"It's like I'm paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the face inside is right beneath my skin"
-Papercut, by Linkin' Park
A cross, scabbed over and faded, eroded from time, centered itself on a sweaty forehead. Dark tendrils of hair that fell over a ghastly pale, gaunt face shortened, lightened from their darkness in favor of a color dipped in sunshine. The bathroom surrounding the seemingly feeble, hunched over figure transformed into a wooded area shrouded in the black of night. A body lay frozen on the ground, another on his knees in disbelief. A poorly made grave separated the two paralleled opposites; one who gave into the darkness, the other who fought for the light. Yin and Yang.
This time there were no guiding lights, no familiar voices, or comforting faces. There was just Spencer Reid, and the man he killed. Tobias. Not Charles, not Raphael, but Tobias. His was the last in the line of murders the BAU had been asked to stop. But this death wasn't on the hands of a man long gone. No, the thick, red substance burned into the contours of Spencer Reid's once pure palms. Tobias who had been lost to the confines of his mind, another victim of his cold world, just like Spencer's own mother.. Just like Spencer was now.
A resounding thud from the apartment next door shot Reid from his reverie. He blinked away the last remnants of the sordid image, and what was left of his hollowed out form came slowly back into focus. He despised his reflection for the flashbacks it provoked, and not just of that night. The image that stared back at him was unnervingly similar to the one that stared back as a child. The same stringy hair, sunken cheeks, and unhealthy paleness. The thing that stood out the most, and sent him trekking through the dark depths of his past, was the same hopeless desperation hidden behind the walls in his eyes. He even quivered now, as he did then. Although, then his shudders had been brought on by the fear of the bullies at his school and his mother in one of her worse moods. Now his shudders were induced by drugs, the shame-filled cravings he wasn't good enough to resist. That little boy he used to be would despise the man he had now become.
Ironically, it was that same self-loathing that broke his final resolve. With trembling, shaky hands, he warily picked up the small glass vial and sharp needle he had stolen off the still warm body of the man he killed, whose blood would forever be an imprint on his hands. He was only able to evade the memories that haunted, once that first slow wave of euphoria hit. He was lost to this world now.
"You used to be calm, used to be strong
Used to be generous but you should've known
That you'd wear out your welcome
now you see how quiet it is, all alone"
-A Place for My Head, by Linkin' Park