Chapter two. And I touched.

"How I wish I could surrender my soul; Shed the clothes that become my skin; See the liar that burns within my needing. How I wish I'd chosen darkness from cold. How I wish I had screamed out loud,
Instead I've found no meaning. I guess it's time I run far, far away; find comfort in pain, all pleasure's the same: it just keeps me from trouble. Hides my true shape, like Dorian Gray. I've heard what they say, but I'm not here for trouble. It's more than just words: it's just tears and rain."

James Blunt.

---

There was something moving deep inside of me, a monster, a beast, trying to claw its way out of my body. It was like a huge beetle had nestled inside my head and was kicking and tickling and itching to get out. My entire body ached and I scratched and scratched until my skin bleed bright and red. But it wouldn't stop. It was excruciating, as if I was on fire and the flames nibbled at my flesh, nerves teased and teased until it would drive me insane. A thin, veneer layer of restlessness was wrapped around my feature, suffocating me, wound up tighter and tighter, like a cocoon, and there was nothing I could do.

The beast wouldn't stop. It was hungry – I was hungry and I needed to satisfy that hunger soon or I would die.

And so I found myself in the dark night, glooming stars in the sky trying to brighten the deep black abyss above our heads, but to no effort. Rain softly fell from that same sky and gently caressed my skin. I loved this weather. The wind was calm and comforting, blowing just hard enough to cast a dejected, awkward shade over the neighbourhood. The rain was good too, coming down with just enough strength to wet the pavements, but not to leave much puddles of water, nor soak me. It drizzled down, not like a layer of moisture coming down, like a blanket falling over your head, because that would make you drown in underestimation and you always end up drenched, but infinite drops of water, still separated from the other drops.

As I said. I loved this weather.

It provided me enough cover not to be seen, but it was not dark enough to blind myself. The darkness folded around my body like a baby blanket, soft and smooth and I could move freely as if swimming. I could easily watch him from the rooftop I stood on. Cigarette butts laid on the cement floor like paper snippets did during carnival. Smoking seemed to ease my mind. Kept me busy, occupied. It gave my fingers something to do so the tingling would fade, keep control over the sensation, the lust, the desire and the urge.

The figure I was watching, was restlessly pacing around in his apartment. He couldn't sit still for a minute, constantly trying to fill up great his mind as if he was carrying a heavy burden and the rollercoaster of thoughts was raging through his head. Perhaps I was that burden, as I finally let the world know I existed. And how. The look on his face was priceless and satisfying, burnt onto my brain and easily recalled to endure the rush of ecstatic, vigorous achievement.

I only noticed the satisfied smirk around my lips once I raised my hand to bring to butt of my burning cigarette to my mouth again. Mentally, I curse myself. I did not have the time to enjoy, nor could I afford a moment to take pleasure from what I had done. But boy, I could still feel it. The touch of his skin against my ice-cold fingers is one I relive in my dreams. I almost died once I was finally able to feel what I had been hunting. The feeling went beyond my wildest expectations, it felt so good. Smooth and soft, soothing and perfectly flowing, practically scar-free. A shock of energy pulsed through my body when I thought about it and almost, almost, I felt satisfied enough.

But no, they just had to ruin it. They just had to disrupt my plans, bring chaos into my well organized structure of destruction. They were smarter than I thought. I read me better than I thought. I guess you could say that I underestimated them. And they profiled me, while I left so little of myself behind, I didn't even contact him, yet. How did they figure it out? And how did their minds let them to those thoughts so fast? I know I underestimated them, but this, it was almost if they knew - he knew - that I was watching him. Had he felt the shivers roll down his spine whenever my eyes studiously burnt holes in him? Had he felt the eyes of a hawk gazing down upon him? Had he silently heard the reverberating echoes of my footsteps when I followed him around?

There was one thing though, one thing that they hadn't figured out up to this point. They didn't know everything yet. There was much more for them left to learn, to discover. I still held the master card. I softly chuckled when remembering doctor Reid's face when he heard the news. He hadn't known. And the mixture of fascination and shock on his face was just pure bliss for me.

He just sat there in his chair with his long fingers on the sides and his thin legs in front of him, feet on the ground. I counted the seconds he sat there, motionless and still, thirty-nine, before he moved. He moved his jaw, trying to say something but he was speechless. And the stern, concerned almost scared look on Hotchner's face – yes, the beast calmed down.

But once my brain kicked in again and registered what my eyes were seeing, it began again. Lurking, crawling, scratching, growling. The sight in front of me was an emotional peak of excitement. To me, and I think many other women, this sight was heaven. Somewhere during the hours I stood watching him and I wondered off into my crestfallen thoughts, he had gone to bed. Automatically, my feet took me down the all too familiar path and I stood, a mere foot away from my obsession. My love.

My fingers tingled and I drummed them in the air. If I could, I would have jumped up and down, screaming in excitement, dancing around the room, screaming and singing. But I remained silent, kept cool and composed, and soothingly made my way over to him.

I closed my eyes the moment my fingers touch his skin. I caressed him lightly, but it was enough for me. His bare chest went up and down in steady pace, his fine muscles applying to his demands. Carefully, I bent forward close enough to smell him. It was a deep aroma of coffee and Calvin Klein and it filled my nostrils warm and welcome. The scent was burnt into my memories, as the touch of his skin was and I realized that this was it. It was enough for today, tonight. Time to return to my home and wait. Wait till the time was right.

I turned, walked past his dog that shortly looked up and wiggled his tail in recognition, and made my way to his paper covered desk. It amazed me that he could sleep with all the things that he had going on in his mind. He used to be so much more peaceful, unclouded. Soundlessly, I grabbed his paper notebook and fished up a pen from under the rubble. Another smile formed around my lips as I wrote my message. Hotchner's profile had been right, or at least I made sure it was right, 'The UnSub will contact you soon.'

I was playing a game, and they were all playing along. In the morning, agent Derek Morgan would wake up and find the windows of his apartment wide open, a cup of cold coffee and a picture of himself, asleep, in his own room, in his own house, next to the note I left him.

They were exceeding my expectations. This was going better that I thought. If I could keep that beast tamed, we could dance around like this for a while. A white-hot, fire-y, passionate tango.

But for now, it was time to rest. After all, I made my move. It was their turn to move the piece now.

---

A cold, harsh blowing wind woke Derek Morgan up in the early morning. Drowsy, he looked around his bedroom and his dark eyes fixed on the open window. He narrowed his eyes when he tried to remember if he closed the window.

Clooney, his dog, barked once he saw that his boss was awake and hoped for an early walk through the park. Derek's eyes noticed the dog and then widened when seeing another open window. Within seconds, he had grabbed his gun and moved out of the bed, aiming at the living room. In the back of his head he figured however was in his house was long gone.

Nevertheless, he searched his apartment barefoot, in every room, corner, behind every curtain, closet and under every couch, chair and his bed, but only to find nobody there. When his mind was a little at ease knowing whoever was in his apartment, wasn't there anymore, he took the time to pay attention to the scenery the perp had left for him on his table.

It was a cold cup of coffee from the coffee shop he always bought his coffee. As if this didn't bother him enough, he grabbed the picture. He saw himself laying in bed, sleeping, the television on. He recognized the program it was on; it was a documentary about undercover work for the police department. He registered the thought that it might be of some significance when he spotted the note and forceful, jabbing shivers ran over his porcelain-smooth skin. It was from over a month ago.

It took him again, just a short period of time to grab his phone and dial a too well known number.

"Hotch. It's Morgan. The perp's been here."

"What? Where?"

"In my house."

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. The bastard left a cold cup of coffee, a picture and a note."

"That means we're on the right track with the profile, he's contacting you. What's on the note?"

"We do not die because we have to die; we die because one day, and not so long ago, our consciousness was forced to deem it necessary."

"Antonin Artaud. I'm coming to you know. Call the rest of the team."

Sighing and doomed with a weary mind, Derek closed his phone after his supervisor had hung up.

From a distance, I brought my cigarette to my mouth, inhaling the intoxicating smoke and letting it fill my lungs. From over the glowing, burning red tip, I watched him crumble down. His clouded mind turned into a thunderstorm and I knew I was close. The pawns were on the move, the play had just begun.

Check.