"Leaving home in a sense involves a kind of second birth in which we give birth to ourselves"
Robert Neelly Bellah
Las Vegas, NV
Spencer Reid stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him. He dropped his backpack onto the floor and flopped onto his bed. Another miserable week of his high school experience complete. "Why do I even have to go? I know everything they're teaching already…" he thought. He readjusted himself so he was lying on his side. He was the correct age to be a junior, seventeen as of a few months ago. Even so, he was way more advanced than any of his peers. His eidetic memory and reading speed, plus his love of the pastime, made it easy for him to retain information. He had learned the things he was being "taught" in school years ago. "Why didn't Dad let me skip any grades!? I could be getting a PhD by now." He knew that sounded conceited, but he felt as if he was wasting his time sitting in class every day, and listening to a teacher talk about things he already knew. He tried to read his own books during class sometimes, but always got caught and told to put them away. He didn't want to disrespect the teacher; he just wanted to gain new, stimulating information. He hadn't gotten any excitement from being in class for years now.
He got up, and walked over the small mirror hanging on his wall. He had black eye from a guy punching him that afternoon. The other boy had been smoking, and Spencer had said that every time you smoke a cigarette, your life is reduced by eleven minutes. He had been only trying to help, and had no idea why the boy had gotten so angry. He opened the top door of his dresser and pulled out some concealer. He began to dab it on his eye, trying to make it look more natural. He didn't want to have to deal with his father questioning him today.
After he finished, he stepped back, proud of his work. His father would never be able to notice. He only worried that when he went to visit his mother at Bennington Sanitarium the next day, she would notice that something was wrong. "I hope she'll be having a good day tomorrow…" he thought. He really missed his mom; she was always so kind to him, and proud of his accomplishments. His father never seemed to care. "Maybe he just wanted a normal kid." He sighed, and went over to his bookshelf, selected a book, and sat on his bed again, his back against the wall.
He read for a couple hours before he heard his dad open the front door and yell, 'Spencer! I'm home! I brought dinner!" He got up from his bed and, stepping over the books that were strewn across the floor, headed downstairs.
When he arrived downstairs, his father was taking styrofoam containers out of a plastic bag. Spencer sat down and opened his, it was pasta. He grabbed his fork and began to eat. Dinner between him and his father was always awkward. His dad asked some standard questions, like "How was your day?" and "How was school?" Spencer answered both of them with a bored "Fine." Towards the end of their dinner, Spencer suddenly perked up, "Oh yeah, when are we going to see mom tomorrow?"
His father pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes, "We're not seeing mom tomorrow."
"What!? Why not? We see her every Saturday!"
"Exactly, you should be spending time with kids your age on Saturdays, not your mother."
"Dad, I have no one to spend Saturdays with anyway!"
"I know, why do you think that is? Either the fact that your best friend is your mentally ill mother or the same reason you got that black eye," Spencer's father gestured to his son's face.
The concealer was coming off because Spencer had started crying. His father's words stung. It wasn't his fault that people his age didn't like him, he knew he said the wrong thing sometimes, but he never meant to, he just didn't understand other people well.
"Stop crying! Go to your room! And stay there until you can learn to be a man!" his father bellowed, and Spencer got up quickly and ran up the stairs.
When he reached his room, he slammed his door for the second time that day, and sat on his bed, backed up against the corner where the two far walls met. He curled up, putting his face into his knees. He breathed deeply, trying to calm down. He would convince his father to let him see his mom next week. He repeated, "It will all be okay," to himself about twenty times, but he couldn't believe it. What if his dad kept him away from her for months? If only he had known last Saturday that this would happen. He would have cherished every moment with her. What if her schizophrenia got worse in the time he couldn't see her? What if she didn't even recognize him when he got to see her again? The statistics ran through his head. They didn't look good. He looked around his room; the books were still strewn all over the floor. Half his clothes were in heap on a chair instead of in his closet. Besides his bookshelves, bed, and desk, there wasn't much furniture. His eyes landed on the small duffel bag on his floor he had used on the rare occasions that his family went on vacation when his mother was still living with them. It was dark blue, just large enough to fit around seven outfits and a few books, along with some other essentials. He knew what he was going to do.
He got up, grabbed the duffel bag, and started filling it with clothes. He snuck downstairs; his father was asleep on the couch. He took some ziploc bags from the kitchen and went back upstairs to the bathroom. He took his toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, shampoo, soap, and threw a few washcloths into the duffel bag as well. He grabbed three of his favorite books and put them in the bag. He went over to his desk and opened the box where he kept what little money he had. He counted it up, $37.50. Not ideal. He put it into a separate compartment in the bag. He zipped up the duffel and swung over his shoulder. He took one last look at his room and walked out the door. He left a vague note on the kitchen table, something about a school trip to visit colleges. That would convince his father for at least a couple days. He opened the front door, closing it quietly behind him.