I consider all constructive criticism I get, but I'm a bit of a klutz and at the end of the day, it all comes down to: If you don't like my writing, that's fine, don't read. I must be doing something right for so many of you to like reading. *This is not a rant; I'm quite content, just being blunt.
I appreciate the support from you guys. :) I've tried writing a few stories before, but I always ended up losing interest in the plot and stopped halfway through. That's why I'm determined to finish this one.
I appreciate the support from you guys. :) I've tried writing a few stories before, but I always ended up losing interest in the plot and stopped halfway through. That's why I'm determined to finish this one. :)
The shadows mask my presence perfectly. Crickets chirp all around me, but I'm so used to the noise, I don't notice. They have no idea I'm watching, waiting.
The lights in the nice house are on, letting me see them clearly. Their friends are over, laughing and drinking. They appear to be saying their goodbyes now, though.
I start to go around back; my shoes stepping on the grass is a small sound, but I hear it and try to focus on that.
As the wealthy owners of the house see their friends off, I slip in through the back door. They don't even notice.
I hide as they quickly put away the dishes they had used earlier.
I lurk through their house, going up the stairs and hiding behind a door, waiting.
I hear them mumble something, unknowing of what will come to them soon.
They finally settle into bed. On the way to their bedroom, I pick up the telephone in the hallway.
A woman picks up. "Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"
"I'm at 1527 Chestnut Drive," I nervously whisper.
"I know where you're calling from, sir; what's your emergency?"
"He thinks they're too greedy...they have too much."
"Too much what?"
"Stuff...p-possessions, things they don't need."
"Are you calling because these people have too much stuff, sir?" The confusion in the woman's voice is obvious.
I urgently need to tell her what's wrong before he catches me. "No, I'm calling because Raphael-"
He takes the phone out of my hands. "That's enough."
I whisper, "I don't want to..."
He speaks into the phone. "He's calling because Raphael is going to kill the sinners that live here."
The woman tries to remain calm, but her voice is dripping with panic. "I'm sorry, did you say somebody is killing someone?" She tries desperately to stop the killing, but neither us of respond. "Sir? Hello?"
We slice the sinners, ignoring her scream. Our job is done.
I wake up, panting and sweating. My heart races.
My nightmares have been haunting me. I think they're memories, which means I'm a monster. I can't know for sure, but I want to.
I open my eyes and recognize my hospital room.
"Hey, man, you alright?"
The voice makes me jump; I didn't know I wasn't alone. But I relax when I recognize the dark-skinned man from when I woke up here the first time.
"Uh, yeah, yeah...I'm fine," I lie. I don't want to share any of this until I know if it's true.
He narrows his eyes and looks into mine. "C'mon, Reid. I know you're lying."
"It was just a bad dream, that's all," I say as I sit up, using my elbows to prop myself up. I let out a soft, "Ow," as I move; my stomach and chest stings.
He looks at me curiously, hope flickering in his eyes. "About what?"
Oh, you know, the usual stuff: murdering people and enjoying their pain. "I forget."
His eyes soften, but his gaze never wavers. "You know you can tell me anything, Reid."
Actually I don't. "What's your name?" I can't stand not knowing any longer. If I am going to be talking to anyone who apparently is important to me, I want to know their name. "Oh, and everyone else's names, too."
The man's face shows disappointment, probably because I don't recognize him. "I'm Derek. Derek Morgan. We're best friends, man."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I just glance down and bite the inside of my cheek.
He pulls out his cell phone and shows me pictures of himself and the other people, pointing to them and telling me their names, even a little about them.
When he is done, I thank him. It helps, knowing their names and a vague description of them. Well, maybe not vague. Each description was somewhat detailed, but there's always something you miss until you interact with that person.
Suddenly, the sore ache in my head changes into a sharp pain. I shut my eyes and grip the left side of my head while instinctively clenching my teeth to try to redirect the pain there.
"What's wrong?" Morgan leans forward, alarmed.
I'm not sure if the pain is external or internal, but it hurts.
"My head hurts...can you come back later?"
"You sure? I can try to-"
"Please? It'll go away soon."
"Uh, yeah, sure." I hear his footsteps exit the room.
It lasts for a while longer before it dies away. When it's finally gone, relief washes over me.
I feel so broken, weak, useless.
~~~~~ . : . ~~~~~
Morgan enters the room his team is gathered in.
"How's Reid?" Emily asks when she notices him enter.
"He doesn't know who we are." Their faces all fell; Morgan just diminished any hope they had that the doctors were wrong. "But I told him who we were. I showed him pictures and gave him descriptions, and even told him a few stories. So at least he's comfortable talking to us now."
"Thank you," JJ mumbles, looking down, trying to distract herself.
Morgan nods before leaving the room to call Garcia.
She answers immediately again. "How's it going?" she asks hopefully.
Morgan tells her what he just told the rest of the team.
"That's nice of you to do," she quietly replies.
"I think he should at least know us," he says.
She is silent for a moment. "Maybe there's a cure, so we can get him back, a-"
"Garcia," Morgan sighs.
"What? We can at least try, can't we?" she whines.
"There are some ways to try to help him recover his memory, but they aren't cures."
"I know, but...can't we at least try them?"
"It's not up to us, Garcia. Ultimately it's his decision."