A/N: This is my first shot at Criminal Minds fanfiction. Told from Dr. Reid's perspective. Also, the timing may seem jumbled because he mentions both Gideon and Rossi. The idea is that this takes place somewhere after Gideon has left, but at no real disclosed time.


* * *

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;

One need not be a house;

The brain has corridors surpassing

Material place.

-- Emily Dickinson

* * *

There was a ten percent chance. In the spectrum of things, that's not nearly as traumatic as it could be. Not when one considers everything else that happens around here.

Ten percent. That's like saying there was a ten percent chance that you'd survive an atomic bomb. Okay, bad analogy, but the point is—it's highly unlikely.

Yes, highly improbable.

I've built my world on statistics. On figures and numbers and patterns. Then why does it matter that a little number like ten out of one hundred bothers me so much?

One tenth. That's all there is.

* * *

I pulled out the vial and set it on the kitchen counter. I hadn't been home for a week thanks to that last case… and I'm so focused on the syringe in my hand to even remember where that was. Somewhere south, somewhere warm.

But it doesn't matter. I'm shaking too bad. I can't inject like this. I set the needle down. The room is coming in and out of focus rapidly, like I'm blinking too fast and making myself dizzy. The collar of my shirt is sticking uncomfortably to the back of my neck as it's soaked with sweat.

I don't remember my knees slowly giving out and sliding to the kitchen floor.

The confusion fades for a moment, and all I can think of is:

Ten percent.

My body shakes and I close my eyes, willing the needle above me to disappear along with that damn number.

* * *

Tobias is standing over me; needle ready as he pulls up the sleeve of my shirt.

"I don't need it, I don't need it, I don't need it."

The mantra is lost to my self-proclaimed guardian angel.

The needle enters my skin and my eyes roll into the back of my head.

A part of me is hoping that this time, I'll die.

* * *

I can't look any one in the eyes anymore. They all know. They know that it's gotten bad, but they don't know everything about my life. Hotch and Rossi and Gideon and Garcia and Morgan and JJ and Prentiss wormed their way through my life, but they still don't know.

Not like I know.

I know that Monday is statistically the most favored day of the week to commit suicide, that the murder rate in the United States is four times greater than Japan, that children laugh on average 400 times a day (adults laugh 15), that the most collect calls are made on Father's Day, over 1,600 North Americans have been locked inside a car trunk, approximately 3,000 people choke to death each year.

I know that ten percent of all children born to a schizophrenic parent will inherit schizophrenia.

I know that Tobias is watching me, even after I shot him dead. I know he's watching me from his grave, or from heaven, or from hell. I just know he is watching me. Watching as I continue his protection. As I continue to brace myself from pain I no longer feel.

I know I'm being punished for splitting up with JJ. For letting Cyrus hurt Emily. For every person I shot. For every kid I didn't save. For sending Mom away…

I know none of the team would understand.

I know that I'm alone now.