Aaron Hotchner was born on November 2, 1981. He was the first son in the Hotchner family. As he got older he noticed that everyone around him had doodles and other things on their bodies. He was almost fourteen before the first marks showed up on his body.
The markings were small and… sloppy, dare he say. It appeared to be coming from a child who was experimenting. That or he could have just obtained the markers and begun to draw on walls but moved to his skin once the dry walls weren't enough for his creative mind. Rubbing his arm he had shrugged and pulled his sleeve down before continuing his own art on his poster board.
It got better as he got older. Words started to show up on his arms when he was sixteen. As he got older he had to get a dictionary to see what was exactly being written. When he was twenty-two his first bit of art was in a professional art show.
Standing by his picture, Aaron had smiled when necessary but otherwise had stayed fairly silent. He watched with cautious eyes, quite curious to see the reaction of the viewers faces as his work was more dark than usual. Moving his sleeve gentle he had slowly begun to read what was written on his arm, which over the years, he had become accustomed to and he actually found himself enjoying when he read it.
Spencer Reid was born on October 28, 1991. He never had a time where there wasn't something on his arm. As he got older the art got fancier. When he was alone he took pictures of his arm.
The artwork on his arm today seemed to draw itself, just as his own writing flowed like water in a river. New ideas for plots and character design seemed to come easily to him, and the dark theme came from the picture on his arm.
He spent the day writing, both on his arms and on paper. As he got older and finished his first Ph.D. in mathematics, he started to look into art galleries to see if he could find anything that matches what shows up on his arm. Even though he never found things that matched what was on his arm he continued to look as he did three more PhDs and two BAs. He had institutionalized his mother in that time as well. At twenty he left Las Vegas to find someone who would publish his stories.
Traveling by plane, it had taken a good six hours of traveling with two people next to him. Thankfully he had gotten the window seat, but the person next to him was slightly rude, considering he snapped at the flight attendants. Still, the ride was not completely unbearable. Once on the sunny beach of Virginia Beach he had obtained a nice hotel room and begun his journey to find a publisher, but before he left he examined the happy little picture of a village in France on his arm.
He found one and at age twenty he became a published author.