II. REID
The strange little clock on the wall, the one with all the numbers in the wrong places, the one that only made sense if you knew how to see the angles that connected everything, said that it was just after two in the morning. Good thing that, because the night sky certainly wasn't telling. The blinds were drawn tight, permitting not even a sliver of light to break through. Not even the moon.
He wouldn't have – no, couldn't have – had it any other way.
He stood naked in front of the mirror in his bathroom, meeting his own eyes. They were somehow hollow and empty. Below them were purplish rings made even darker by the contrast of his pale skin. He lifted a finger up and gently touched the puffiness below his left eyesocket.
"Side effects include," Spencer Reid started quietly, "Anxiety."
He smiled a bit. He certainly had that one down. Every moment of every day felt like an exercise in self-control. Like he was spending every second reminding himself to keep it together.
Wasn't really working out for him.
"Dizziness," he continued. Then he nodded slowly. Yeah, there had been a few bouts of that. Luckily, there had always been a chair nearby and no one had seemed to notice how he'd lunged for it.
"Fear," he whispered, a small tremor making its way through his thin frame.
Fear. There was a good one. He feared just about everything these days. From his well-meaning comrades at work all the way down to the postman.
But it was more than that. It was a simple touch as someone brushed by. It was the loud crack of a car backfiring.
Both were equally likely to send him into another fit.
Both were equally likely to send him reaching for the Dilaudid.
"Impairment of mental and physical performance," Reid forced out, his voice breaking a bit. Just a bit.
No, thank God, not yet. To be honest, work was the only thing keeping him going. Even if it was likely the thing that was keeping him spinning as well.
Still, he knew that they knew. Maybe not that he was taking the drugs, certainly not that he'd actually gone out an purchased a vial or two on his own. But yeah, they knew that something was wrong with him.
And every day he waited for the moment when one of them would ask. When one of them would get sick of dancing around the issue.
Some days he was sure it'd be Hotch. The leader.
But, no. More likely Morgan. The guy who saw himself as the big brother.
Surely not JJ. She had her own issues. She was just better at hiding it. Looking at her, he could see the shadows beneath her eyes, the ones that mirrored his own. But because she could smile and laugh, everyone assumed she was okay. Everyone assumed that she'd dealt and moved on.
"Mood swings," he told his mirror self.
And that brought up Emily Prentiss. The only one who seemed willing to call him on his behavioral swings. The only one who wouldn't just let it be. She was new to the team. Well not exactly. She'd been there for almost six months now, but it was easier to call her new, to say she didn't know, couldn't know. That way he could keep her at arm's distance. That way he could keep her out of his closet.
But still she persisted.
Funny how she was more dangerous to him and his secret than any of the people he called friends. The ones who knew him probably better than he knew himself.
Turning a bit to his side, Reid picked up his messenger bag. He slid his long fingers into the front pouch and removed a small vial. The liquid was mostly clear. He turned it a bit, stared at it. It seemed so harmless.
It was killing him.
Still, he couldn't stop. He barely needed to even look anymore. He barely needed to think about what he was doing. Eyes still on the mirror, still watching his own reflection, he prepped his arm and then injected himself.
Seconds ticked by. Maybe minutes. Time meant very little these days.
Then, he started anew.
"Anxiety," he said, voice trembling.
And now he really felt it. His skin was alive, every nerve alternately burning and singing. He didn't know if he felt like flying or dying.
"Dizziness," he put in, his hands clenching and unclenching.
Nope. That one seemed absent.
"Fear."
Nuh uh. Not right now. Right now he felt invincible. Unafraid. He could make that shot if needed.
The kill shot.
The one that had killed Charles.
No, not Charles. Tobias. It was Tobias who had suffered.
"Me or him," Reid grunted out, feeling a flash of anger burst up through him. He wondered why he felt at all guilty for what had happened to Tobias. He'd been the one tortured. He was the one who was suffering.
Not Tobias. Not Hotch. Not Morgan. Not even JJ.
His hands started shaking, almost spasming as the anger turned to fury.
JJ who should have had his back.
A voice, a very small voice at that, in the back of his mind cried out, "No, no, you're the one who separated, not her."
But he ignored the voice, pushed it back. Didn't care. That voice was his rational mind and he had no use for that right now.
She had made it through with barely a scratch. Sure, a dog had bit her. So what. So damn what. She was fine. She didn't wake up every morning trying to figure out how many doses she'd need to make it through the day.
"You don't know that," the little voice called out desperately. "You've seen her eyes, you know she isn't right either."
He snorted derisively.
So she couldn't sleep. Big deal. He hadn't been able to sleep before Tobias.
"You just want to blame someone. Anyone. You want someone to be responsible for this," the voice insisted.
And that was true. In his darkest moment, when the drug was in full bloom within his system, Spencer Reid wanted someone to pay for what had happened to him. His rational side reminded him that the one who was responsible had already died, but somehow that wasn't enough.
It just wasn't right.
It wasn't fair. Life for everyone else got to go on. Hotch had a baby to go home to, Morgan had his social life to turn to and JJ, well JJ could flirt easily and casually with that New Orleans cop. Like nothing had happened.
Like everything was just fine and dandy.
"You need to stop this," the little voice said. "You were always afraid of this. And you're…you're letting it happen. You. Not them. Not her. You."
He knew what the voice was talking about. Schizophrenia.
Reid closed his eyes. The anger was still there, stifling the fear. Refusing to let the panic show through. But the truth, under it all, the truth was still there.
Drug use could bring about a psychotic break. Or in his case, schizophrenia. And with his family history…
The fury surged again. Reaching forward, he slammed his fist into the mirror. It shattered loudly, shards of glass splintering in various directions. Blinking, aware of what he'd just done, he looked down at his bloody hand.
It didn't hurt.
Weird.
He glances up at the mirror, saw his fractured reflection starring back at him. Saw how divided and mutilated it appeared to be.
And somehow, that was strangely appropriate and true.
Exiting the bathroom, hand still dripping blood onto the carpet, he turned towards the funky clock. It was almost three. He needed to lie down. The drug would help him sleep now. It would help him get the two hours he needed.
It would make everything better.
He figured it couldn't really make anything worse.
And in the distance, in the fog of her mind, Reid thought he could hear a police siren wailing.
He could care less.
