Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal minds or the characters. I am not doing this for money. Please don't sue I have NO money :'( other wise I my room would be filled with Criminal Minds propaganda.
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WARNING!: You have been warned this is graphic and bloody DO NOT read it if you are a past cutter as it could cause you to have a relapse.
I know I am a sick twisted person. I am sorry. But this story has been on my mind for a month now so yeah. "enjoy" (not the best word to use but ah well) by the way I love Spencer and writing this was painful for me just FYI! Get better Spency! Yeah any way here it is!
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His shoulders where slouching over his slam slender frame. He sat in his leather chair
again thinking about all that had happened.
Emily was gone. That was it she was gone like that. He never even got to say good bye.
She had just walked out of the room as they had the press conference. He never even
saw her leave. He got up in a fury and walked toward the kitchen. Then he slammed his
had again the cold black granite.
"Why? How? It doesn't make sense!" He yells but he knows the truth. He knows why
she did what she did and why she died. He just didn't want to admit it. He slides down
the counter and falls into a pile of arms and limbs on the floor. He just didn't understand
why she had to die now. Why didn't Doyle just stay in prison? He sobs for his lost friend.
He remember how he ha told her about his head aces. Even here in the dark he felt one
creeping up on him.
He starts to rock back and forth. Why emily? well he understand that too. He should
have seen all of this coming after all he was the genius. Maybe it was all his fault yeah
maybe that was it. Everything was always his fault. Everything. Fisher King was his
fault,
Emily was his fault, what happened with Cyrus was his fault, his mom's schizophrenia
was his fault. He caused it all, he reasoned to himself.
He stops rocking and gets himself off of the wooden cold hard floor. He stares blankly at
it for a few seconds. They brownness of it all engulfing his senses. He walks to the
counter and opens the drawer. He gets the knife.
He stood there staring at it. It wasn't going to make a difference if he did this. It wouldn't
even make him forget. What it would do would do would be make him remember. It
would be his punishment to bear those scars.
He didn't move from there though. He just held the knife in his hand. He ran his fingers
up and down it nervously it had been four months since he last used it. Four months.
His hand trembled to put it down. But never actually moved. He hated cutting, it was
worse then a drug because no one knew because they didn't ever really see the proof
or look for it. It was also worse because not getting caught meant he could do it as a
substitute for drugs. It was so addicting.
His face was pale but set. He took the small knife down to his side and walk to the
bathroom. He turned on the lights which hurt his eyes a bit. He sat on the white tiled
floor. his head was propped against the tub. He took off his vest, unbuttoned his shirt.
he saw a few other scars that had survived the aging process scrawled over his
stomach and he could feel some on his arms and thighs as though they where burning
hot. Her remembered every single one. Yet he still went on and pressed the knife into
his stomach. A small line at first. No blood came out but his skin rose like it had been
branded. It hurt and he winced. It was more of a scratch then a cut to be honest. He
then took the small knife and pressed it to his stomach, decided against it and put it
down.
He though about the last time he had cut, what had caused him to almost quite forever.
He had almost hit an artery. He was a doctor but he had been drunk. he dashed to his
room quickly and dashed back. In his hand he held a thumbtack.
He pressed it against his flesh and carved the words 'failure" into his stomach above his
bellybutton. He gritted his teeth. he deserved this. His eyes blurred the room. He wiped
them and continued writing on his frame. he wrote the word "failure" all over three more
times, before he moved on to the knife. He first made four small cut on the back of his
hand. Then he moved on to his palm, one only this time.
He took of his pants then too. He then cut his knee. A deep gash. A river of crimson
blood trickled down his leg staining his clothes hat where littering the floor. the whiter tile
floor also had some specks of blood. He made several other small cuts away from any
major arteries. when he finished he just laid there. He felt numb, confused, tired. The
pure white floor was now splattered here and there with small pools of blood some only
specks littering the floor.
Feeling numb was better then feeling hatred though, he reasons. He lets the tears keep
falling as he lifts himself up to go to his room, change and go to sleep. He would clean
the rest up tomorrow. He laid his head on the pillow letting soak up his tears as he fell in
a sleepless dreams. The pain may go away and come back but these scars would stay
there forever...
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WAHHHHH! Poor Spency may he get better! :'( I am too Evil for my own good.