(A/N Hi, This story takes place in mid-season 6 before any of the Lauren and Doyle starts. I don't own Criminal Minds just to let you know in case you couldn't guess.)
Reid walked down the hall to his apartment door. The oak doors handle was twisted open Reid's hand pushing the door open. He stood in the door frame looking at the room. The old couch he bought from a yard sale that seemed like it took place ages ago. He stepped through the threshold. He looked at the pictures on his shelf from a different time. They were full of happiness, smiles, and laughter. If he had any pictures from the last two years up they would have been a dark contrast. Full of heaviness and hurt.
Not like his team had noticed the heaviness. The burden weighing on the still-young man's shoulders. They hadn't noticed the look of surrender in his eyes. The look of hopelessness that only the weary have but none should hold. He was alone. Completely alone. He had held on so long but convincing himself of the people he would have left behind. And as time passed he learned that maybe they wouldn't care. But then there was, Henry. Sweet innocent Henry. How could he have, JJ, and, Will, tell him that his uncle Spencer was dead and he had made that choice. The choice to leave him behind. Let Henry think he wasn't good enough. The same way he had felt when his father had left.
But, Henry, had others. And now, Reid could be free. And unburden himself from the others. and with that, he sat down to write 10 letters. The first to his Mother. The second too, JJ, and, Will. The third to, Henry. The fourth too, Garcia. The fifth to, Morgan. The sixth too, Hotch. The seventh too, Emily. The eighth to, Rossi. The ninth to, Gideon. The tenth too, Elle. He wouldn't leave the last two behind because they had left the BAU I mean he was doing the same thing. When he finished he walked into the bathroom and rolled up his sleeves.
He looked at all 67 fresh cuts on his wrists. He looked at the 84 scabbed over gashes when he rolled up his pant legs he glanced at the 32 marks of freshly split open skin on his shoulders. He had the curse to remember everything that happened those days. Everything he had felt those days to drive himself to that. The feeling of hating himself. The worthlessness. He knew he was worthless. He knew that he deserved every ounce of pain he felt when he dug the blade into his arm. He knew he had never been someone worth remembering. He knew he was a lost cause. He had known this for years which is why he locked the door in his apartment bathroom. Washed his face opened the cabinet in the mirror and took out the full bottle of pills. Sitting on the toilet seat a glass of water next to him. He put the pills down momentarily in favor of the blade. He needed to feel the bite and the sting once more.
The clock clicked steadily marking the time. 7:58 pm. He slid the blade across his arm watching in fascination as the blood welled from the wounds. He put the blade back in its box. Spilling a handful of pills into his palm. Tipping a sip of water from the cup into his mouth before slipping the pills into his mouth. Swallowing he repeated the process until the bottle was empty it might be more than necessary but you could never be sure. He felt woozy as the drugs kicked in. The darkness surrounding his vision. As he slipped into blackness.