Author's note: This is going to be somewhat long, I warn you. It's a few things I need to say that you don't have to read (I would love it if you could at least read the first paragraph, though).

Again, I am going to stress the fact that this fan fiction is solely for my enjoyment (of writing) and your enjoyment of reading (though this may not be such a happy story). I am FOURTEEN. I do not have any personal experience with this stuff at all and I am doing my best. I've barely been in a hospital and I've never met anyone who has ever had amnesia. The show itself is dramatized sometimes, so of course my imagination is going to get the best of me, but I'm realistic in doing so. It's not like I wrote that unicorns burst through the doors, with a swarm of butterflies trailing behind, to save Reid. So PLEASE, if you're going to criticize anything, let it be something actually important to the story, like maybe what the main characters are saying, you don't picture them actually saying. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH. I mean, I JUST said this last chapter...

Oh, and another thing you should know is that if you see any tense errors, it's because I'm trying to get used to writing in a tense I don't usually use (to help myself improve, you know?), so I may subconsciously switch back to past tense. I try not to, though, trust me.

I thank those of you who are being considerate and complimenting how I'm writing this story. Thank you so much for understanding. :)

If you read all that, I applaud you.

Amnesia...? But...how? I try to remember anything that could explain it, but again, nothing. Except for statistics. And profiling.

I had finally gotten some answers. My doctor didn't want me to know this sooner for fear I would 'panic'. Of course I would panic! Who wouldn't?

I asked how I could have attained dissociative amnesia, but the best I got for an answer is a head shake along with a, "We don't know. A truck driver saw you lying in a ditch on the side of the road and brought you in. That's all we know. But I'm going to take a good guess it's because of your severe head injury."

I hate the fact that I am clueless. It feels as though everyone else knows what happened except me…but, they don't actually know, only I do. It's a vicious circle in my thought process.

I am a small, naïve child again. But with the intelligence of an adult. It's frustrating, really.

It makes me feel helpless, lying in this bed all day doing nothing. The only thing I can do is think, and my thoughts consist mostly of confusion and irritation.

~~~~~ . : . ~~~~~

I'm crouched, waiting. The world is dark and silent. The moon is full, but doesn't provide much light. It doesn't matter; I've done this in worse lighting. Something is clutched in my hands. What is it? I don't know, I can't see. But it feels heavy. My skin brushes up against brick from the wall I'm hiding behind.

Wait, someone's coming. I can hear footsteps. The echo of the stilettos is unmistakable. I tense. Waiting until the sound of her footsteps is as close as possible, I slowly stand up.

She's still walking, clicking her heels on the pavement, unaware of my presence. Silently, I walk up behind her. She doesn't know I'm here...until I step in a small puddle I wasn't aware of and cause a small 'sploosh' sound.

I freeze, but she whips around. I've made a mistake, but I know she won't escape anyway, so I strike. Her scream is cut off by the sound of my weapon clashing into her skull. She immediately falls, but I'm not done here. I squat down and check for signs of life. The breathing is rasped, but it'll do.

I know my pattern. I know my signature. The media loves it; I'm famous. The authorities just don't know who I am, or how to catch me. I am invincible and in control. And I love it. Why? Because I'm one of the most notorious serial killers the nation has ever seen.

Fresh blood from the result of my own hands gives me pride and happiness. The only other thing I love more is the fear that could be clearly shown in one's eyes. The fact that I didn't get to milk the fear out of her longer is depressing, but there's still time for that, once she comes to.

The sight of her unconscious body, barely alive, puts a smile on my face.

I awake in a fit of heavy panting and wriggling around in my bed. After a few moments, I stop myself, glad no one saw me.

Was that...a memory? The thought scares me. I can't be a serial killer! I don't enjoy others' suffering! Or..uh...At least I think I don't.

I calm down, still convincing myself I'm not a monster.

I know my name, but I don't know my family or friends...do I really know myself?

~~~~~ . : . ~~~~~

The team found it easier to concentrate on the case knowing that Reid is safe, but you can't completely focus on something, knowing you might have lost someone. Not in the literal life or death sense, but in the way that someone's personality has changed, or vanished.

They were looking through the files on the Daley case when there was a knock at the door. Detective LaRoe opened it and stuck his head inside. The profilers lifted their heads, curious what he had to say.

"Daley's here." That's all they needed to hear in order to make them rush out the door, following the detective.

John Daley looks surprisingly calm sitting in an interrogation room with his hand cuffed beneath the table, staring at the one-sided mirror, because he knows the profilers are on the other side of it.

"How's Spencer doing?" Daley casually calls the question, as if asking an old friend about another friend.

The question was enough to make Morgan storm towards the door leading into the interrogation room.

"Morgan, we are going to stay here a while and make him sweat," Hotch sternly called after him.

"I'm sorry, Hotch, but I have to do this." The comment was made after he spun around, looking his superior right in the eyes.

Hotch doesn't say anything, but Morgan knows he understands and will let him.

He opens and closes the door as calmly as he can before leaning up against it, arms crossed, his jaw clenched and his eyes hostile.

"Ah, Derek." Daley studies Morgan, looking for a reaction to the use of his first name. "I'm a bit mad at you, you know."

"And why is that?" He doesn't bother hiding the icy tone in his voice.

"You missed my party, of course! It was my birthday! I can't believe you didn't bother to show up," Daley shakes his head. He pauses before adding, "At least Spencer had the decency to come."

Morgan stomps over to Daley, fists ready. It takes everything he has, but he stops himself.

"Oooh, looks like I struck a nerve," Daley sings with a smile, enjoying his opponent's reactions.

"Why did you turn yourself in?"

LaRoe told them Daley strolled right into the station, acting as though he owned the place, and announced, "You looking for me?"

Daley shrugs. "Eh, I got bored. I was too good for even the FBI's profilers, and figured I wouldn't get caught anytime soon, so I decided to come in. At least then I could scold you all for declining my invitation."

His 'invitation' had been a piece of paper he left at a crime scene with, "A celebration is yet to come! So close, yet so far away! I can't wait, you all better be there for the party! Later, John," scrawled on it with red ink.

"Aren't you a little old to be having birthday parties that don't involve alcohol?" is Morgan's only reply.

Daley held his gaze as he said, "I'm making up for lost years."

The rest of the interrogation continued similarly, until Daley decided to bring up the subject of Reid again.

"Did you hear from Spencer yet? What'd he think of my party?" He sounded like a little kid asking for his parents' opinion on a picture he drew.

Why is he so obsessed with this 'party'? "He's fine," the lie comes naturally to Morgan.

The corners of Daley's mouth twitch upward. "You sure? 'Cause when I left him, he didn't look fine."

Morgan's gaze hardens, refusing to show any emotion, which makes Daley laugh. "He was practically dead when I left him; shallow breathing and cooling temperature."

Despite how much he wants to reach over and turn his face into an unrecognizable pathetic lump, Morgan doesn't move an inch. "He's fine," he repeats.

"Hmm, well, there's that nasty head injury I left him with," Daley's eyes dart up, a sign of remembrance. "Oh, how he begged for me not to do that," he laughs. "We also had a little talk, I may have electrocuted him a bit, and I dumped him in that ditch." He recalls the events as casually as though he were describing himself drinking a glass of water.

Morgan glares at the man with pure hatred.

"If you're wondering why I would just drop him off in a ditch like that, it's because I knew he wouldn't be able to tell you anything. The first time I hit him, it almost damaged him as bad, but not quite. So I just worsened the injury," Daley smirks. "I knew if I just kept trying, I would hit him hard enough so that he couldn't remember anything."

"If you think you're gonna get away with this, you son of a-"

"Have fun trying to fix this one, Derek," Daley interrupts with a satisfied smile.