A/N: Hello everyone! I have not abandoned my other fics I swear, I just wanted to do this and I am hoping it will help me get the wheels of inspiration turning for everything else.

I do not plan on this being a long fic. Somewhere between three and five chapters I should think will be sufficient, but it may go longer if needed. It's just that every so often we learn slightly more information about this specific event in Reid's life and every time we do it becomes slightly more horrifying, especially when taken in context of his age and everything that was going on in his home life at the time. Please read and leave a review! I am trying to improve my writing, and feedback encourages me to keep updating.

Anyway, we join our intrepid 12-year-old hero at his Vegas high school, where he thinks his life is about to take a turn for the better…

I do not own Criminal Minds or its characters

Chapter 1

Meet me behind the field house tonight at six. Tell no one. Wear a blindfold. ;)

Alexa Lisben. The note Harper handed to him had been her handwriting; Spencer was sure of it: all curlicues with hearts over the i's. He could picture her now; the most beautiful girl in school, her perfectly styled blond hair tumbling over her shoulders onto one of those extraordinarily tight shirts of hers, smiling and laughing at something he said. She, of all people, liking him. He liked her, of course, had in fact been struggling not to stare at her in wondering awe for several months now, but he had never imagined the feeling might be reciprocated. He was just a kid after all, and moreover a freak, the lowest of all the pariahs. Even the other outcasts avoided him. Alexa wasn't even supposed to know he existed.

Of course, she had to be at least somewhat aware. They had been paired together in chemistry, after all, and she hadn't even protested the arrangement. Although she hadn't done any of the work on the group projects… but that was fine. She was busy and hadn't had time. She had explained it all very clearly.

He could hear the gravel crunch under his feet as he slowly felt his way forward. The schoolyard was quiet at this hour, and the darkness imposed by the blindfold lent a strange otherworldly feeling to the entire endeavor. It seemed strange to even be here, he was normally so cautious, but that contributed too. An entirely different world where anything was possible, where he took chances, where even he might be accepted as something more than the freak his mind made him.

"Hey." Her musical, almost hypnotic voice drifted toward him.

Spencer smiled, "Wow. I didn't think you'd actually be here."

"What do you mean?"

He paused, searching for the right words. "I thought… Maybe it was some sort of joke. You know, I'd come out here and make an idiot of myself." He still could hardly believe it. It felt like some sort of dream, like at any moment he would wake up in his bed, lonely and alone. A boy's first crush is a powerful thing, and his mind had built her up accordingly.

"Of course it isn't. Why would it be?" He heard rustling as the 17-year-old bent over to put her hands on his chest.

Her lips were soft as she started kissing his neck, and he could feel her breath wafting warmly over his skin. The teenager's experienced hands moved over him, touching, feeling, grasping, moving from his hair to his back and even venturing lower, before finally finding his chest and starting to fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

Her silky voice muttered against his skin as she started unbuttoning. She whispered how hot he was, how much she had been thinking about doing this and so much more, and other things that made him feel a little excited but mostly very confused.

"I, uh, I haven't ever…really…done this…um… before…"

She laughed softly, "Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

Her hands drifted over his bare chest now, her words growing dirtier as she groped him.

That was when the laughing started.

Spencer pulled away, startled, ripping off the blindfold as he did so. He stared, first at the entire senior class crowded nearby laughing at him, then turned to Alexa. He searched her face, desperate to find the same shock and horror he was feeling. He longed to read in her eyes that she hadn't known, that she was as much of a victim as he was.

Alexa was smiling with the same sadistic amusement as the rest. Tears welled in his eyes. He had thought she cared about him. True, they hadn't interacted much, but when they had she had been sweet, even kind. He hadn't thought…

"What? You actually thought I liked you?" She laughed cruelly. "Oh my God you're so stupid. Me. date a little weirdo alien like you. You must be out of your mind."

It was a trap… had been a trap. She had lured him here on purpose. Spencer wondered what they had planned for him, although this was enough. What… Why… What had he done to her? Why…

Spencer stared at her, heartbroken and betrayed, then turned and ran, desperate to escape. He made it only a few feet before strong hands found him, and he cried out in fear as they lifted him fighting and struggling into the air and carried him back towards the football team. "NO! NO, PLEASE! I'M SORRY!"

"Shut up, Freak." Brandon's voice sounded beside his ear.

Spencer immediately realized what this was about. Brandon Taylor had been the bane of his existence. The principal's son, he desperately felt the need to prove himself a rebel and had far too much leeway to do it in. Brandon had quickly recognized Spencer's useful potential and set about exploiting it, first forcing the genius to do his homework and provide cheat sheets for tests, then expanded his operation to a business when it worked. He sold material to the other students and beat or tortured the child if he refused or failed to deliver. When Spencer tried to go to the staff about the abuse, even showing them bruises and scars as evidence, they first penalized him for fighting and told him bullies were a part of growing up, then when he persisted responded that he was clearly trying to cover for troubles at home and threatened to send CPS for a home check. That immediately frightened him into silence. Spencer was all too aware of what would happen if CPS was sent. They would discover the schizophrenia and single-parent household, his mother would be declared unfit and he would be removed from the home, there was no question. He would not risk that. Since then he carefully hid the injuries with makeup, high collars and long sleeves, terrified of anyone seeing his bruises.

Last week Brandon had demanded a cheat sheet for the chemistry midterm. Spencer, utterly sick of the entire operation, provided one but slightly changed one coefficient in most of the formulas, knowing the bully wouldn't sufficiently fact-check before distributing it. More than half the class proceeded to fail. Retribution had been inevitable, but he hadn't expected this.

Brandon and several other football team members started to tear at his clothes, beginning to strip him. His unbuttoned shirt was first, then they started to unfasten his pants. Spencer fought hard and managed to bite a hand that strayed too close.

He felt his teeth close around it. Flesh tore and he tasted blood as his teeth sank through the skin.

"It takes the human jaw approximately the same amount of effort to bite through a finger as a baby carrot."

The fact scrolled through his head, in the same crisp, neat font as the book in which it had first appeared. And while he hadn't gotten a finger, the fleshy base of the thumb would do.

"OW! What the HELL! You little BASTARD!" Curses streamed from the boy in question as he ripped his hand away, bleeding profusely. Tired of his resistance, they threw the child on the ground and started punching and kicking him repeatedly, yelling obscenities with every blow.

They were muscular 18-year-old athletes, men really, and every one was easily twice Spencer's size. There was very little the undersized 12-year-old could do as they continued to beat him.

"Come on, you had enough yet?" His vision was blurring by the time the question was asked.

Angered by his silence, Brandon asked again, each word punctuated by a vicious kick, "I. Said. Have. You. Had. Enough!" Spencer nodded as he coughed blood onto the ground. Every breath hurt, and he suspected a couple of cracked ribs.

After that he was quiet and subdued as they ripped off each item: his pants, then shoes, then socks were peeled away. Resistance just wasn't worth it; it would be less painful to simply let them complete their intentions. He didn't struggle again until they grabbed at his underwear.

"Please…" The word was mournful, begging, one last cry for mercy. Most people would have been reduced to tears by the pitiful look in the waifish child's large brown eyes. The monsters only laughed, hands grabbed his waistband, and then the garment was gone, his last defense against the prying eyes and hands of his tormentors.

They picked him up again and carried him, protesting weakly, to the goalpost. The crowd, in reality only twenty or so, seemed endless as Spencer stared out at them. His hands were wrenched roughly behind him and bound around the cold metal. He could not fight, could not run, could not even move to cover himself as he stood there, shame and terror forcing tears to his eyes, feeling violated and utterly vulnerable and so very very alone. James, the boy he had bitten, walked up to him, grinned, then took off Spencer's glasses and dropped them on the ground. There was a sickening crunch as James ground them into the dirt with his heel.

The torment continued. Taunts and occasional blows rained down on him from the other members of his class, even joking derogatory discussions of his body among the girls as if he were a piece of meat or a doll. Alexa's high, musical laugh could be discerned among the others as she mocked the physical effects her ministrations had had on the child. He saw flashes as a few of the students took photos; souvenirs, he supposed, of their 'fun' night.

Spencer knew that Brandon, and likely others, had been drinking; he could smell it on their breath, which brought up an entirely new set of problems. He had read about bystander effect and mob mentality, enough at least to know how quickly such a situation could escalate. With alcohol added to the mix… he hated to think how easily it might get out of control.

He couldn't see at all. Between the darkness and his own myopia his surroundings were nothing more than a blur. The camera flashes exploded into multifaceted rings of light among the vague oscillating human shadows. The trees twisted above them like thin towering dark tendrils and behind it all extended a fuzzy blackness.

The schoolyard was mainly scruffy greyish grass that was starved for nutrients by the poor desert ground, but the gravel the goalpost sat in felt like a million pins on his bare feet and he found himself shifting his weight uncomfortably from side to side, searching fruitlessly for some relief.

Spencer shivered. The blows were becoming less frequent, with the downside that for the first time he noticed the cold metal pressed against his back, freezing his skin and forcing him to stand ramrod straight. The ropes dug into his wrists, and the way they were tied made his shoulders ache.

He couldn't see and hadn't been paying attention, and so was not prepared when a broken piece of brick came hurtling out of the darkness, sending stabs of pain exploding through his head as blood oozed from a large gash on his forehead. He froze, head bowed submissively, waiting to see what effect this escalation would have on the lynch mob.

What would it be, stoning or release? Either was possible; it depended on how far the mob mentality had gone. So he stood, helpless, his heart pounding with fear and adrenaline as he awaited his fate.

To his surprise a hush fell over the group, the high of violence and alcohol that had made them invincible brought down with a crash to hard, sober reality by the excessive attack.

The only sound was the victim's harsh breathing as he battled the pain and awaited his fate.

"HEY! What the hell are you doing?!" Brandon stormed over towards the miscreant who had thrown the brick and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. Spencer suddenly realized Brandon had never left marks anywhere not easily hidden and wondered whether it had been on purpose. Brandon was hardly stupid. He blinked blood out of his eyes as he tried to watch the slight altercation, the substance obstructed his vision and threatened to glue his eyes shut as it coagulated.

He had been so focused on the problem of the blood that he suddenly realized he hadn't noticed the conversation shift. Students were collecting their belongings, talking somberly and shooting awkward glances at him as they prepared to leave. Flashlight beams scanned the ground, searching for misplaced items. "Ensuring they don't leave any evidence to link them to the crime scene." Spencer bitterly thought to himself.

"Shouldn't you cut him down?" A girl stood about a yard away from him, Susan Hastings if he recognized the voice correctly. She was a sweet girl, quiet, generally reading in the back of the class. He was surprised to see her here, or indeed that she had been invited at all.

The plea that tried to escape his throat came out as barely a moaning whimper, not a word at all.

"Nah. The brat would only go whine about us to his parents. Better to leave him. Someone will find him in the morning anyway." Parker, he thought, put his hand on Susan's shoulder and started to lead her away.

His last chance. "Please!" It came out this time, high and weepy but audible. The pair stopped. "Please. I have to go home." How long had his mom been alone in the house? Spencer hated to think. "My parents will be worried about me. They are probably already looking. If you release me now… I promise I won't tell anyone. I'll say I went for a walk and got lost. Just let me go home." His voice nearly broke at that. After all, no matter what he told them no one was looking. No one was coming. His imaginary Nice Normal Functioning Parents weren't sitting up all night calling hospitals and police stations or combing every inch of ground between the house and the school with flashlights. He didn't even have friends to ask after him, they had all drifted away as he became increasingly secretive and isolated after his father left. He wouldn't let them come to his house, didn't have time to play at theirs, and then he skipped six grades and started his senior year of high school, so they no longer even saw him in class.

No, there was no one. For all intents and purposes he was alone in the world.

Susan hesitated, but Parker interrupted before she could say anything, "Hey guys! I think ET wants to phone home!" Laughter ensued from the others and the moment was gone.

He watched them all walk off into the distance, talking and laughing amongst themselves, and Spencer wondered if any of them would think about him later that evening. Would Alexa sit down to dinner and think about him, how she had lured him to his doom? The alluring blond siren didn't even glance back as she walked to her car, and it was with a heavy heart that he realized just how little he meant to her, a plaything to be used then tossed aside.

It was dark and quiet with them all gone. Darkness had settled across the wide expanse; creeping, reaching fingers that sought to consume the tiny pools of warmth given by the poles scattered here and there. His hands twisted in their bonds, tentatively testing their strength before giving up.

Fear of the dark was utterly illogical, he knew that. Regardless of how unlikely it was that something would happen, at present he was entirely incapable of defending himself. Worrying without the capability of action was pointless; his energies were best spent elsewhere. Spencer briefly shut his eyes, determined to ignore the monsters his mind insisted on conjuring out of the night.

He couldn't help thinking about what Parker had said, that someone would doubtless find him in the morning. As much as he hated the thought of anyone else being privy to his humiliation, it did bring a slight sliver of hope. If the first adults to come filtering into the school Friday morning saw him standing there bound and naked with blood dripping down his forehead, it would be impossible to ignore. They couldn't possibly argue that the injuries were sustained at home or in a fight; they would have to admit the other students were culpable. None of his classmates would ever be able to hurt him again.

Tears of relief sprang to the child's eyes at the thought of an end to his suffering. Never again would he be beaten, or trapped in a locker for hours on end, or peed on, or his head forced down in a toilet until he nearly drowned, or subjected to any of the other sadistic tortures the adolescent mind is capable of inventing. It was hard enough trying to complete all his high school curricula in a single school year and take care of his mother, doing so while being terrorized was nearly impossible.

Yes, someone would come in the morning and he could go to the hospital. He just had to last the night.

Time passed, the fingers turned to talons, then the talons turned to horrible hooded monstrosities, looming out of the darkness, coming for him. Panic gripped him and kept its terrible hold as he desperately reminded himself of basic logic and statistics: the chances his brain wasn't lying to him were so infinitesimal as to be irrelevant. He knew he was actually safer now by himself then he had been surrounded by his class. It made no difference. His hands twisted feverishly in their bonds, worsening his injuries, as he delineated each shadowy shape and reminded his imagination of the trees and signposts they had been in the light.

And of course, it was then that he again remembered the issue with his plan: Mom. She was in the house by herself.

Surely, he reasoned with himself, she would be alright. She was a grown woman after all, his mother in fact. She should be worrying about him, not the other way around. If he stayed here everything would be all right; he could finally be safe. It was hardly as if she was going to burn the house down.

An image of his mother burning the house down rose in his mind and stuck there, and he set in earnest to freeing himself.

A slow, careful revolution around the pole, feeling with one foot all the way, revealed nothing sharp he could use to cut the ropes. The pole itself likewise proved useless, smooth and without any protrusions.

Spencer sighed and twisted his hands around, trying to feel out the knots. Upon examination there proved to be only one, simple and standard but pulled quite tight, in a way that would require some extended effort to untie. The rope itself tightly wrapped individually around his wrists, then crossed back around both together. He could not simply slip out of it. As difficult as it would be, untying the knot was his only option.

And so began the impossible task. Carefully he worked at the bind, struggling until his wrists were rubbed raw to insert his finger into the loop and work it loose. The progress was slow, with frequent breaks as his wrists cramped from the uncomfortable position he had to twist them to in order to reach it.

Slowly he felt it working; the loop enlarged then worked loose. With excitement he repeatedly pulled his wrists apart to finish the job.

Blood soaked the rope by the time it gave way and Spencer finally collapsed to the ground. He lay there for few moments, gasping, trying desperately to stave off shock and pain and gather the strength to move. He reminded himself he had to move, all of this was pointless if he couldn't get home.

Mom. He had to get to Mom.

Eventually he barely made it off the ground, crawling desperately through the dead grass and dirt in search of his clothes. He couldn't go anywhere naked and blind.

He found them a few minutes later, scattered carelessly some ways off. They were all there, although most were thoroughly trampled and ripped to shreds. His shoes were the only items intact, covered in mud and… other things he didn't really want to identify, but usable. His glasses he found next to the goalpost, smashed. James had been thorough, only a few large shards clung to the twisted metal. Spencer put them on anyway, they were better than nothing and he needed to know if a car was coming. The clothing, what was left of it, was next. Destroyed as they were, they would cover him, and home was too far to go barefoot. An outlet for a hose behind the bushes along the front of the school left his shoes soaked but clean. Bruised, bloodied, exhausted but determined, Spencer made a mental note to stop riding the bus and take his bike in future as he began to limp the long journey home.