Leah's Point of View

In the weeks that followed my abduction, I had painted things that I couldn't look at once finished. My studio was filled with paintings that I had turned backwards so I wouldn't have to see them, leaning against the walls with their clean, white backs facing outward. They were all the same; dark, evil, some with blue eyes surrounded by nothingness, others of the parts of the boat I remember surrounded in darkness, or the blurry moonlit sky above the rocking waves I saw once I'd been tossed overboard like a piece of garbage that needed to be disposed of. I don't remember painting most of them.

There were several sketches in my sketchbook of him, too. They were everywhere; hanging on the walls of my apartment, on the walls of my studio, on every public notice board I saw. They were all the same, and I couldn't stand it.

I saw him everywhere I went. When I went to the store, I'd see a blond man and flinch. When I went to my studio, I'd paint him. When I turned on the television, his picture was on the news with the words, "Serial Killer Still At Large." It was eating away at my soul! And yet, Spencer Reid could make me forget. If only for half a second, when I looked into a pair of chocolate eyes so different from the baby blues that invaded almost every thought, I felt clean again. Like I'd finally washed the bastard off my skin, I felt cleansed and free again.

I'd screamed at him. I told him that I didn't want his pity. I told him I didn't want comfort. And then I'd cried in his arms. Warm, comforting, strong; his arms were like heaven. And afterward, after he'd left and I closed the door to my apartment, I still felt a little better. Not as good as I felt when I was with him, the angel in disguise as an FBI Agent, but better than before. And that was more than I had hoped for in the past weeks.

The tea pot whistled and my head turned in the direction of the kitchen. I barely remembered putting the kettle on, but I had, moments before he knocked on my door to deliver solemn news I'd already heard on the six o'clock news. He'd heard something and thought of me. It was comforting.

I turned down the burner and moved the kettle onto a cold one. Sighing, I poured myself a cup of boiling water and opened up my box of herbal tea bags. I was low. I should probably buy more. I dropped a bag into the hot liquid and made a jot note on my shopping list. It was about ten miles long by now. I'd avoided going out as much as possible, and grocery shopping was one of the things I'd put off so as not to face the public.

Little things like this had been the hardest things to get reused to. Making myself a cup of tea, shopping, eating at a restaurant, getting a full night's sleep, talking to a client; it all seemed too normal. And nothing was normal, anymore, except maybe Dr. Reid. He was the epitome of normality. Smart, good looking, quiet and shy; he was like the perfect background guy that no one really notices. He was my opposite.

Before my kidnapping, I had been wild, rowdy, unstable and more than a little too chancy with my own safety. On the weekends I partied until two and then painted until five. I got my nose pierced when I was eleven, and my navel at thirteen. I had my first tattoo when I was seventeen, and tried to hide it from my dad. He found it and I got yelled at for so long that he couldn't talk for three days afterward. I had my second done when I was nineteen, living on my own and struggling through community college. I moved across the country to Quantico the moment I graduated, striving to be a professional painter, and ending up working as a waitress for nearly two years before I finally got hired.

I can't say I've changed all that much. And I definitely can't say that I've changed for the better because of everything that's happened. But I haven't been myself since. I've been toned down and mild, meek around strangers and quiet when I'm painting. That's what freaks me out the most. I used to blast music as high as it would go as I painted, sing along and dance with the music and my brush strokes. The silence is... wrong. It's just wrong.

I sipped my tea and flipped channels on the TV. I found some old rerun of Buffy and put down the remote; anything was better than news, which was all I seemed to get with my awful cable. I really needed to switch to digital, but I haven't had the time or the motivation.

My eyes sagged slightly. How long had it been since I slept? I couldn't answer that. Every time I managed to drift off, I'd have awful nightmares. He was haunting me. I couldn't escape it. My eyes sagged a little more and I turned off the television. I wasn't watching it anyways.

I looked at the clock. It was only eight thirty, and I was dead on my feet. I drained my tea in one gulp, hoping for it to wake me a little, but found it did no good. I rinsed it in the sink and dragged myself to my bedroom, yawning loudly as I through myself onto the soft mattress. Still fully clothed and not caring, I pulled the covers up to my chin and curled up in the usual ball to sleep. It came easier than usual. I just closed my eyes... and off I went.

And the nightmare didn't visit me. I was painting in my studio, large brown swirls on an endless canvas of white. I took a deep breath and smelled chocolate. The paint wasn't paint; it was melted milk chocolate the colour of Dr. Reid's eyes. Music blared in my ears and I sang along softly as I stretched on my tippy-toes to try and reach the top of my canvas to cover it all in the wonderful colour.

I woke to my alarm clock blasting music in my ear. I yawned quietly and sat up, rubbing my eyes. I looked at the clock and did a double-take. It was eight in the morning! I had set my alarm to go off at six. How had I slept through it?

I turned it off and took a quick shower, throwing on the last clean t-shirt I had and a pair of old jeans. I needed to do the laundry. Oh, the normality! How completely mundane a thought! I hadn't been able to think that way in a long time.

"Reid," I whispered to myself as I pulled on my shoes as hurried out the door. "Spencer Reid." I couldn't believe it. Crying like an idiot all over a man who was practically a stranger had somehow made me feel well enough to sleep for nearly twelve hours, and then wake and have normal thoughts. It was completely stupid, but somehow... I felt like I needed to thank him.

I rounded the corner of my apartment building, walking quickly down the sidewalk. I had to meet a client at my studio in ten minutes! It was a twenty-minute walk without my car, which had died the same week my soul had. It still sat in the garage under my building, collecting dust for the past month. I really needed to take it into be serviced. Another thing I'd put off.

The sidewalk slowly became more crowded as I pressed closer to the heart of the city, still fast-walking. I glanced at my watch— four minutes until I was officially late. And normally, that wouldn't matter. But this client, Mrs. Thatcher, was very particular about time. If I was late, she'd bite my head off for an hour, and I really didn't want on such a good day, just to spoil my good mood.

People swirled around me like schools of fish in the ocean— groups moving together, in large or small clusters, or all by themselves, like me. I remembered my fifth grade teacher saying something about bees, and how they had patterns in their movements. Humans were much the same, I decided, as I watched a group of four businessmen walk together into a building, each with a briefcase and a suit on. I knew they would do the same thing the next day, and the next. It was comforting, in a way.

I glanced at my watch again. Two minutes. I started to run, jogging so as to reach my destination faster. But then I stopped dead in my tracks, my mouth open like a drowning fish myself. I gasped for air, stumbling into an older woman. "Watch it!" she said angrily, shoving me out of her way and into the path of a tall, dark-skinned man. He moved around me silently, never even looking in my direction.

I looked around wildly, my eyes scanning the crowd. But I didn't need to see him again to be sure. I was sure. I'd seen the man who had raped me, murdered my soul and others just like me. I would be dead if Dr. Reid hadn't been jogging that morning, because of that man. I wished I knew his name, so I could call him something other than 'that man'.

I was panicked. I used to have panic attacks when I was younger; I'd hyperventilate and freak out, just working myself up more. This was much like that, frantically looking for him. I had to be sure.

But he was gone. Had he seen me? I hadn't even thought of that. If he had seen me— it was unfathomable. Tears sprung to my eyes. He could try again, finish what he started. I started running as fast as my shapely legs could go, knocking people out of my way like dominos. I wasn't running in the direction of my studio; no, Mrs. Thatcher had been completely forgotten. She was not even a fleeting thought in my panicking brain.

I ran home, out of the crowds and to the little dingy street that held my apartment building. The elevator would not go fast enough. My breath was too ragged. My legs and lungs were aching too much. But I got there, to my apartment, eventually. I fumbled with my keys to unlock my door, and tripped over my feet to get inside.

Where was it? Oh, where was it? I flipped through the pages of the first available sketchbook, then the next, then the next. There was paper all over my apartment, the woes of being an artist, sketchbooks and notebooks filling every nook and cranny. "Come on," I muttered, flipping through another notebook desperately, "Come on..."

I grabbed a blue Notebook brand notebook off my bookcase and was startled when a little card fell out. "Yes!" I grabbed the card, flinging the useless book over my shoulder and holding the precious paper to my chest in triumph.

I found the phone much more easily, and dialled the number on the card so quickly I had to reread it before hitting send to make sure I had it right. He answered in his wonderful calming voice.

"Dr. Reid speaking."

"I saw him, Dr. Reid! I saw him," I sobbed into the phone. I heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Leah?" he asked, though I could tell by his voice he didn't need to. He knew it was me. There was a pause. "I'll be right there."