Title: Losing My Religion by Lexikal (Chapter Ten)
Rating: M for graphic violence against a child and language (in the first chapter, chapter 8 and this chapter)
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Summary: After two years away from his father and his father's violent rages, Spencer Reid, now ten, is returned home. Spencer has changed... but has William Reid?

Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone for all the reviews! You guys make my day every time I get a review!

Chapter Note: Reid relives some of his earlier abuse... please be warned that this chapter is highly angsty and dark and describes explicit child abuse from Spencer's (fragmented) point of view. Do not read if underage!

"No, no, Daddy, please don't."

The pain was harsh, it hurt, but he was also suspended from it, somehow, like a ghost or a phantom, drifting over his own body. "Don't."

The belt hurt. The lashes. There would be welts, lash marks, bruises. The warm, sticky, copper smell of blood. He knows the smell well, almost enjoys it in its familiarity. Is this what an abattoir smells like?

Daddy.

But he can't talk. The man above him radiates nothing but rage and anger and contempt and the child is petrified, pulled into himself, a ball of nothingness, a ball of everything; panic and rage and disillusionment. Finally his mouth works, and with his mouth, come the words.

"Please. Please. I am sorry. For whatever I did, I am sorry."

"That's not good enough," the man says. The man is his father, and his father is screaming, snarling, face twisted and gnarled like a gargoyle. Barely human. There will be no reasoning with this human that has become a thing.

"Daddy, I am sorry."

"It's too late for apologies, you little son of a..." the belt whips across his face. Not the leather side, but the buckle side. It knocks him silly for a second, a blur in his eyes and a yelp echoes out of his throat like a parlour trick. He didn't mean to cry out, but his body did, anyway.

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy..." he is begging. Begging. But The Daddy won't listen. The Daddy is pissed off.

"You're as crazy as your freak mother. You little faggot. No son of mine."

Another lash across the face, and this time the buckle tears into the soft flesh right above his eye, his eyebrow, and he can feel the blood start to flow, hot and salty and warm, almost comforting compared to the screaming and the swearing and the hatred, almost comforting in its consistency.

"Daddy. I'll fix it. I'll fix it." He is not even sure if he is speaking out loud anymore, or just thinking. He is watching everything in a strange, robotic way. The man that is his father is firing questions at him, and he is answering them, but in his vision is a strange and new novelty; he can see each of the potential answers already written in his field of vision, like he would on a television game show, or in a book, or on a multiple choice test. Just pick the right answer, Spencer. Pick the right one, and this will all fade away, and he will go back to being Daddy again. The Good Daddy.

"It's because of you," The Daddy says, and the belt strikes out again. He curls inward more, and the belt clips across his neck and tears at the soft flesh there.

"All because of you. You drove her insane. She wasn't crazy like this when I married her. You think I would marry such a freak?"

He doesn't know how to respond to that. How do you respond to that? What is the right answer? He keeps still on the floor in a ball, hands wrapped around his head and upper chest, knees tucked up to his chest.

"You really are a pathetic piece of shit, you know that, boy?"

Another lash. It hits him in the back, but he has a shirt on so the only real pain comes from the blow. That might cause a bruise at most, nothing more. His back is already black, the blood vessels red and raised and prominent and standing out like a roadmap on a grisly, unnatural journey into Hell. Which way to the seventh circle of Hell, Dante?

Take a left at the brat's left kidney, turn right... continue right up to his neck, to his neck. There is the seventh circle of hell. Burns fresh and gaping and blister-white. They will scab and turn yellow-green with infection in a few days if the past is any indication of the future.

"You know, she should have just aborted you? We'd all be better off?" The words fly, the spittle too, and the belt is almost like a massage, a loving hug compared to those words. The child wraps into himself tighter and screws his eyelids closed even tighter, but they can only close so much. Don't think about that, he doesn't mean it. He can't mean it... he is just drunk.

He is drunk.

But maybe he is also telling the truth. Maybe it's the truth. The boy exhales and opens his eyes and lets the words sink in and his blood feels like a series of clots in his young, young veins. Better off dead. Better off dead before you were even born.

You destroyed everything. Their marriage. Their life. Mommy's sanity. He lets his eyes open wide and smiles bitterly and lets his arms fall to his sides. He no longer cares.

"What the hell are you smiling about?" That's what Daddy is raging now.

But he doesn't know, so he giggles instead.

"What the hell is so fucking funny?"

But he can't say, because he doesn't even know himself. He just knows that his father is right, that he should have been aborted, and he wants to hug his father, tell him that he is right, that he agrees, that maybe it's not too late.

"Do it, Daddy. Not too late." His voice is soft and accepting and bland, almost peaceful. Daddy stares at him and lashes the belt again, but there are no tears, no whimpers. The belt rises and falls over and over and over in scarlet beacons of pain, but the boy is silent.

"What, no tears today?"

The voice is so, so far away. The belt lashes at his face, over his eyes and nose and lips. His lip is bleeding heavily now, he can feel it, feel the trickle of red hot and the salt in his mouth. He coughs and sputters and gurgles but keeps his arms at his sides, makes no move to protect himself.

He should have been aborted. He made Mommy insane. He ruined everything. There is no other explanation. No other explanation at all. He must be bad, because if he wasn't, they would love him. It's as simple as that. Isn't it?

His father stops then and Spencer Reid is almost disappointed. He can still see, still breathe, and he doesn't think he is dead. He flexes his fingers and they move. Nothing is broken. He is bruised and sore and...

"Get up," Daddy orders and the boy grunts and squints and rises. He is shaking, trembling slightly, but not from fear. Pure adrenaline. He sits up and looks down at his shirt, all bloody and gory red, bright like the splattering of errant paint.

His father blinks then, face changing.

"Shit, kid, you're a mess."

Spencer grunts. His chest aches and it's hard to breathe. He is pretty sure a rib is broken.

"What the hell did you do, fall down the stairs again?"

The 7-year-old's brain recoils at the question. He gasps for a moment, and his father smiles, an almost serene smirk.

He feels himself pulled up by an arm and he wants to howl in pain, but he suppresses the urge. He deserves this. Deserves this pain. Deserves everything. He is bad, he is bad, bad, bad, bad, bad...

"You better not let your Mom see you like this. You stay in your room for a few days. I'll deal with your school."

Spencer makes a noise that is close to a groan. Feels his Father's fingers ghost over his legs, his arms, pushing and prodding. Every part of him hurts, but he flinches and squirms and makes a noise that sounds like a squeal when the man presses on his ribs.

"Broken rib. Clumsy, clumsy boy," His father says dully, almost bored. Spencer nods. Whatever he wants. He is clumsy. He is bad. Please finish it.

"Come on, you come upstairs. We'll get some ice on that lip... looks like you'll have a shiner too."

Reid wants to cry. Just finish it. Please. No more. No more of this. Finish it now. Please no more. Just finish it. But his father tugs him up by one arm, almost yanking his arm out of the socket. He hauls his child up the stairs.

Spencer hears his mother call from her bedroom, asking if he has a headache. His father swears at her to shut up. Reid recoils silently, his stomach knotting. He's pulled into the living room and pushed into a chair and the TV flickers on. Baseball. His father comes back with a bag of ice cubes and tosses them at the child. Reid groans again and takes the ice, presses it to his eye.

"Your lip, stupid. Stop the blood first."

Reid nods, and moves the bag of ice to his lip. Baseball is on the television. Why did he stop? Why didn't he just finish it? Why?

His father stalks into the kitchen and comes back with two beers. He opens one and takes a long swig and hands the other to his child.

"Beer?"

Spencer stares at the can of alcohol, not really understanding.

'It'll help dull the pain," his father says, sounding almost sympathetic. Spencer nods and pops the tab and takes a sip. Grimaces. His father laughs and calls him a pussy and turns back to the game. Spencer ends up drinking the entire can, floating away with the buzz and...

"Hey buddy, time to wake up," Gideon's voice was low and gentle. Spencer Reid blinked and opened his eyes. Tried to sit up too fast and felt dizzy.

"Whoa, whoa... you okay?"

Reid nodded, but was silent, just staring.

"Where...Gideon?" He looked around in a daze, not comprehending, and then it all came back. All of it.

"Morning, pal," Gideon tried again. "I have your cereal out. Didn't pour the milk yet. You want Trix again, right?"

Reid nodded dully.

"Spencer?" The kid looked stunned and his eyes were very shiny, very bright. "You okay?"

"Sure," Spencer Reid said, smiling brightly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Gideon nodded, decided not to press the issue. Reid would talk when he was ready to talk.

"We have a visitor coming today...remember, I told you about David Rossi? He's dropping by around noon..."

Spencer nodded again, automatically, like a robot. Jason Gideon studied the child. Something was wrong.

"You have a bad dream, pal?" Gideon said after a long moment, helping Reid into his chair and manoeuvring him into the dining room.

"No," Reid said honestly, his voice low and still clogged with sleep. "No dream."

"Anything you want to talk about?"

"No."

"Okay," Gideon said patiently. He knew there was a lot to talk about. He just didn't know what, at this moment, he needed to address.

"Gid-yun?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever drink?" Reid's voice sounded artificially bland and blasé, the voice of a child wearing a mask of bravado. Gideon considered the question.

"Sometimes. Why?"

"No reason. Just curious."

Jason Gideon sighed. "Reid... you know I would never hurt you, don't you? No matter what?" Images of the previous night flooded back, Reid recoiling on the toilet seat, as if expecting to be hit, eyes squeezed tight, his body trembling.

"Yeah, I know." But his voice was pale, anaemic. Full of disbelief.

"Reid..."

"I know. I know you never would," Reid said again, forcing his voice to sound more optimistic, more lively.

Gideon didn't buy the kid's act for a second.

End of chapter 10, I know it's a bit shorter than usual but also more intense than usual... will self-edit for typos but please excuse any that sneak by! Thanks! -Lexikal