Sidney
There was no way to tell how long I'd been kept in the cement room. I didn't even know if one would call it a room; a pit, perhaps. It was only about as long as me, just over five feet, and most likely three feet wide. There were no doors. Only a grate in the ceiling that let light in. Whenever I would fall asleep, whoever had taken me would somehow set a bottle of water and a piece of bread next to me, along with an empty bucket. I tried not to drink or eat anything at first, but I couldn't resist. I knew the pit was indoors somewhere, as the light overhead never changed. Had it been otherwise, I could have tried to keep track of the time.

My mind was always my greatest enemy. It would never shut down; it would never be at peace. Scenarios of all kinds constantly played on repeat and there was no solace until I was put in a clinical trial for those dealing with bipolar disorder with acute anxiety as a primary symptom at age 17. By some sort of luck, I didn't get the placebo. What was even better was that the drug worked. I'd been on it for the past ten years, taking it at the same time each and every day. Until I was abducted.

When my mind slowed down and I was able to function normally, I began focusing on the one thing that had never let me down: music. My parents made me go to piano lessons starting when I was only seven. It was a chore at first, but once the mania and anxiety started becoming more prominent, playing was the only thing that could even remotely bring me back down.

I was on my way to a recital when I was taken. I was a professor at the local university where I taught music history and advanced piano. The music department was having its spring show and all of the instructors had to play. My car had been low on gas, so I stopped to fill my tank. It caused me to run late, so I jogged from the parking garage towards the music hall. The heels I was wearing made it difficult, so I stopped to take them off. That's when I was hit on the back of the head and put into the fucking cement cell.

Withdrawal was never something I'd thought about. I was precise when it came to my medication; always taking it at the same time and making sure I had the money for my refills. I hadn't even bothered to look at the symptoms of its withdrawal because I'd been so certain I would never be affected. Shame at my own hubris made it that much worse.

The fever was the first to come. Chills were unrelenting as sweat seeped from my pores. Second was difficulty breathing. My chest tightened and my breaths became shallow over time. I assume the fever and lack of oxygen helped to cause the hallucinations. Whatever little grasp I had on time was completely gone and my brain played a nightmare on repeat right in front of my eyes.

Spencer
I was searching the apartment one more time with Morgan. The unsub had been in the apartment of every other woman he'd abducted, but we hadn't found any clues of him in Sidney Marque's home. In the other four, all of the mirrors had been shattered. Not in Sidney's. Her bathroom cabinet had been opened and the contents thrown about. He had to have found something that made him uneasy; something that he hadn't realized. He'd made a mistake in his choice of victim and I needed to discover what it was.

Since the unsub didn't shatter the mirror, it was safe to hypothesize that something in the bathroom had triggered his temper. He saw something that surprised him; something that he hadn't counted on. He had made a mistake in choosing his victim.

None of the items thrown about seemed out of the ordinary. Floss, toothbrush, hair ties and the like. Things one would find in plenty of homes. I crouched down to look closer at the floor. I was missing something that was right in front of me. I closed my eyes and took a breath, regrouping. My eyes were passing over something and I needed to start fresh. When I opened them again, I saw it. Behind her plunger, in between it and the corner, was a prescription bottle. Every other victim had been in perfect health. He thought Sidney was the same way, so whatever her ailment, it wasn't physical. I put a glove on and picked up the bottle. When I saw the name, my heart sank.

"Derek, call Hotch," I yelled out.

"What's going on?"

"We don't have as much time as we thought. She doesn't have her medicine and as long as he's had her, she's most likely experiencing symptoms of withdrawal. She has a prescription for an antipsychotic, one my mom had tried when it was still in its experimental phase."

"Are you saying Sidney is schizophrenic? None of the other victims had any sort of mental illness."

"It's not necessarily schizophrenia. For the unsub to take Sidney, he had to have been oblivious to her illness. Even properly medicated, those with schizophrenia tend to be on the antisocial side. Sidney is a professor and a musician. She's constantly the center of attention. Schizophrenia is unlikely. I've read that the drug was given in trials for depression, anxiety, even epilepsy."

"How did we not know about this? Why didn't the police fill us in? Medical conditions are always noted." Derek seemed angry, which I was able to understand. When coming into an investigation, we rely on the local authorities. When they skip something, it hinders the entire investigation.

"We need to go. Now. Withdrawal from antipsychotics is serious. We need to get to her."

I suddenly felt a connection to Sidney after this discovery. She knew what it was like to struggle with being different, with trying to function normally in society with a mental illness. Being different is rough. Only those who have experienced it themselves truly know the pain of being ridiculed for something out of their control. People could be cruel and unwilling to accept anything different. We needed to find her. I couldn't let her die this way.

Sidney
Part of me was aware that what I was experiencing wasn't real. In the back of my head, I knew it was a mixture of chemicals in my body playing tricks on my mind and shutting down my body.

The other part of me was terrified. I couldn't catch my breath and the hallucinations were getting more and more real. It felt like someone was forcing me to carve piano keys into the floor with a rock I'd found in the corner.

"I don't want to play for you," I sobbed. My voice sounded strained. I don't know when the last time I had water was. It was been awhile since I'd been given anything. Was whoever had taken me trying to kill me with starvation? Or was he watching and getting off on watching me lose my mind? "Please stop! I can't play right now!" Then the flashing lights started. I didn't know if it was my captor or my mind, but it was overwhelming. My body locked up and I was stuck. I couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't breathe. The only things I could feel were the tears running down my cheeks. I was going to die in this pit. Not from some psychopathic killer, but from my own body.

"Sidney? Sidney, can you hear me?" The voice sounded far away.

"Is she responsive, Reid? What's that drawn next to her?" This was a different voice. A woman's voice.

"Sidney? You need to open your eyes. Can you move?" It was the first voice again.

"I can't play right now," I whispered. "Please don't make me play."

"You don't have to play, Sidney." I felt someone put my head on their lap and move my hair out of my face. It was different that when I felt something moving my arm to draw the piano keys. That felt real, but this was different. Solid.

"Is – it – over?" It was getting even harder to breathe. My uncle had died from alcohol detox. I was told it wasn't pleasant. Could this have been what he experienced?

"We need an oxygen mask," the person I was lying on yelled to whomever he was with. "It's over, Sidney. We're going to get you out of here. I need to ask you something."

"Uh-huh?"

"I found your prescription bottle. Is there anything else you take? Anything for epilepsy, schizophrenia?"

"Bipolar-disorder. Mania. Anxiety."

"How long?" My head felt too light. Why couldn't I speak? "Sidney, I need you to let me know how long." I tried to respond, but couldn't. A quiet whimper was all that escaped me. The person took my hand. "Are you able to squeeze my hand at all?" I tried and succeeded. "Good, Sidney. That's really good. How long?" It took a few moments, but I squeezed ten times.

"We're sending down the stretcher and harness. Will you be able to put her on it, Spencer," the female voice asked down.

"Just a second," he replied. His name was Spencer. Spencer was nice. "You meant to let me know ten, right? Once for 'yes', Sidney. Twice for 'no'." One squeeze "Ten weeks?" Two squeezes. "Months?" Two squeezes. "Years?" One Squeeze. "Ten years. Okay. We're getting you out of here." He moved me only a flat surface that I assumed was the stretcher that had been mentioned, based on how it felt against my skin. A moment later, I could feel myself being lifted. Then I felt hands on me, prodding my skin, checking my pulse. It was too much.

"Spencer," I was able to get a whisper out.

"He's coming up," another male voice told me. "Reid, she's asking for you."

"I'm coming. We need to call ahead to the hospital and get a script ready for her. She's been on her medication for ten years. Her brain chemistry has changed and it's reliant on it now." Spencer knew what he was talking about. He was smart. Or he knew what it was like. Either way, it made me trust him more. I heard someone acknowledge what he said and then felt him take my hand.

"Spenc-"

"Don't try to talk, Sidney. I'll stay with you. We're taking you to the hospital now." Hearing this calmed me down and I was able to drift into the weightlessness.