That Little Knife
A/N: another bit, but written in a more normal way!
Disclaimer: criminal minds isn't mine
The case had been pretty standard really. Nothing out of the ordinary if you have a job like this, but sometimes it's the little things isn't it? Not the big glaringly obvious ones. This time it had been that child. A young boy who had been left to fend for himself. Of course that's not why the FBI were called. Originally it had started with the organised crime lot, then it had sidled over to the BAU when they realised they had a serial killer on their hands and for most of them it had been the dead rotting bodies which had caused bile to rise. For someone it was the child left alone to cope with life which brought on the feeling of helplessness.
He thought he was over it. He really did, but all those memories just came hammering back with such force that he had to excuse himself and find somewhere quiet to vomit.
And that was the catalyst. In under five minutes his life went from being fairly normal for a socially awkward genius to such deep dark depression that he didn't think he would ever be able to function as a normal person again.
He kept it a secret. The vomiting in the ally way. Something he had done so many times before in the past. This was different though wasn't it? This wasn't that old black rotting bit of him open and oozing again was it?
He felt quickly in his pocket and felt the re-assuring razor sharp knife. The blade folded up into the handle. Reid stood with his eyes closed and just swayed slightly from side to side, thinking. What to do now? He had to decide quickly. He could hear Hotch calling for him. Always Hotch.
"Reid!"
So it had to be quick. He flipped the tiny knife open and before he could think himself out of it made a tiny cut in the end of his finger and the sudden rush in his head felt good. He quickly put his finger in his mouth and sucked and walked back to where the others were.
"Reid, are you OK?" Hotch. He seems to be able to see right through Reid these days.
"Oh yes. I cut – I cut myself." And he left it at that. No admissions. No denials. Not even Hotch would see through something which wasn't there.
….
Alone in his apartment that evening Reid pulled off his work clothes and had a long soak in the bath. He considered calling Garcia and telling her about today, but it was late, and he knew she had a date tonight and she didn't need him bugging her. Not tonight. Anyway tonight he was fine. A bath a book and bed. Then in the morning he would be fine. He knew that. He was sure of it. So he sat in the bath and inspected his arms. They were a mess. Ridges ran up both arms to his elbows. All fading in colour but not in texture. On some you could see the tiny marks left by hospital sutures. He gently ran his tongue over them. They felt huge using the sensitivity of the tongue. He smiled at them and washed them lovingly with the rose soap JJ gave him. The smell reminded him of JJ.
And suddenly with no warning something inside went wrong. Reid got out of the tub and pulled his robe on and walked quickly to the lounge. There on the table where it belonged was the knife. It winked at him. It demanded attention. It pulled him closer until Reid was kneeling on the floor in front of the small table with his chin resting on the surface. He was looking at it. He dared not touch. One hand he rested palm down on the oak table. The index finger on his right hand was drawing invisible circles around the knife. Closer and closer without touching.
He should call Garcia. He was sure she wouldn't mind. But again she had been going on for days about her date and he just couldn't spoil that for her.
Reid laid his face on the cold wood and stared at the knife which was calling him so insistently. Maybe just once. For old times sake? No one would notice. He kept his arms covered now all the time anyway. It didn't look professional for him to show his pain in public. So a quick small cut would be fine. Small. Tiny. It would probably wouldn't even bleed.
He got up and went back to the bathroom and took plasters from the cabinet over the sink and picked up a red towel he hand hanging over the rail. It was warm and for a while he just stood and buried his face in the warmth of the towel.
Then at an impossible slow pace he walked back to his big chair in the corner. He folded his legs up under him and wrapped his arms around him and bit on his bottom lip until he could taste blood.
"Garcia." He said to himself. "I am so sorry Pen."
He felt alone and scared like he had so many times as a child. When he came home from school beaten and defeated, and his mother was just an empty shell and he had to cook dinner and pay bills and do other things a child should never have to do for his mum. He knew it wasn't her fault. He knew this wasn't a life she had chosen. He knew his father ran not because he was weak but because he wasn't. He loved his father. He missed his father. He wanted him there now with him to play cards and talk about – about what it is normal people talk about.
He was crying. He didn't know how long he had been, but it had reached the point of having to wipe his face dry on his blue/green fluffy robe. As he did he caught the smell on his arms from the rose soap. JJ's smell. The smell of flowers.
"I must call Pen." And Reid picked up the phone. Maybe she didn't go out. Or maybe she came home real early. He would phone her at home. If she is in, then that's OK…he would ask her to come over. If not then he would have to deal with this alone. Just this once.
The phone rang. "Hey, this is Penelope, please leave your name and number and I will get back to you" and the beep…..
"Garcia? If you are there please pick up….erm….I erm…I'm sorry."
And he slammed the phone down and grabbed the knife. He thought maybe he could call Morgan, but he remembered the last time.
He pushed up the sleeve on his left arm and looked at his skin. It was very pale. A tear dropped onto his wrist and he stared at it. A little bead of tear. Telling him to do it. He cut quickly. Never hesitated. It was nice clean cut. It was bleeding rather a lot though. Rather too much. A sticky plaster wasn't going to fix this.
He stood up and tried to make his way to his bedroom. He didn't want this to end with him sitting in his chair like a sad old man. Dying alone. No friends. No one to miss him. Like Franks mother. Rotting away and not missed. His legs seemed to trying to walk through mud though, and slowly he crumpled to the floor where he lay and looked at the blood pouring from the huge gash he had made. The knife still held tightly in his other hand.
Spencer screamed in pain as he brought the knife down again into his arm. Huge sobbing screams of pain and alarm at what he was doing but couldn't stop.
Then a hand over his. "NO! Stop it Spence!"
And Garcia was there and a stranger was standing watching from the door way. "Call the EMTs quicky!" she shouted at him. And Reid thought: Bless her she brought her date to a suicide attempt and he smiled as he blacked out on his lounge carpet.
…………..
