He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Spencer Reid's curly hair was clinging to his fragile looking face. He had lost weight this past month. His jaw bone was more prominent than ever before. Today was that one day a year they did drug tests at work. And he knew he wouldn't pass. His heart was beating faster than usual. His tank was soaked in sweat, his arm bruised from the many injections.
He turned the sink on, filled his hands with water and splashed it in his face. He could call in sick. But that would only post pone the test, not actually make it go away. 'He could stop whenever he wanted', was the story he told himself so often this past month. Dilaudid was just a pass time for him, he was no addict. He turned the sink off, and moved into his living room. The place was a mess from negligence on his side. His body was aching, every joint in his skeleton like figure shooting pains throughout. He picked up his phone. When turning it on a picture of JJ and Spencer flashed in his face. They looked so happy. He hadn't spoken to her in what felt like forever. He was so mad at her, he was starting to forget why.
He picked up the needle he had left on his coffee table. It was starting to look dirty, but his mind was too preoccupied by the fluids to take notice. He filled the syringe to his required amount, and inserted the needle. A hint of ache as he penetrated the vein, and he injected the fluid into his system. A shooting ray of light went through his body, and he sunk into the sofa as all his pains and aches gradually disappeared and his mind was once again floating through existence.
His phone woke him as it was vibrating and screaming him into consciousness. The phone reads Hotchner. He was not prepared to deal with his boss. This past month had floated away before his eyes. He had been high every minute except when he was at work. Every night was spent in the haze of drunken dreams and drugged out realities. Everyone at work had expressed their worries for his health; taking notice of the random shakes, spacing out, and the weight loss. He was never hungry anymore. Every time he looked up he would find the worried eyes of JJ, so big and deep, yet his anger got the best of him and they remind in silence.
"What," he answered eventually.
"Where are you?"
"Sorry, I have a horrible fever, I must have fallen asleep before I had a chance to text you", he tried, he could feel his lie slipping, knowing the team were more aware of him now than ever.
Hotch didn't reply much to that. He accepted the younger agent's poor lie, knowing he was not the person to deal with it; he would have one of the other agents check up on him when they got back.
And Spencer took that as a go ahead. He refilled the syringe once more, and injected the fluids into his broken veins, collapsing back into the sofa.
He woke by the shaking of his body. Everything was hurting once again. The vial of liquid savior was empty. He felt the fear and fright cling to his bones. Clawing away at his fragile frame. He would cry if he could. But his brain was in panic mode. He jumped out of the sofa, a rush of blood to his brain almost knocked him off his feet. He plunged into the bathroom, sweat dripping off his forehead.
Reed looked in the mirror once again. His face felt like a poor excuse for a man. His eyes were surrounded by hollow, black circles. His body shaking, he pulled the dirty and soaked tank off his body. He threw it into the tub filled with other dirty clothes that would have to wait before being cleaned. He could stop whenever, he told himself. He looked into the mirror. He was no drug addict; he was just in a bit of a bump right now. But he could stop whenever. He knew he could. Like now. He was out of Dilaudid, but he was fine. He could manage without a new vial. A cold shiver went through his spine at the thought. But he was no addict, so he could stop when he wanted.
He walked back into his living room. His joints aching at every step. He took a handful of aspirins, hoping it might help with the edge of it all. Lying down on his dirty couch, he could feel the tears pushing. How did he screw up this badly? He had always been the careful and well calculated person. The one who never did anything wrong, or anything to jeopardize anything in his life. And here he was, lying on a messy couch, covered in sweat. If he went to work and took the drug test, he would fail massively. It didn't matter how often he repeated he was no drug addict, because the test would tell otherwise, and Hotch would have no other choice but to suspend him, or even worse; fire him. It didn't matter that he wasn't a drug addict, all his friends would lose respect for him, they would no longer feel able to trust him. He fell asleep with tears running down his face.
He ran into the bathroom and threw his body to the floor, head over toilet bowl as stomach acid exited his mouth. His throat was on fire, his stomach cramping together in a desperate attempt to get rid of nothing. Tears were running down his face, stomach acid dripping from his chin. Everything hurt. But this was the price he had to pay. The price for not being a drug addict.
Finally, empty of all and everything, he stood up on shaky legs and exited the bathroom. Two days. It would take at least two days for the Dilaudid to be out of his system. Two-three days of withdrawals, then recovery time. He could blame the flu. It was after all the flu season. And with his recent weight loss one would expect his immune system to be shot. He could always blame the flu, because no one were to believe he was a drug addict.
He checked his phone, only to find it empty of all kinds of notifications. No one was missing him. It had been a whole day since Hotchner had called, yet none of his colleagues had contacted him, texted him, to check if he was alright. They might just be busy with a new case, he whispered to himself. Yet the feeling of loneliness bread over him like a dark fog in the early morning. Just as well, he was a terrible liar, and the fewer people that questioned his physical state, the fewer lies he had to tell.
Time moved slowly without the safety of drugs. He was no longer floating, but painfully stuck to the ground. His feet no longer like smoke, but much more like bricks clinging to gravity. He felt so small and needy, sitting on the couch he was just passed out in. He grabbed a handful of aspirins and swallowed them with the luke warm water that had been on the table for god knows how many days. His stomach was aching, but the thought of food made him feel sick. He probably shouldn't take that many aspirins on an empty stomach, but against Dilaudid there wasn't much to remove the pains. He knew the pains weren't real. They were all part of the withdrawals, but that didn't make them any less bothersome. He stretched his body, his back and shoulders crackling at the unexpected movements.
A knock on the door brought him back to reality. His joints no longer occupied his attention. He stood up, almost losing his balance as blood rushed back into his head, and walked over to the door. He opened it, and before he could react, JJ was on her way into his apartment.
"Hotch told us you were out sick, so I decided to bring you soup!" She walked over to his tiny kitchen, not yet looking at him. She turned around and took a deep breath as she looked him over. "wow." Was all she said.
"You really got it bad, Spence" She said as she opened the box of soup, and looked for a spoon in his messy drawers.
Spence pulled his hand through his messy hair awkwardly. "The flu" he muttered, trying to excuse his poor absence.
"You should have been there, this case we got was crazy!" JJ went on to tell about the case, handing him the soup which he awkwardly tried to digest despite his poor stomach.
He smiled to himself. Maybe someone did care. What a fool he was, thinking he was alone. If he was, the drug life would have been so much more tempting. There must have been an underlying reason why he was so obsessed with appearances. Why no one were to know he was not a drug addict.