Prentiss practically flew down the stairs.
"Garcia!"
Penelope choked on a pretzel she was eating, due to the startle.
"What?" she coughed.
"I have to get back to Ocean City, I can't not be there."
"But Emily, you can't, we'll be in deep dirty laundry with Hotch, and Strauss, and believe me..."
"But they need me!"
"That may be the case, but Emily, they will find a way to get him without you."
"Garcia, you came all the way here to show me those video's, to show me that letter and you expect me to sit here and do nothing?"
"Well I was hoping…"
"I have to get over there, I'll call J.J. she can talk to Hotch, or Reid, I bet he knows that I need to be there…"
"Emily, please don't do this."
But Agent Emily Prentiss was already heading back upstairs to prepare.
Grayson wondered who this new doll was. She wondered what she was, what she did for a living, and what she looked like. Was she strong? Grayson hoped so, as she soon will be in as much danger as the rest of them. The "rest of them" seemed so small now, though. Grayson had nothing better to do that think, than to reminisce about her life, it may be over soon. She got over the initial state of shock, the blatant emotion of fear, the small yearning and hope, and the overpowering sense of frustration and anger. Now she hung there, almost emotionless. Her mind was blank, and all she could do was think of the past, thinking about the future had become much more tedious.
Grayson had a tough childhood. Her father left her and her mother when she was seven. He had gotten mad that Grayson was a shy and withdrawn child, and Delilah, her mother, would only pay attention to her. Grayson could still hear the words as they ring in her ears.
"All you do is smother that kid, you never say "I love you" to me anymore, you sleep in her bed, and you have cursed me out more than once when I suggested therapy for the little brat. You know she is just doing it for attention! She is as smart as a whip but she decides to look like a sad little puppy so she can get all you're freakin' attention!"
Then he left. Closed the white door right behind him, and left. He sent child support every month, but never a letter, never a birthday card, never another word from him. Then three days after Grayson turned thirteen, a note came to the door.
Delilah Brass:
We are sorry to inform you, but you're ex-husband, and Grayson's father, Elliot Brass, has died. He had driven home 25th of February, while intoxicated and crashed. His car flipped over and he suffered severe burns and head trauma. We did keep him alive for two days, but sadly he has passed. We are deeply sorry.
Showell Hospital staff
Delilah threw the letter on the coffee table and plopped down on the loveseat.
"Serves, you right, bastard."
Her words were spiteful, but her voice was monotone and weak. Soon, fat tears rolled down her pale cheeks, and she buried her face in her slight hands. A thirteen year old Grayson had watched this from the doorway of her bedroom. When her mother fell asleep on the loveseat, Grayson ambled over to the letter and gingerly picked it up. As she read, the only thought that came across her mind was: Was he drinking because it was my birthday? Did he remember? Did he feel sorry?
Because of the death of Elliot Brass, Grayson's dance lessons ceased. Marisol DePonte had been extremely disappointed, losing one of her best dancers. Grayson soon lost all will to try and continue dancing, it was just another dream yet to be crushed. Grayson trudged to her less than challenging school five days a week. She endured countless rude comments about how her hair was not straightened like the rest of the girls, or how she did not have the best clothes, or how she always got straight A's, yet never talked to anyone. No one knew what was going on inside the young blonde girl. Inside was a hole churning with grief and slivers of hope and bravery. Grayson then returned to her less then welcoming house, the walls were stripped of any artwork, or family pictures, the shelves supported only necessary items, and there was a gaping area in the entertainment center, that the television once called home. The space screamed Well look at me, look what you can't have! Every night Grayson made dinner for her and her mother, who was rarely home by supper. She then would lie down in her bed and think about things, she would dream of becoming a dancer, she would recite the letter over and over in her mind "Delilah Brass, we are sorry to inform you…", sometimes an eidetic memory was awful, and she would wish that her mother would be happy again. Delilah Brass worked at a paper factory down the street, making minimum wage, and barely getting by. She slaved over the heavy machinery, working several hours of overtime, and practically exhausting herself, making her deteriorate from the inside out. She would come home around midnight, with a cold plate of food on the kitchen counter, and a note from Grayson. She would check in on her daughter, then fall asleep on the loveseat.
This cycle went on for a year. On February 25th, Grayson's 14th birthday, the world shattered. It was like a piece of fine china, thrown against a brick wall. And that brick wall was cancer. Delilah, had been feeling that lump for some time now, but never thought she, the loving strong Delilah Brass, would have cancer. She couldn't. She had a child! A job! A life! She couldn't have cancer. But the lump got bigger, and soon, she slipped into a droning mental state. She did not even recall Grayson birthday. All she said that morning was,
"We need to go to the doctor."
And they did, cold dry hand in unsteady sweaty hand. They walked in to the cold, discerning hospital and waited. Delilah followed a chipper young nurse into a screening room, eyes glazed over, and lips clamped shut, arms unmoving, taking even, steadily paced steps. Grayson waited in the reception area, bringing her legs up close to her chest and planting her forehead between her sharp knees. She waited.
"Stage three breast cancer." Said a white haired, grim looking physician, his white coat and light skin made him seem all one color, blending him with the walls, "Your mother has stage three breast cancer. Wow, he is really pale, he could be mistaken for a ghost, white, white he is very white "Miss? Did you hear me?" So pale, like the walls, the walls, the walls.
Grayson could not bring herself to think about, never mind accept the four words the doctor repeated. "Stage three breast cancer" The walls, the walls, the wa… Grayson collapsed.
Grayson's large green eyes popped open, realizing she was still in the warehouse and that the previous thoughts were just miserable memories. Jude stared at her.
"Are you okay?" He whispered, his voice ragged and small.
"I guess so."
"You had your eyes closed for a long time, and you were crying."
Grayson blinked her round eyes, realizing her lashes were riddled with sparkling tears, and her cheeks were moist and cold.
"I didn't even realize."
"Grayson?"
"Yeah, Jude?"
"Are you scared?"
"Well, as much as I say I'm not, as much as I say I know we are going to get out of this, I am scared. Jude, I am scared out of my mind."
Grayson used the boy's name excessively, making the conversation personal.
"Me, too. I don't want to sound like a lame kid, but I miss my mom and dad. And my dog."
"You have a dog?"
"Yeah, a Collie, Russ."
"That's awesome, I wish I had a dog."
"We are hanging in the middle of a warehouse, facing our deaths, and we are talking about dogs?"
"Yeah, Jude, yeah we are."
They shifted their eyes toward each other and smiled, and for a millisecond they felt happy.
Hey, sorry i didn't update in a while, well, i had it written, but i did not upload it! sorry again! anyway, this is more of a backstory chapter, but i think it's sad and sweet :) hope you enjoy, and i will update soon-ish :)
