(Hey guys. Here is the next chapter of Nothing Left. It's a little bit darker than the previous chapters, so be forewarned. hope you enjoy. Please fave, follow and review. Jordo.)
"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another." Anatole France
It's almost a week before we catch the unsub. A week of finding women, bloody, broken, and tossed aside like garbage. The relief and satisfaction of catching this son of a bitch and putting him beyond bars is tempered by the nagging feeling that we could have saved more. Women died because we weren't good enough at our jobs.
Walking back into my apartment, I just want to crawl underneath the covers and sleep for days. My head hurts with lack of sleep and suppressed tears. I'm disappointed in myself. This wasn't any other career. My shortcomings cost people their lives. I had failed the women of Blythe, CA. I know if I were to voice any of these thoughts to my team they would be quick to rationalize that we're doing the best we can against the sick minds lurking in the shadows. But they don't understand. I'm not like them. I'm not completely in control of myself and the situation like Hotch. I don't have Rossi's natural instincts in the field. I don't have Morgan's athleticism and force, nor Emily's polylinguistic skills and beauty. Of course, my brains are nothing compared to Reid's eidetic mind or Penelope's technological savvy. I'm doing everything I can with my average at best self and it's not enough.
I decide to to take off my makeup and take a nice shower before heading to bed early. As I enter the bathroom, I notice my scale beside the sink. I did the best I could to eat healthily while we were on the case, but all too often the only sustenance choices were coffee, take out, vending machines, and more coffee. I toe off my shoes and pull the scale into the middle of the small room. I take a deep breath and step on the scale.
137 pounds.
How is that possible? Somehow, I'm back to where I started, even though I tried to eat better. I step off the scale and angrily push it back into it's alcove beside the sink. I stare at my face in the mirror. I can see the tears of frustration collecting in my eyes. I bitterly wipe them away as they spill forth. Tears wouldn't solve anything. They wouldn't bring back those women. They wouldn't spare those families any pain. And for that matter, they wouldn't change my weight.
I roughly pull my hair into a bun on the top of my head and hunt down my running shoes. I jam my headphones into my ears. As I hurry down the steps, I almost run headfirst into my neighbor, Mrs. Santiago.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."
"Oh you're fine! Headed for to run? You just got home!" The tiny seventy year old woman doesn't stand even five feet tall, her curly gray hair held away from her face with a scarf.
"Yeah, um… y'know. Got to stay in shape!" I awkwardly answer. Mrs. Santiago is sweet but right now I'm too keyed up to have in depth conversation with her about my work life. She shakes her head at me and clucks her tongue.
"You silly young girls! SO obsessed with being skinny like the magazines. Mira, I would love to have curves like you again! I'm old and bony. You keep your curves! Don't be like those skinny little actresses on the TV." She gives a smile and disappears into her own apartment. I am left standing on sidewalk, feeling as if I can't breath. Somewhere in my mind, I know that Mrs. Santiago said all of this in a kind manner but mainly I feel like I could vomit. I shakily inhale, and begin to run.
My feet pound the concrete. There is no enjoyment in it tonight. I don't notice the beautiful quirks of the park. I don't care about the breeze that gently sways the leaves above my head. I run to escape the reaches of pale, limp hands that sought rescue that I hadn't been able to deliver. My body finds the path through the park on autopilot, my lungs gasping for air as I push harder and faster.
Tears blur my vision for a moment and my foot catches a crack in the sidewalk, sending me sprawling. My hands sting as they come into contact with the rough concrete, but I feel the main impact of the fall in my left knee. I gasp in pain and roll onto my butt. I massage my knee through the material of my sweats. The skin's not broken, but I can tell by the instant tenderness and swelling that it will have a nasty bruise. I gingerly get back to my feet and begin the trek back home. Now that I'm not running, the sweat on my body cools in the breeze and I shiver all the way back to my apartment. Once inside I turn out the lights and crawl into bed, not even bothering to take off my shoes.
Hotch has given us the next day off, and I sleep well into the morning. It's almost noon when I finally squint into the sunlight coming through my windows. I feel gross, the residue of plane travel, running, and falling to the ground still on my body. As I walk to the bathroom, I feel a deep ache in my knee and it makes me wince. As I disrobe to step into the shower, I tenderly prod at the bruise on my knee, grimacing at the shade of deep blue. I decide to weigh myself again before I shower, just to see.
136.6 pounds. It's better, but it's still not what I want to see.
After my shower, I fix myself three boiled eggs for breakfast. I turn on the news while I wait for the water to boil. The anchors discuss the renovation of a historical building, and the weatherman brings news of fall temperatures on the horizon. I flip through the channels as I eat, taking time to eat small bites with large gulps of coffee in between. I read online that this would help me feel fuller.
After loading the dishes into the dishwasher and starting it, I pace around my apartment. Days off are rare, but I don't know what tp do with mine. I think about calling Emily or Pen to see if they want to meet up, but decide they probably already have plans. It's times like this I wish I had a boyfriend. Yes, I was an independent woman you did not need a man to be happy, but it didn't mean I wouldn't like to have one occasionally. I hadn't really dated anyone since Will, the charming detective from New Orleans. I had liked him a lot, but in the end the distance and the job were just to much. It had been five months since we had last seen each other. Five months since I had been kissed, five months since I had… well. It had been a long and rather lonely five months.
I finally settled on gathering up all of my laundry and hauling it to the rec room by the pool. Everyone in my complex was busy spending time with loved ones or soaking up the last tendrils of summer, several washers should be free.
I lucked out and essentially had the entire room to myself. I filtered all of my clothes into the four washers and sat down in front of the TV. I once again flipped through the channels before settling on reruns of a show from the nineties. I watched with little interest as the characters went about their lives to the audience laugh tracks, my eyes eventually inching closed.
I'm startled awake by the timer on the washer. I groggily stand and stretch, yawning as I do. I move my clothes from the washers to the dryers. Through the small window I can see the apartment complex's pool. Some frat guys are playing water volleyball and a couple moms play with their children near the shallow end steps. My eyes however, are captivated by the girls lounging next to the pool. They're young and pretty, no doubt coeds at the local university. Their face are mainly obstructed by large sunglasses and their skin is oily with sun tan lotion. They are so thin, looking minuscule even in the most unforgiving of bikinis. I can remember looking like them. It seems like it was just a few moments ago. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles and I decidedly ignore it. I woke up late. My breakfast can serve as my lunch as well. I'm fine.
That evening, with my clothe folded, hung, and put away, I find myself back in my kitchen. I take a tortilla from the pantry and cover it with lettuce, then add some sliced turkey and cheese. I reach for the mayo but the thought of toned abs and thighs in swimming suits deters me. Instead, I find some spicy mustard on a bottom shelf. I squeeze some on and roll up my wrap. I take a bite. It's not what I really want but I can't get the body I want if I keep eating garbage. When I finish the wrap, I don't feel full. I chug a glassful of water, hoping it helps. I unload the dishwasher, placing all the plates in their rightful cabinets then wipe the counter.
I find myself in my living room, staring blankly at the TV. It's only eight, I can't possibly go to sleep. I think about going for another run, but a glance at my knee tells me that it's not a great idea. Instead, I move to the floor, laying on my back with my feet bent and my arms clasped behind my head. At the height of my soccer career, I could do 100 full sit ups in a minute half without breaking a sweat. As I lift my abdomen towards my legs, I realize just how out of shape I am. I push through and do 150, sweat slithering down my spine. Then I flip over and do pushups until my arms quiver. My energy spent, I move my body back up to the couch. I find an old Julia Roberts' movie on TV and wrap my arms around a throw pillow; all at once I find myself feeling massive but small and all alone.
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