Disclaimer:Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.
IMPORTANT: After reviewing the EXTREMELY excessive word count (roughly 20,000 words. That's a novella on its own...) for the final chapter, I decided to break it into smaller chapters so that you guys can breathe every couple thousand words or so. I'm done making promises about how many chapters there are, because the plot bunnies like to screw with me whenever I do that. So yeah, just know it's almost over, haha.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Photographic Memory Part. 2
'...At least I try, but I'm relying on my photographic memory while painfully realizing it's not all it's cracked up to be. And falling's just another way to fly- I wonder why it's never easier than the first time.' -Emilie Autumn, Photographic Memory
It was four hours later when Reid finally put the mound of paper to the side of his bed, lying half on his back and half on his side as his hand remained on the first page- the page of all the thumbnail photographs. While he had finished reading it all after a very meager amount of time, he had gone back and reread it again. And again. And again. He had ingested the information as far as he could, read it all until his mind was so sick of seeing the same sentences and words over and over that he could no longer focus.
But even now, his brain sighing at the mental reprieve, he still ran through the words once more, all of it memorized. Yet, his mind could only hone in on one file, on only one of the victim's archived records: the file belonging to Spencer Reid.
When he had first read the name, his own name, he had felt a shiver run down his spine at the possibility of having someone else walking around with the same exact name. It felt wrong, impersonal. Names were how someone identified you, who you were. So if he shared a name with someone, did that diminish his person, his effect on the world and all he was?
Then he turned the page, revealing the in depth victim file- and a picture of himself. Or rather, a healthier version of himself. Though he wasn't entirely sure of what he looked like before he became insane, he had an idea that the photo attached was quite an accurate description. New haircut aside, he was skinner, his face leaner than the picture told. His eyes were somehow less bright, murkier as if someone had dropped a small amount of ink into the greenish-gold irises. Just enough ink that it was able to spread out in velvety black ribbons and dilute itself, yet still darkening the color of his eyes forever. Perceived or imagined, his eyes were most certainly more lack luster now.
Not to mention of course that the picture had him wearing a button up shirt with the first two buttons undone- possibly because of heat. And the small sliver of skin that could be seen of his chest revealed smooth, unblemished surfaces of alabaster complexion- not a scar in sight. Had he been wearing the shirt now, in the same fashion, it would show the beginning clump of white scar tissue that indicated what was a bullet wound.
And Reid safely assumed that even though only the absence of the bullet wound was visible, the picture was taken before he garnered any of the many scars he had.
Shooting a nervous look up to the orderly sitting outside the threshold- his bed now repositioned against the wall adjacent to the door- he kicked the green and blue quilt off of his form and sat up, staring down at his legs. They were currently concealed from view by gray sweatpants, which didn't end until his socks- a festive selection of black with orange stripes and red with green stripes- wrapped around his feet. He had always been curious about the scars he couldn't remember receiving, and after having read a supposed documentation of his life- he still doubted Morgan's credibility- his curiosity had done anything but subside.
Large gash wounds, from serrated blade, found on left thigh while more superficial cuts ran up and down his calves. An extremely deep stab wound- from same style of blade- was found on his right thigh. Burn marks cover the soles of his feet, though superficial cuts are visible, suggesting that Andrew Wright had attempted to cauterize them.
The report ran through his head as he swallowed, glancing to the orderly one final time before grabbing the waistband of his pants and slowly sliding them down, raising his hip as he wiggled them down further, his dark green boxer briefs being his only shield of modesty now. The fabric was pulled down agonizingly slow, as Reid continuously looked to the doorway, but when it sat in a bunched pile at his ankles, he let his eyes linger on the scars he had always questioned.
His legs were long, yet extremely skinny, and his knobby knees protruded almost awkwardly outward from the middle of his extremities. But his attention wasn't on his twiggy legs or bulbous joints. No, his attention was fully settled onto the long scars.
White mounds of pulled together skin ran from his knobby knee to his hip, disappearing under the hem of his underwear. The scar was about half an inch in diameter, with the exception of two points along the cut, where it was nearly three times that, rays of thinner white scars surrounding it like a grotesque sun. His hand raised itself- almost of its own accord, and an index finger began tracing the line, stopping at the extra large section of healing cell tissue.
The area was less sensitive, but he cringed at the feeling nonetheless, a slight tingle burning on the back of his knee. He was about to continue his journey- about to let his finger trail down more until it reached the shallower scar lines down his shin- when another new memory unfurled in his mind, nearly pushing him down on the mattress with the shock of it.
He was tied down to a bed, his wrists clasped tightly in metal restraints that clanked against the metal railings. His teeth were digging into his lip, toes curling as he tried to escape an inescapable situation. And above him, holding a corkscrew like device to an already bleeding slit, was Andrew.
His eyes opened immediately, and he was sitting up, his fingers clenching the sheets as his own screams of remembered pain echoed in his ears. The orderly was at his side in an instant, waving hands in front of his face, confused as to what had set the young man off. But Reid didn't see the blur of fingers pass in front of his vision, his mind was still reeling with memories, eyelids squeezed together shut and acting like a canvas sheet for a movie projection.
A vice grip on the sheets so tight his knuckles were several shades paler than the rest of him and nausea grew in his stomach, his knees drawn up and inward and as he subconsciously began rocking himself...
The orderly, unsure of how to respond, started screaming for nurses, the noise of his voice sounding far away and muffled as Reid focused on other voices, ones coming from inside his own head.
He was tied down to the mattress once more, groggy as though the combined effects of a drug and sleep were wearing off at the same time. He heard voices and, curious as to whom the two people could be, moved his head slightly on the pillow to uncover both his eyes, the voices now sounding clearer and more distinct. One was most definitely Andrew, but the other was more foreign, though Reid still recognized it from somewhere...
'Here, put this over his eyes first,' Andrew said to the second man.
'Why? It's not like it will matter...' the man responded.
'Just do it.' Andrew again.
A sigh. Then, 'Fine, fine.'
Just then, someone grabbed onto his hair and pulled his head up harshly, causing him to whimper. A blindfold was placed over his eyes.
The memory faded as a new one played in his mind, the film strips being set in place for the macabre movie performance he couldn't help but watch.
He was standing in a small, one person shower stall, beads of water rolling down his skin and carrying grime and blood with it, a disgusting display as diluted reds and diluted browns of water slid off him and to the tiled floor. He was filthy, and the warm water, despite the slight stung it had on his cut up body, felt so delightful to his aching bones.
The washcloth in his hand, he began to wash himself, slowly and lightly at first, and then gradually scrubbing harder, the sensation of tiny bugs crawling all over him increasing. But when the scruffiness of the small washcloth was no longer effective in rubbing into his skin, he let it fall to the ground, using his own fingernails instead.
His arms burned as layers of skin were peeled away, raw and red as beads of blood bubbled through the scratches. But he didn't care- or didn't even notice- as he tried to get rid of the disgusting feeling of bugs that covered him.
His broken leg making him unsteady, he let his body slide down to the floor of the shower, the steam almost suffocating at this lower setting. But he continued to scratch and peel away skin, the burn of the water making his arms even redder and more sensitive.
He hadn't even been aware of the fact that he was grunting, gasping with the effort, until the shower curtain was opened and Andrew looked down at him, his eyes wide. He must've looked pathetic, curled up on the floor, naked, his hair clinging to his face in wet segments as he continued to dig into his arms, searching for those damn bugs that eluded him.
"Spencer?" Andrew asked.
He shook his head. "Don't," he said, his voice quiet and for a moment, he wondered if Andrew could even hear him over the pounding sound of the shower before deciding it didn't matter. "Just leave me alone," he said again, swallowing hard. Andrew regarded him with a look of concern before reaching down to grab Reid's arm, pulling him up despite the way he struggled.
"Spencer? Spencer!"
He was wretched violently away from the memory by Morgan, the man's face only inches from his as he blinked his eyes in confusion, surprised to find that he had started to cry. But the shock did not last long as he began to feel the familiar burn of human touch. In Morgan's attempt to reach out the dazed man, he had grabbed onto his shoulders. And now that Reid was aware once more, the feeling of hands on him made his stomach flop and his adrenaline pump.
"Don't touch me!" he roared, flailing his arms out and pushing Morgan away before curling back into himself, his knees pressed tightly into his chest with his arms wrapped around them. Morgan stood back, alarmed at the sudden assault as the orderly returned, Dr. Forte in tow.
She looked over to the patient, her expression softening. "Spencer," she said slowly, waiting for him to look up at her. When several minutes past and he had yet to remove his glare from the sheets, she said, "What happened? Why did you start screaming?"
He said nothing, and for a moment, she thought he hadn't heard the question. But slowly, he tore his gaze away from the sheets and looked up to Morgan, his mouth open slightly as indistinguishable emotions swam through his eyes. Fear, hate, worry, guilt, embarrassment, sorrow...so many it became impossible to tell one from the other. But when he spoke, his tone was soft and tinged more with confusion than anything else.
"The memories..." he started, swallowing through the hard lump of tears in his throat. "Are they...are they...real?" Wincing at the end of his question, he suddenly realized that he wasn't sure what he wanted the answer to be. If the memories were fake, then that could mean his psychoses was getting worse and the probability of him getting healthy became slim. But if they were real...
What if they were? What if he had gone through a hell, such as the one his own mind depicted? What if it got worse? His memories were incomplete and seemed to trail off with him feeling a sense of impeding dread, the most traumatic incidences still locked away in some proverbial closet, lying in wait. So what if he recalled it all- provided they were real accounts- and realized he was better off insane? Could it have been so bad that he actually desired the thing he had tried the most to get away from?
Morgan licked his lips. "It depends...what happened in them?" he asked, moving closer to the side of Reid's bed.
Reid paused for a moment, thinking back to the rush and overflow of thoughts that he had succumbed to only seconds before. Summing it up into one sentence, he said, in a quiet, hushed voice, "Andrew, hurting me."
Morgan was silent for a long time before he eventually nodded his head and answered, "Yes, they are real. I'm sorry, Spencer."
Reid shook his head, his mind searching for an excuse- anything- to prove that he hadn't lived through that hell, that Andrew wasn't evil. "But...I...I hallucinate. Andrew wasn't lying, I really am insane."
Now it was Dr. Forte who stepped in, her soft voice tearing Reid's desperate eyes away from Morgan. "You hallucinate because Andrew tortured you. He made your mind think it was safer to assume your team was a delusion and the stress of the situation caused a minor psychotic fracture." She paused, biting her lip before saying, "The hallucinations were a side effect of the break. Andrew wasn't ever helping you, Spencer. I'm sorry, I know how much you cared about him."
Morgan was real.
And he was right.
Dr. Forte was agreeing with him.
Andrew had hurt him.
He had always hurt him.
Reid let his legs slide further down the mattress, his bare knees still up though no longer digging into his chest. He felt so...so stupid. So ridiculous, so embarrassed. He had been played. He was played like a fool! A psychotic serial killer had gotten the best of him, tricked him! How did he let that happen?
He was shaking, though no tears fell from his eyes. He wanted Morgan to leave, wanted the man he could no long face to get out of his sight. He knew Morgan would never look down on him and that he would say everything he could to make Reid feel better. But right now, the only thing that would make Reid feel better would be for him to leave him alone, his condescending eye away. How could he look at Morgan, knowing all he said to him- to all of his team- and after all he let happen to him? After he let Andrew break him that way?
"Reid, you okay?" Morgan asked.
Reid could only mutter, "I feel so stupid..."
Morgan furrowed his brow. "Don't feel that way, man," he said.
"It's not your fault, Reid. The self-preservation mechanism you have in your psyche had associated pain with sanity and had, in an attempt to keep you from more harm, made you believe Andrew. The stress of the situation resulted in the hallucinations as you know, and now it's just a matter of your post-traumatic amygdala and some psychogenic amnesia," Dr. Forte said, and Reid resisted the urge to glare at her. Is that what he sounded like all the time? Spewing out facts like it was carbon dioxide exiting his lungs? It sounded almost callous, the way she thought his emotions could be so easily assuaged just by handing out some scientific explanation.
It made no difference, whether or not it was his mind's instinctual need for survival that he let Andrew trick him.
He still felt like an idiot.
"Reid, is there anything I can get for you?" Morgan asked, unnerved by the way Reid sat, slumped over, quiet, unmoving. He was beginning to feel like he had made a mistake, like Reid was better off being insane. He might've been hallucinating, but at least he seemed content. But this...he was...broken. There was no other word for it.
Spencer Reid was utterly defeated, the reality of his life and the week he had lived through now being discovered.
"Just..." Reid started, his voice squeaking as tried not to let the tears be heard. "Just leave me alone." He jumped up suddenly, kicking his sweatpants fully off from around his ankles and grabbing them as he stepped off the bed and headed for the bathroom, saying in a low voice mostly to himself than to Morgan and Dr. Forte, "I need to shower."
"Spencer, are you sure you're okay to shower?" Dr. Forte asked. But Reid didn't answer, he just opened the door and slipped inside, closing it with a click.
Dr. Forte sighed as she turned to Morgan, rubbing her eyes tiredly.
"Will...will he be okay?" Morgan asked, his stomach feeling heavy as though it were made of lead instead of cells. Was it his fault Reid was the way he was? 'Of course it's your fault! He was fine before you went and showed him the photos!' his mind yelled at him, and he cringed at his own thoughts. He hadn't meant to upset him, he just wanted him to be healthy, to be sane. And now he was.
And he wasn't happy.
"We were prepared for this to happen," Dr. Forte said with a shrug. At Morgan's questioning glance, she then expanded on her words. "We knew the psychoses was only temporary, as well as the amnesia. He's had a bed waiting for him up in our Trauma Ward since we first heard of his case." She looked at him, her blue eyes looking more haunted than ever. "It wasn't bringing him to sanity we were worried about, it was helping him deal with the trauma. He went through a lot, Agent Morgan. The effects will be long lasting and we never expected his road to recovery to be easy."
Morgan swallowed as he asked the question that seared into his brain and felt like acid as he voiced it. "Would it...would it have been better if I never showed him the pictures?"
Dr. Forte shook her head quickly. "No, no! Perhaps I should have warned you of this, and I'm sorry I didn't. The fact of the matter is that this would have happened regardless- the pictures just sped it up." At Morgan's look of guilt, she quickly added, "Which is better! The sooner we could get him sane, the sooner we can get him healthy and- eventually- happy."
Happy.
Morgan nearly snorted at the word. How could anyone be happy after that? Would Reid even be capable of feeling happiness now, going to Hell and back? It seemed like such a far off destination- something that everyone yearned for but never really attained. But if anyone could do it, it would be Reid. At least, that was what Morgan hoped.
"I'm going to go call the Trauma Ward, let them know that Spencer will be joining them soon. His medications will need to be altered now, but the ward psychiatrist up there will be better fit for that job," Dr. Forte said as she left the room, an orderly returning to the post as Morgan sat himself down on Reid's bed, leaning forward as he rubbed his hands over his bald head.
For the first time, he wished he was suspended for longer than a year so that he could stay with Reid for as long as the man needed him.
xXx
Spencer Reid was back.
At least, as back as he could.
While he was sane once more and fully aware of which reality was his own, it couldn't really be said that his personality had returned to him, unaltered. In fact, it seemed like the only thing about his personality that seemed unchanged were the negatives, much to Morgan chagrin. Of course, he expected Reid to be different, to be jumpier and hollower than before. But at the same time, he at least expected to Reid to go back to his know-it-all, fact dispensing ways. So when Reid came back from his shower, silent and unfocused, he had felt guilt consume him once more. But when he said various inaccurate facts with the intent of starting a conversation- or a conversation by Reid's standards- and the man just shrugged his shoulders and continued to ignore him, he felt confused.
No, he felt scared.
Reid was the type of person to resort to solid facts when everything else around him was unstable. The more disastrous a situation was, the more likely Reid was to start quoting long-read books and little known facts. So when the man refused to take Morgan's bait and neglected to correct his obviously distorted information, he knew that something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
But what Morgan didn't know, was that Reid was very much Reid inside his own head.
When Morgan absentmindedly said, "Don't feet have the least amount of bones in your body?" Reid thought to himself, 'Actually, the bones in your feet make up twenty-five percent of all the bones in your body.'
When Morgan examined a birthmark on his shoulder and said, "I hate birthmarks. People act like it's a weird thing to have and I hate explaining them," Reid's mind said, 'Actually, it's a very common thing to have. In fact, eighty percent of all babies are born with birthmarks and there are several distinct types, though the most common ones fade over time.'
The problem was that Reid was too focused on other matters to entertain Morgan's sad attempt of starting a conversation, and he had hoped that eventually Morgan would just give up and fall quiet when he didn't respond.
To an outside viewer, Reid might have appeared to be more apathetic than anything, bored even. But he was far from it- the issue was that he was feeling so many different things that he didn't know which to feel at any specific moment in time. This was the center of his mind and the true problem that made him unable to speak to Morgan.
Emotions would take a stranglehold on him, suffocating him with some unidentifiable feeling before he was taken over by another, drastically different feeling. And so, his face remained an impassive structure, his lips a straight line, his eyes looking at the world in a seemingly bored manner, his movements slow and lethargic, when in reality his entire world was crashing down from the overwhelming surge of different emotions.
He didn't know where one ended, and another began!
But in typical Reid fashion, he turned the storm of feelings into a form he could understand.
His body was in sensory overdrive, his brain unable to settle on one particular emotion, and at the current moment, he was metaphorically organizing and categorizing the jumble of feelings he felt. They were being picked apart and set aside, and in the very analytical style that Reid had made his own, he focused on only one emotion at a time. He would select one emotion from the alphabetized filing cabinet, close it with that one folder in hand, and then open it, addressing the contained feeling before moving on to the next.
And like slipping into a pair of his favorite, most comfortable pair of pants, he returned to his old self as much as possible.
'Robert Plutchik's Wheel of Emotion,' he thought to himself, trying to find the names for all the files he was storing away. 'Eight basic emotions and eight advanced emotion, in alphabetical order,' his mind said to him slowly, his eyes fluttering to the top of his head as he thought of what would be the first emotion, according to Plutchik, that he would focus on. After a second of thought, his mind answered with, 'Aggression, advanced emotion that is a combination of anger and anticipation.'
And just like that, one of the many emotions that was involved in the internal war was suddenly christened and identified. With a game plan decided, he began to work through the aspects of this particular feeling, knowing that he still had a hefty plate of many other emotions to deal with. But for now, they were all safely tucked away in the proverbial filing cabinet, ready for future examination.
xXx
Morgan sighed as he hung up the phone, leaning back in his chair and resting his head against the brick wall. It had been a week since Reid's "improvement" had been been made, and he decided that it was about time that he called the rest of his team, informing them on the latest update. Garcia had been ecstatic of course, breaking into tears at the news. And that was when Morgan chickened out.
How could he listen to her cries of happiness, her overjoyed proclamations of "I knew he would do it! He's so strong! I knew he would get better!" just to tell her that, in all actuality, he got worse. Sure, his hallucinations were significantly less appalling now, and extremely few and far between now that his conscious mind no longer fed into the notion, but behavior wise, he had regressed. He had barely spoken to anyone, uttering on average five words a day. He barely ate. He barely moved. All in all, he was depressed.
'Well what exactly did you think would happen? That he'd just look at you and say, "wow! What a weird experience!" and move on with his life?' a voice in his mind sneered and he sighed, knowing that a foolish part of him had hoped that that would be the aftermath of this ordeal. But no, Reid was most certainly going to need more than just a nudge in the right direction- metaphorically of course, as he was more sensitive to touch than ever now.
Which brought Morgan to another question: Was Reid's memory fully restored yet, or was it still working through the gaping holes, much like an unfinished puzzle that was missing many pieces? Even though Reid had not confided in Morgan, or anyone, for that matter, he was almost positive that the young genius had yet to recall certain...incidences that occurred while in Andrew's care. He shivered in contempt with himself when he realized just how casually he had referred to Varney raping Reid.
It was not an incident. How dare he even think otherwise?
'Well, Mr. Profiler, if even you're too unwilling to admit what really happened, what makes you think Reid is?' that same voice from before thought to him and Morgan decided he was sick of his own thoughts.
He stood, rubbing his chin as he looked around the outside setting of the mental hospital, crunchy piles of leaves littering the dying grass. Fall was fast approaching, and the gentle breeze provided a nice and well-needed break from Summer's sweltering heat. But the thing about Autumn that Morgan was painfully reminded of in that moment was that it was the season where everything just...died. What else would die? What else would walk hand-in-hand with the flowers, the green hue of nature, and the movement of animals as Winter once more fastened it's icy grip around the hemisphere? And more importantly, what would be reawakened come Spring time?
Sighing, Morgan began his routine walk around the grounds, his hands shoved in his fleece sweater as he thought over his conversation with Garcia. She had ended it, hastily saying something about telling the rest of the team and planning a visit. Like Dr. Ostheim, Dr. Forte had steadfastly denied visitation rights. But now that their presence would no longer upset Reid, the privilege was handed out to them.
'Before, the team's presence would upset Reid. And now, the team's presence would upset the team. How poetic,' he bitterly thought, knowing that, to the team miles and miles away, the news of Reid's recovery would overlook the inevitable. As talented as they all were at human psychology, their vices lay in the criminal mind, not so much in the victim. So when Garcia came rushing in to the Bullpen, saying that Reid was sane again, they would, like Morgan, forget that Reid was by no means okay. And they would come out to Pennsylvania, expecting a heart-warming reunion, only to remember that Reid was still a victim. That there would be no hugs, no kisses, no happy rejoices. Because they would all be smacked in the face with the reality that Reid wasn't really Reid anymore.
And how could Morgan tell them that? How could he voluntarily destroy what bliss they could gather? No, he couldn't do that to them.
His phone vibrated, once and quickly, indicating a text. He pulled the device out of his pocket, flipping open the screen to read Garcia's message.
Told the team! We're all going to come visit two weekends from now! Uber excited!
"Don't get too excited, Baby Girl," he mumbled to himself, shoving his phone back in his pocket as he vowed to deal with this specific situation later, when he was alone in the comfort of his small flat. He couldn't focus on telling her the truth at the moment- besides, they deserved to celebrate, if only for a few hours.
xXx
Reid sat in his bed, Indian style, as he shifted the weight of the Rubik's cube in his hand. Tori really did have a sick sense of humor sometimes. Really, the fact that the nurse went out of her way to buy him an object he repeatedly told her he hated and then tell him that he could sit and twiddle his thumbs for all she cared, was really very spiteful. But like always, he couldn't say no to her. So he took the Rubik's cube, unwilling to start it as he knew that it would take only seconds before he finished it. Might as well build up anticipation for the damn thing.
"Are you actually going to do it or just stare at it?" Morgan asked bemusedly, and as per usual, Reid ignored him. It wasn't necessarily that Reid was trying to be rude, it was just that facing and conversing with his long-time friend would remind him of just how stupidly he acted. Sure, he could think of a million and one reasons why it was psychologically a coping mechanism, but as he had recently learned, facts and statistics were a lot less comforting when they were applied directly to you. And even though he wanted to talk to him, wanted to have Morgan reassure him the way he always did, even the thought of looking up at him sent waves of humiliation through his veins that made his face turn an astonishingly bright shade of scarlet and his mind taunt him. No, he was better off ignoring him.
"Do you want me to pick up any books for you?" Morgan asked.
Ooh, that one was tempting. But no, Reid couldn't face him. Besides, he knew it was just yet another attempt to get his attention.
Unfazed, Morgan tried again. "What about food? I've had the stuff they serve here, and I can't imagine eating it all the time. I can probably pick up some pizza for tonight and then swing by the grocery store and get food for you to have for other meals. How does that sound?"
He would have received a more lively response from a mouse. Sighing in frustration, Morgan pulled the last trick out of his sleeve. "The team's going to visit you in about two weeks."
That worked. Reid nearly jumped from his sitting position, the Rubik's cube slipping from his hand and falling into his lap as he turned to face the man, his lips parting slightly. Really? His team was coming to visit him? His stomach was doing loop-the-loops at the idea as his mind was torn between two distinct emotions: fear and excitement.
While seeing his friends and pseudo-family for the first time made him feel happy and loved, he couldn't help the intense return of his embarrassment resurface once more. Having Morgan sit beside him was bad enough! He couldn't imagine the absolute humiliation he would feel if the entire team was there.
Morgan must've noticed the way his face fell, as he furrowed his brow and asked, "What's wrong? Don't you want to see everyone?"
Reid bit his lip. He had made it quite a point to not speak much to anyone, especially his colleague. But being well learned in psychoanalytical theory, he knew his silence would only worsen the anxiety he was feeling about everything. But dammit! he couldn't help it! It was almost as if he felt too tired to speak, the effort of actually opening his jaw and speaking seemed entirely not worth it. As much as he would've liked to blame his desire to not speak on laziness, he knew the real reason was because his mind, though categorizing each emotion, was not willing to accept the truth. Speaking would lead to explanations. Explanations would lead to answers. And answers...
Well, answers most likely led you to the truth, as unpleasant as it was. And despite having only half a memory, Reid was sure his memories were pretty far on the unpleasant spectrum of things.
He was disrupted from his self-inquiries by the sound of an irate Morgan standing roughly up from his chair and scoffing. Reid looked up, startled, just in time to see the tall agent cross his arms over his chest, his jaw clench.
"Reid, you may be a lot of things but dumb is definitely not one of them!" he said, his voice low and harsh as he spoke and causing Reid to sink back slightly, confused by Morgan's quick transition from concerned friend to reprimanding friend. Nonetheless, he continued, flailing his arms around with emphasis. "You, more than anyone, know the importance of speaking through traumas! You should know that the only way you can work past everything is to talk about it. No one can help you unless you let them. Don't you want us to help you?" Reid opened his mouth to reply but was never able to speak as Morgan's rant continued, his voice becoming louder and more sharp. "We want you to get better, Reid, but we can't! You've been moping around for a week now!"
Okay, now he was angry! How dare Morgan yell at him for moping- he had every right to mope! Didn't he understand that?
Jumping up from his bed and standing an inch taller than the agent, he roared in a quivering, dry from infrequent use voice, "I'm not moping!"
"You barely eat! You barely sleep! You don't even talk-"
"I don't want to talk!" Reid countered, stomping his foot on the ground before he even realized what he was doing.
Morgan snorted though, seeing through the thin excuse. "Why? What do you think is going to happen if you talk? Only good things from come out of it, it can only help you get better. Or do you not want to get better?"
Reid's blood was boiling, his skin red and fevered as he felt his anger and rage soar with every spoken word that left the man's lips. He had always known Morgan to be blunt, but this was outright insensitive! He had no right to accuse Reid of any of these things- no right to even think them! He had no idea what he had gone through, what torture he had lived through- nevermind that not even Reid knew exactly all of what he had experienced. Morgan was out of line!
"I always thought you were strong, man, but letting Andrew get to you like this is making me question myself. Not even capable of speaking now..." Morgan snorted and something within Reid snapped.
Hazel eyes wide, pale lips quivering, the young patient yelled as loud as his scratchy voice could manage, "I don't want to speak because I don't want to hear about it!" Surprised by the usually quiet man's outburst, Morgan leaned back, eyebrow raised, as Reid said in a much quieter voice, "I know you, Morgan. You'll want to ask me questions and you'll want to tell me about everything you know that happened when...everything that happened to me."
Morgan stared at him for a long time, licking his lips as he let his arms fall to his side. "Why don't you want to know? If it were me I'd want to know everything," he said.
"Yeah, well...I'm not you," Reid said, averting his eyes from his strong and firm gaze and to the floor. "I remember every single thing that's ever happened to me, except for that week. I just...I just want to be able to forget for a little while longer before I can't anymore." There. He said it. He didn't care how weak or cowardly it sounded, it was the truth. And maybe now Morgan would get off his back.
Not once tearing his gaze away from the floor, Reid let himself plop down on his mattress, slumping forward as he listened to the rustle of clothing that indicated Morgan's movement. The mattress dipped as the suspended agent sat down beside him, careful to make sure that there was enough distance between them to prevent any contact.
"I didn't know that. I just assumed that-" he began, but Reid cut him off.
"That because I take in facts like it's oxygen that I'd want to know everything about it?" Reid finished and Morgan nodded, wincing when he heard Reid sigh beside him. He sounded so tired. "I just...want to be ignorant a little while longer." He hesitated then, biting his lip before saying, "Does that make me...weak?"
Morgan shook his head so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. "No! Of course it doesn't! Anyone would feel the same way, and they don't even have photographic memories!" Backtracking in his words, Morgan then hastily added, "When I said that you were weak before, I didn't mean it. Honestly. I just wanted-"
Reid waved a hand in the air dismissively, the ghost of a smile on his face as he said, "Yeah, I know that. Reverse psychology to get me to speak, oldest trick in the book."
Breathing a sigh of relief, Morgan couldn't help but smirk. The kid was smart. Looking up to the ceiling, he ran over the words of Reid's confession, his smirk faltering as he said, "I never really thought of an eidetic memory as being bad. I always thought it'd be cool to remember everything. Being able to recall everything you learned for a test, never being wrong about what was said in a fight or remembering exactly how many pens you've let people borrow-"
"One hundred and eighty-six," Reid said slowly, causing Morgan to stumble in his words. When he saw the questioning look on Morgan's face, he said, "You've borrowed one hundred and eighty-six pens from me since we started working together three years ago. That number, of course, doesn't include all the pens you've borrowed from everyone else."
Morgan sat there, dumbstruck and with his mouth slung open as the words registered. Did he really keep a tab on his pen-borrowing habits? Unable to suppress the impulse, he chuckled and said, "Fair enough, Pretty Boy." His heart soared when he saw Reid's smile widen, his eyes glistening with amusement at their banter. Oh yes, his good friend was definitely still there. And was apparently baited out only when he was able to make a cheap shot about Morgan.
The amusement of the situation fading, he returned back to more important matters. "But anyway, I guess I never considered all of the bad things about remembering everything," he explained with a shrug and Reid snorted.
"Neither did I until now." He bit his lip before adding, "You know, when he...Andrew...drugged me at the Flats, I forgot all of that too because of the drug. I hated not remembering then. It felt like I was harming myself by forgetting. But now I ugh...I kinda like the idea of not remembering all of it."
He was pushing his luck here, but Morgan couldn't help himself as he asked, "How much do you remember?"
When Reid's lips pursed and his body visibly stiffened, he opened his mouth to apologize and take back all that he had said, but was stopped by the answer to his question. "Just the torture, I guess. Not a lot." Suddenly, Reid jumped and turned to Morgan, his eyebrows knitted as he said, "There are two questions though I want answered."
"What are they, Kid?"
Reid licked his lips. "What...What happened to him? Andrew, I mean?"
"Awaiting trial, but from what I've gathered, he's going to get off with the insanity plea," Morgan said, shrugging his shoulder as he attempted to hide the loathing in his voice. If he could only have gotten in that one punch...
"Insanity plea?" Reid asked, his eyebrows shooting up to nearly hide behind his hair. And considering the short length, that was a mighty distance to cross.
Morgan nodded though, as he explained, "Yeah, paranoid schizophrenic with dementophobia."
"Oh," was all Reid said, turning away as he thought about the diagnosis. Seemed accurate, considering all that he had observed from the notes. But the answer seemed to only create more questions, leaving much left to be desired. What was he trying to do? Why would someone with a phobia of insanity surround themselves with it? Would the judge and jury go for the claim? Would he be put behind a bar cell, or behind a caged window?
"What was the second question?" Morgan asked, suddenly drawing Reid away from his thoughts.
Startled, he licked his lips and timidly asked the question he felt least confident in asking. "Was there ugh...by any chance, did Andrew have a partner?" he asked, and he received his answer not in words, but in action. The way Morgan's face paled and jaw clenched, alongside with the way his shoulders were pulled inward as his eyes avoided Reid's, could only be indicative of one thing. Something very, very bad had happened, and it was regarding Andrew's partner.
"Morgan?" Reid asked, tilting his head upward to better view the eyes that avoided him. "What is it? Tell me."
Morgan stood suddenly, rubbing one hand over his head as he paced about the room. "No, you said you wanted to forget it for a little while longer," he said.
"Liar, you just don't want to be the one who tells me," Reid found himself saying before he could stop himself, watching as Morgan's lips parted and a barely audible choking sound was heard from his throat.
"Reid, you don't-" Morgan started and Reid cut him off.
"I just want to know if he had a partner or not," the man said innocently. But Morgan didn't answer him- he couldn't. He was glued in place as he realized the worst had yet to come. Reid had no memories of the betrayal he suffered.
But he would. Soon enough he'd remember it.
xXx
Author's Note: Next chapter is on its way. I am soooooooooo! Sorry about the confusion with all these chapters and miscalculations. Wanna hear a funny joke?
According to my outline, this story was supposed to be twenty chapters.
That worked out swimmingly, huh? Oh outlines and plot bunnies...how miserable you make me.
ALSO! Morgan wasn't really fighting, he was employing reverse psychology (it seems harsh, but it's actually extremely effective. Many psychiatrists and therapists will say horrid things like "Keep living that way and get yourself placed in a group home where you do nothing with yourself. Live your life on medication that makes you gain weight and act like a zombie" and etc. It tends to scare patients with the consequences of their behavior) I imagine Morgan, with how frank he is, to be very candid when it comes to therapies.