It's not the same anymore. He's not the same.
I've been pretending these last few months. Pretending that everything would go back to normal. That I would be able to open the bathroom door at night without fear of seeing him there, on the floor with a needle stuck up his arm and a belt tied around his bicep. That he would quit the screaming matches that are always one-sided. That I wouldn't have to keep his words from digging deep into my skin, ripping apart my soul, tearing into my nerves and settling into the deepest crevice of my heart to simmer and bake into a broken, molten mess. That, when words aren't enough, his emotions wouldn't come out through shoving me to the floor.
But, I know my Spencer is still in there. He comes out in small glimpses, when he apologizes for his behavior. He's not totally the same as he once was, but when he shows up, it's close enough. And I'm not about to let that small glimmer of hope that Spencer will recover from this die out.
"Hey," I call out when he opens the door. He drops his go-bag on the floor, kicks off his shoes, and loosens his tie. He trudges over to me. I think he's going to press a kiss to my forehead and tell me about the case like he used to, but I'm sorely mistaken. As usual. He flops down into the chair opposite me and starts rummaging through his satchel.
"I was just about to make dinner. Is there anything-"
"Not hungry," he grumbles.
"Oh. Okay. Well, is there anything I can-"
"Why are you still here?" he interrupts, tearing his gaze away from the bag to bore holes in me.
"Wha-"
"I know you hate this. I know I'm not the same guy I was before. So why are you still here?" he demands.
"Spencer…"
"No, seriously. I want to know. I've been pushing you around, yelling at you when I'm sober, ignoring you when I'm high. Don't think I don't notice you tip-toeing around here as of late. I'm not an idiot!"
"I never said you were. Spencer I'm not leaving you when you're-"
"When I'm what? Pitiful?"
"Broken. I was going to say I'm not going to leave you when you're so upset that drugs are the only thing that keep you going."
"Maybe I'm taking them to get away from you," he hisses, grabbing the capped syringe from his satchel and beginning to move toward the bathroom.
"You don't mean that," I say just as he opens the door to our bedroom.
"How the fuck would you know?" Spencer screams, whirling around in the threshold.
"Because I know you," I murmur. I stand from the couch and turn to face him. "Spencer, if you wanted to get away from me, you would have pushed me out a long time ago."
"What if this is my way of telling you to get out? Huh?"
"It's not," I say.
"You don't know that. You don't know anything! You think you're better than everyone else just because you took on the big loser everyone makes fun of!" The satchel slips from Spencer's fingers as he stalks towards me, the capped syringe pointed in my direction. "And now that my mind is all muddled and I'm depending on chemicals for survival, you don't like the view anymore, do you? Do you!?" he shouts, almost throwing his fix across the room.
He would never let that happen though. Dilaudid is the new love of his life.
"The drugs are messing with your mind," I whimper, backing away slowly. "I still love you, Spencer!"
"Don't fucking lie to me!" he shouts again. My back bumps against the bookcase wall.
"I'm not lying!" I attempt to defend myself, but there's no way my words are getting through to him. I brace myself for impending impact.
Spencer's growl turns into a shout and his hands are around my arms. He shoves me to the side. It's not the floor that hurts. This time, it's my head cracking against the side table that sends a mind-numbing spark through my spine.
Stars dance in front of my eyes and pain explodes from my forehead. I continue to fall to the floor, letting the hardwood greet me with as much kindness as Spencer does when he comes home each week. The wind is knocked out of me and my body feels heavy. My head throbs and my ears ring, but the noise doesn't drown out the unforgiving thuds of Spencer's footsteps and the soft click of the bedroom door closing.
I remain on the floor for a good ten minutes before I pull myself up. I check my head in the front hall mirror and decide I should take a trip to the nearest clinic for a couple stitches. I grab a paper towel and run it under cold water, then press it to the open wound. The cool water soothes my heated skin and I sigh at its touch.
Before I leave, I snag a blanket from the back of the couch and fill a glass with ice water. I open the bedroom door and then the bathroom door, finding my once sweet doctor cowering in the far corner of our bathtub, one hand cradling the empty syringe and the other slumped off to the side. I drape the blanket over him and balance the glass of water on the edge of the tub. I gently pull the syringe from his hand and scrounge around for the clear plastic cap.
I press a quick kiss to Spencer's forehead before walking back out into the living room. I make sure to close the bedroom door behind me and clean up the little bits of my blood on the side table and floor with the wet towel. I scrawl out a quick note and leave it on the table for Spencer when he wakes up. I make another wet towel for the wound, grab my purse, and exit the apartment.
I don't get very far before a man stops me on the street.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"I'm fine. I just bumped my head is all," I explain with a light laugh.
"Are you sure?" His hand ghosts over my shoulder and his eyes are dancing with…something. An emotion so dark and devilish that the world has yet to give it a name.
"I'm sure," I respond, pulling back from his hand and attempting to walk away.
"Please, let me walk you down to the clinic? Or the hospital?"
"No, I'll be fine on my own. Thank you." His hand is back on my arm, however it's clamped down now. "Sir, let go of me. I said I'm fine!"
The man smiles, white glittering teeth shining back at me through his crooked smile. "I don't think so," he chides.
"Let me go!" I shout, pushing and scraping at his hand. Now, he's pulling me along and into his side.
A glint catches my eye and pressure is applied to my hip. My purse slips from my hands and a small gasp escapes my lips. "Come now, don't be so rude. I just want to help." The gun digs into my hip as we walk in the opposite direction of the walk-in clinic just up the street. "You'll be a good little girl, won't you?" he sneers.
When I float down from my high, I groan. I flex each of my fingers and curl my toes. The belt slips down my arm from my stretching and the blanket folds over itself. When I crack open an eye, there's a glass of water waiting for me, dripping with condensation.
The events from the night begin flooding back like a bad nightmare gone terribly worse. I dump my head into my hands and I feel like crying.
She deserves so much better than this. I wish so much that I can just stop being this…this monster and go back to the way things were before. Where I didn't scream my head off at her like a toddler because I haven't had a fix in a couple of days. Where I didn't shove her down to the ground and walk away like it's nothing. Where I wouldn't have to witness the love mingled with pain every time ours eyes meet since they found me in Tobias' graveyard hideaway.
I want so desperately to let her go, but I just can't. Not when everything else around me feels like it's crumbling down because of this damned addiction.
I pull the blanket around my back and up over my shoulders. I down the glass of water and stumble out into the living room. She must have cleaned up before leaving. She always leaves when things get violent. I'm glad she does. God only knows what might happen if she stays.
I find her note on the kitchen table.
I'm going to the walk-in down the street. I'll rent a room at the nearest hotel for tonight and I'll be home later to give you time to yourself. You might not believe me, but I do still love you, Spencer. I won't give up on you.
With all the love in the world and beyond.
Her looping handwriting makes her signed name look like it's been printed by someone of royalty, someone with strength and power. Someone strong enough to take mental and physical abuse, yet still proclaim she loves her assailant no matter. Someone strong enough to see past the addiction and know that the man she fell in love with is still there; slipping and tumbling with each passing moment, but still there.
I shuffle back into the bedroom and change into a fresh set of clothes before leaving the apartment. She usually stays at the little motel a few blocks from here, but it's in the opposite direction of the clinic. She could be anywhere, but I'm determined to find her. Tell her I'm sorry. Beg for the forgiveness I do not deserve. Tell her I love her, despite all the nasty things I'm constantly throwing in her face to make her believe otherwise. Continue pretending that everything will be okay.
When I exit the building, the sidewalks are bare. It's still quite early in the morning. I decide to check out the usual motel, just in case. I turn the corner towards the motel, when a splash of color catches my eye.
It's a purse, leaning on its side close to the edge of the building wall. The contents are poking out of the opened zipper, but nothing has fallen out. I pick up the discarded accessory and a cell phone topples out of the bag. It looks suspiciously similar to hers. I drop down to pick up the fallen device and press the home button, waking up the cell phone and peering down into a version of my face I don't recognize anymore.
My stomach plummets to the ground and my heart pounds away in my chest. I shove the phone back into the bag and race over to the motel down the street. The man behind the counter recognizes me as I burst through the doors.
"Ah, Mr. Reid. How can I-"
"Is she here? Did she come here last night?" I demand between gulping down air.
"I'm sorry, but I have not seen her tonight."
I slam my fist on the counter and curse under my breath. I check every hotel and motel within walking distance from the apartment and come up empty. By the time I retreat home, the sun is high in the sky and people are milling around on the sidewalks.
I rush to the office, out of breath and clinging to her purse. I get there just as Garcia emerges from her hallway and is about to call us into our meeting for a new case. "She's gone!" I announce, bullets of sweat racing down my back.
"What?" Derek questions. Instantly, the team knows who I'm referring to from the purse hanging in my hand. They know her just as well as I do and the shock of my words electrifies the air.
"What happened?" Gideon asks.
"We…I started fighting with her last night. She left afterwards and when I woke up this morning, she was gone. I found her purse outside…just lying there…" Pain and fear begin seeping into my skin, soaking in my soul.
"How long ago was this?" Aaron asks.
"Um…I don't know. I've been looking for her all morning…the fight…including the time it took me to look for her and get here…maybe six or so hours ago?"
Garcia rushes into her office, saying something about figuring out where she might be given the timeframe and collecting all possible unsubs who might have gotten out of prison within the last few weeks. JJ and Gideon usher me into the round table room. Morgan and Aaron say they are going back to my apartment to see if there's anything there that could help.
"We'll find her," JJ coos, rubbing my shoulder with a gentle hand.
I nod, moving to place her purse on the table, but I end up dropping it on the edge. It smacks the edge of the table and flips around in mid-air, pouring all the contents out onto the floor. I notice a picture fluttering down to my feet and stare at the foreign smiles on our faces.
It's from when we first started dating. Not long after she first slept at my house. When I first witnessed her skin illuminated by the moonlight and felt her heart hammering away underneath my ear. My arm is around her shoulders and she's leaning into me as she snaps the picture. We look so happy, so different from now. Then, my gaze focuses on another object at my feet. The syringe I used last night. She must have taken it when she left me the blanket and water.
I can feel JJ and Gideon watching me. I grab the needle and glare at it, putting all the blame and guilt I feel onto the tiny syringe in my hand that was once filled with the offensive liquid I so desperately desire.
"I'll make this right," I whisper to the perfect couple in the picture. "I swear."
It's been 8 years since that day. Almost an entire decade of nothing has gone by and we have absolutely no idea where she could possibly be or what kind of sick torture she could be enduring. We don't even have proof that tells us she's still alive or if her suffering has finally come to a close. Knowing she were dead would be easier to swallow as compared to not knowing a single thread of information.
The only thing we have is a single recording of her abduction, taken from a store across the street. You can see her walk about an inch or so into frame when someone walks up to her. Conversation ensues, the attacker grabs her arm, she releases her purse, and the pair walk back the way she came. We've watched that video 1,428 times. Those few seconds that show the moment she was escorted out of our lives and never heard from thereafter.
Her case has been labeled cold for years now. Sometimes Garcia runs the video again when she gets a moment or two, looking for anything that she can work with. She's run it through every single program ever created, but the picture is so bad and you barely get to see her or the unsub.
We'd all given up hope of finding her, alive or otherwise. Until one day, while we were out in Chicago looking for Derek's kidnapped sister. We'd successfully retrieved her and, when we found her son, stumbled upon a bread crumb. A wonderful, perfect, beautiful bread crumb.
A little girl. With the hair of an angel I would recognize anywhere. Every feature matched that of the missing woman, except her eyes. This perfect little girl's eyes were a deep chocolate brown that caught the light from the moon and turned them a soft hazel. She had my eyes.