart was your compass. Your lifeline. Your True North. And as day turns to night, and your limbs become languid and begin to shake, this change begins to have an air of finality to it.

It is, after all, your fault for believing in the first place. So many years that made up a decade of your life. 120 months, filled with 3,650 days of furtive glances, teasing smirks, dangerous nicknames – all promises of something more.

Something better.

Something- someone worthy of loving. It required no effort, it just happened. Your whole mind, body, and soul fell irrevocably in love and you had no way of stopping it. It was that kind of better.

That kind of once-in-a-lifetime pure magic, that made you believe in fairy tale endings.

Something that was now completely ruined.

Pure devastation. A dark, consuming anger. Loneliness. Naivety.

Regret.

As if the deep, soul-filling connection never existed.

You wasted so much time on him.

Though you remember it. All of it. Every single minute.

You remember.

How he made you feel. What he made you think. Who he made you become.

How could you possibly forget him – the greatest love of your life.

You know, the same man who ran off and married another woman. And had a baby, and moved far away.

Yeah, that guy.

"I'm gonna stick around a little longer."

Deep down, you always knew he wouldn't. And he proves your right.

Those words swirl around you. Seeming to be carved into the walls of his office. Hell, you have a sparkly, purple diary hidden and secured in the bottom of your desk drawer at home.

'Mrs. Morgan' inked with a flourishing cursive. Adorned by tiny hearts, smiley faces and your lovely dreams of a cozy home and white picket fence, decorating page, after page.

You haven't opened it in years. It was once a way for you to express confusing, fluttering, unmentionable feelings when you two had first met. But a part of you gave up the knight-in-shining armor fantasy a long time ago.

Though, you never threw it away.

"Hey, Silly Girl. I love you. You know that, right?"

Yeah, how could you forget him?

Silly Girl

You can't.

It's not fair.

Really, it's not.

Though, in your line of work, you know damn well that life rarely ever is.

That thought doesn't ease the bitter acidity flowing through your veins. Instead it incites that envious, little, green-eyed monster to rear its ugly head.

Your throat tightens at the exact moment your pouty bottom lip quivers. You hate that feeling – of wondering how you're still alive when your heart is breaking. Because even when you sense you're destined for heartache, it always leaves you feeling blindsided. An unexpected punch in the gut, that leaves you gasping – angry, guilty, foolish and oh so very…sad.

That deep, aching sadness that could only be associated with loss.

It's grief, and it fucking sucks.

You had time to prepare for it. And yet…and yet, Silly Girl, you didn't.

Oh, Garcie!

When are you gonna grow up?

You're a stupid, pathetic little girl that still believes in happily-ever-after's!

…well you still do – you always will.

You just, can't help it.

Some will say it's part of your charm. You, however, know better. That your strong naivete for all things romantic will be your inevitable downfall. The proof of that already lies on the ground before you. Proof that you believe in wedding bells and picket fences with every ounce of your being, so much so, that you would fall in love with the wrong guy just because he smiled at you and gave you pet-names and…

and made you believe...

that it could possibly, somehow, maybe one day happen to…

you.

Idiot!

The scream is hollow, lacks any vitriol that settles into your bones, because you're trying so hard not to crack any further, that you're exhausted.

But you do have enough energy, to perhaps throw something. Hard. Against the wall. Particularly your bright sunshine mug – a gift from him so many moons ago.

Something that reminded him of you.

If you break it, you could physically see the pieces of glass scattered across the floor. You would just grab the dust pan and sweep it up. Throw it away. Maybe find some of your Heart amongst the rubble. You could put those pieces in your pocket, and try to stitch them up later that night, or that week. No, you'll need a few months. Or a year. Before you could look at them again.

Oh, how it hurts.

It really, really hurts.

Missing the organ that pumps fresh blood throughout your body – keeping you alive. It doesn't quite work right any more. Hasn't fluttered with joy in months, maybe even years. Doesn't thud with anticipation for what his promises might bring. It hasn't for a very long time. And it's only now, standing alone in his office, struggling to breathe and keep the tears at bay – because if you feel them streaming down your face, or hear your pitiful sobs fill the room, then that makes it all so real, and real means it hurts, and you're so very tired of hurting, of hiding, of not being able to breathe with ease, without thought, without forcing it.

So, you just continue to stand there, and wait.

and wait

and wait

and...wait...

Wait for the air to fill your lungs.

For the puffy redness of your eyes to stop stinging.

Your fingers to stop clasping and unclasping, twisting into sweaty palms.

Your ears still ring. Repeating his last words to you. Over, and over, and over. It fades and morphs into bits that fall out of order and you begin to wonder if he actually even said those things. Or, is your mind playing ticks on you and making his words have a sharper edge, so they cut a little deeper and you bleed a little more. Maybe it'll break through the numbness, so you can feel it, feel something, anything, and have a release.

You need to cry.

Let it all out.

But you won't.

No, not yet.

Not for a long while.

And that's perfectly fine with you. Because you don't want to cry right now. Not with all the cameras around you and people milling about. You're already stripped bare. You don't need an audience. They've all laughed at you long enough. Watching the side show that was your whirlwind affair. The water cooler gossip that had eventually made its way from floor-to-floor.

It seems everyone knew how it would end, except for you.

And oh, how you hate not knowing.

Grinding your teeth, you find a burst of defiant energy and step forward. Wobbly at first, but you steady yourself, catching your watery gaze reflected at you from the tinted window across the room.

Those bouncy curls seem deflated. The satin finish of your berry lips appears muted. And the mascara streaks, give way to hideous raccoon eyes – a total failure for all the valiant effort you spent the last half hour trying not to cry…because you didn't want to cry…even though every part of you wanted to weep.

Because you didn't get the man of your dreams. Nor the dazzling diamond on your finger symbolizing commitment. Your hand automatically floats over your belly and you flinch. For it's not you who's swollen with his child. Hank isn't your son. And you are not his mom.

No, you won't be called a misses or a mommy any time soon.

And you'll spend months trying to convince yourself that you're okay with that.

Just breathe.

That looming dread swells within your gut once more as nausea coils down your spine like a vile serpent. Perhaps you're on the brink of death. You've been there before. And there's a familiarity to all of this. Maybe you should knock. Curiosity, now being your solemn friend.

Absently nodding, you step forward and lose your footing, stumbling into the desk behind you. Bruising your thigh, you slump down, knocking shit to the floor you don't care to pick up. It's all the things he didn't find important enough to take with him anyway – leaving it behind for whomever would occupy this office next.

He just left it there.

Just like he left you here.

His…Baby Girl.

A twist of the dagger. Another, horrific blow to your battered ego.

Oh, well…fuck.

No!

Stop it Penelope!

You can't blame him for not loving you.

No?

Breathe...

Well, you certainly can hate him for making you feel like he did.

That seems to be the trigger. And you pull it with such a manic fervor that it tears a harsh, unexpected sob from the back of your throat.

You shoot off the desk. And even as you clamber your way out of the room gasping for air, you can't help but pity the poor bastard who's going to take over this office.

You're just really, really going to hate them.

To be continued…