Pale hands glimmer under light from above, barely speckled with crimson, telling of the man to whom they belong...no, not a man, not anymore. For his heart is ash and cinders, burnt to pieces by the flaming grip of the monster that seized it from the moment they claimed to be his saviours. They were not, he saved himself, and it merely took overcoming a drug problem to make them believe in him once more, believe that their beloved genius was back.
( everyone trusts the pretty boy. )
A mockery of prayer, of begging to an absent creator, is what this is. Nothing more, as his expression dances between solemn and smug, wide hazel eyes now dark with the unholiness of his very soul. They were once innocent eyes, naive eyes, eyes that made you think of a child that needed to be held and protected from the horrors of the world. That childishness was broken the minute he walked into that cornfield.
( nobody sees the evil within. not now. )
They have no hope of ever forcing him into custody, he's simply too smart for such a thing to occur. Time after time, he commits the perfect kill, not one of them noticing that he models his victims after a few of them. Hotch, Morgan, Gideon...they failed him. They will pay, whether it be emotionally or physically, he makes sure of that with each new victim. They think they have him figured out, it's laughable, how much they just don't know.
( he's not an impotent bastard. this doesn't get him off. )
Rising from the pew, the federal criminal flicks back honey brown locks that are far too long for his line of work, but keep up the pretty boy image, mind wandering to how he could do so much better. He is above and beyond his so-called team, he is not some lost little puppy dog that they need to call and talk down to, as if he doesn't quite comprehend them. Oh, it infuriates him, how much they underestimate the true nature of one Spencer Reid, and just how spiteful he can be.
( this is all about revenge. for the innocent that died in that shed. )
With a self-satisfied smirk, a cat that ate the canary grin, he exits into the snow, white flakes floating down as he smiles. Even killers can enjoy things, and he is filled with joy for a moment, as a snowflake lands on his nose and melts. His joy is different then, as he recalls that all things must die, and beautiful but cold eyes scan the streets, looking for a new plaything. The poor girl looks like Greenaway, and a wolfish grin spreads across his face as he approaches her with an easy confidence.
( a new victimology is good. he revels in being free. and maybe if she'd stayed, he'd not have died. )
'Pray for me 'cause I have lost,
My faith in holy wars.
Is paradise denied to me?
'Cause I can't take no more.
Has darkness taken over me?
Consumed my mortal soul?
All my virtues sacrificed...
Can heaven be so cruel?'
- The Truth Beneath The Rose ( Within Temptation. )