Title - Whittled - Part 3
Author - Kourion
Summary: For two months, Spencer Reid had been missing. And now he had been found. Abducted by a man called the Hunter Moon Killer. And like all of the HMK's victims, Reid had been brutalized. But unlike the others, he's the only one to have ever been found alive. / Reid-pain. HC/ Morgan-Reid friendship fic.
Please note: a family friend has lent me a computer until my own computer is back from the shop. It's still a little slow, and opening up two web browsers slows everything down considerably. That said, I don't have individualized "thank you"'s to offer everyone. I'm sorry!
I am very appreciative of all the feedback, however; thank you, to everyone who reviewed! Your reviews really make my day! Please know that.
(Additionally, someone asked if this will become a death-fic story. It definitely will not. I find them too depressing, personally. So no worries - our Reid will be with us to the end of this, and possibly for many more stories to come. :))
Reid's POV
'Don't own it.'
Morgan's words echo about in my head.
I wish it was that simple.
I wish it was.
It sounds so simple.
What's more, Morgan's not the first to advance the idea that I "don't own it." My own doctors have more or less been advocating the same thing since I came to the clinic 13 days ago.
But no one ever gives me any pointers on how that's done. After all, it's not a conscious decision on my part to be miserable. Even if it is a depression of sorts, I'm surely not doing it on purpose.
I deposit my clothes into the cheap, cream colored cabinet that is located in the far right corner of my 'room.'
The cabinet is about three feet tall, if that, and doesn't have handles. Instead, it has geometric cut-out shapes in the wood so that a patient can simply open the drawers without knobs.
The reasoning, I guess, is that a knob could be pulled apart from the drawer base, and the screw could suddenly become a weapon to the occupant of the room. Be used to perpetuate some act of self-harm.
And that's where I am now: in a room with low level lighting (probably designed that way, too. With the intention of inducing sleep for considerably more hours each day) and with fixtures and furniture intended for a toddler.
Actually, I wouldn't be half surprised to learn that they raided their local Ikea children's department for their decorating schema. I'm almost surprised there's no stuffed plush animals around here, with names like "Klinga" and "Jbarjllen."
But really, this all lies with me. Because they don't trust me with anything, now.
They don't feel that they can afford to.
Which stings.
And makes me angry, I admit it.
Because that's beyond unfair.
As it were, by my rough estimation...
I was kept by Kevin Daley for over 67 days.
More than two months.
I don't know why they can't realize that I had lost hope that they'd ever find me at all.
I don't know why they can't understand that 67 days in the presence of a sadist
is 67 days too long.
And I didn't want to get to the third month.
I knew what was coming for victims that made it to the third month.
The whole team knew what awaited Kevin Daley's victims who made it that far.
And I knew that death was preferable.
But, still - here I am.
Alive, when I should be dead.
Or, now - by miracle of miracles - in the hospital, when I should be at home.
As if my act was a routine suicide attempt. One generated by biochemical falterings, and overwhelm, and isolation alone.
As if I was depressed, but simply didn't seek help. Didn't see a way out of the mess in my mind.
It was never that simple when I was Kevin Daley's prisoner.
The thought makes me a little woozy, and I angrily stash my items away, before sitting on my bed.
The unfairness of it makes me feel betrayed. Deep down, I think that's part of the reason why I am finding it difficult to let go what happened. Because it's not just what Kevin Daley did to me.
It's the fact that everyone I worked with is acting as if my actions were somehow...beneath me.
As if they are now disappointed in me.
Even when we all knew what happened to victims who reached their third month.
Even though we all knew that the torture and the violence would escalate into something almost unimaginably evil.
The lights are so dim in my room that I find myself fighting to stay awake as I read an assortment of magazines that Garcia brought in for me a few days previously: collections of Psychology Today, Scientific American and - for kicks, I'm sure - Nylon Men.
I'm saving the last one for a day when the boredom becomes overwhelming, although from the semi-used look of the thing (along with the yellow post-it notes that I can see emerging from the magazine) I have a sinking suspicion that Garcia has made the magazine an interactive one. Undoubtedly with recommendations as to how I can improve my current wardrobe, and her own stylized handwriting exclaiming what her favorite outfits would be for me, or something.
I almost don't want to know.
Feeling the drowsiness descend, I quickly roll up the hem of my pants and squint to read the time.
It's a bit of a pain, to be sure. But the bandages are too thick on my wrists to reasonably wear the watch on my arm, and I don't like feeling dependent on anyone else for the time.
Instead, I toss the Psychology Today over the edge of my bed, and prepare for a fitful catnap.
I have a counselling session in two hours, which I always seem to dread. At least, if I'm well rested, I'm less likely to appear out of control and more likely to be able to reign in my emotions. And even though I am a stomach sleeper, and have been since childhood, I will myself to fall asleep on my back with my arms resting lightly across my chest, angled to keep the stitches from tugging apart.
I feel like a vampire.
This clinic, my tomb.
"Spencer."
I squint against the offending sound, and try to turn towards the wall.
"Come on. Rise and shine, G-Man."
I bat down an impulse to rub my eyes. The gesture would appear childlike at best.
"Wht tym issit?" My mouth feels gummy.
Evan - one of the main day-shift nurses, gives me a smile.
He's like a big bear.
A big, tattooed Koala bear of contradictions. He looks tough, until he smiles. In which case you realize he's just a softy. A big softy with a penchant for motorcycles, kickboxing, and vegan living. (I really have no idea how someone like Evan bulks up on his diet of cherry tomatoes, hummus and cooked vegetables when I've always been scraggly, even during times when I've taken to consuming protein powder smoothies and egg white omelets.)
"You have 15 minutes until your appointment with Molly. Thought you'd maybe want to run a comb through your hair to make yourself all handsome for your crush," he grins.
"Shut up," I return, without feeling.
On the first day I was here, I was assigned as part of Dr. Molly Berreville's case load. I was not in the best of spirits, having been relinquished straight from the ER to the OR to a one day ICU bed to sleep..and then to here.
Being taken here had felt like a slap in the face.
Ergo, I had probably said a few things that, in hindsight, probably hadn't cast me in the best light.
Dr. Berreville has been perfectly understandable about everything, of course.
She's the consummate professional.
I, on the other hand, still feel a little dodge-ish.
At this point, I almost wish they'd assign me a new psychiatrist.
"Just calling it like I see it, Spencer," Evan quips, breaking me from my thoughts and holding up a plastic, black comb.
My comb.
"I figured you'd want the help. I can only imagine it'd kill your arms."
I extract the comb from him quickly and fix him with a mock-glare, which only seems to delight him more so.
"Why don't you go tease Katyn? I'm sure she'd be the better recipient. She needs it. I don't."
Evan lets out a whistle, low and drawn out.
"Testy. Fine, man. Just trying to help."
And there we have it: I feel like crud again.
"No. Evan, wait. I'm sorry. I'm in a foul mood, and I'm taking it out on you. I appreciate what you're trying to do."
Evan gives me a slight nod.
"I get it, Spencer. You're used to doing things for yourself. I know what that feels like. And I know what it feels like when you suddenly feel like everyone's trying to do the basics for you. It's trying. Just...let me know if I can help with something, alright?"
The nurse stops, gives me a smile. It's not as robust, however, as it was when he first came into my room.
I will the guilt away. The unfathomable, pathological guilt.
"Thank you, Evan."
"So you're up and alerted, and I've done my job. Just don't be late and get me in trouble, man."
I nod.
Until your wrists are damaged, you never really realize how often the coordinating muscles, ligaments and flesh relate to everything you have to do on a day by day basis.
From brushing your hair, to brushing your teeth. Making your bed. Writing. Turning the pages of a book. Lifting a fork to your mouth to eat. Grasping a cup.
Almost everything physical, really.
So now I'm gingerly trying to button up the shell-like buttons of my tan and brown cable-knit sweater.
A hoody pull-over suddenly seems like a much more reasonable selection for future appointments...
I give myself a quick look-over in the small mirror overhanging the faux-oak desk.
I look pale and the darkness under my eyes has increased, but other than that I look more or less the same as I always have. Maybe microscopically thinner. Gaunter. But tidier, too, having trimmed my hair during my first week with the help of one of aides. More composed.
Actually, my hair is now the shortest it has ever been.
I go and find my laceless KEDS, and slip them onto my feet. The thick stripped socks that I prefer don't really work with such thin shoes, and quickly bulk up inside the canvas uncomfortably. But, like everything else these days - the decision was not mine to make.
Maybe if I ask pleasantly enough, they'll give me back my Converse shoes, sans laces.
Anything would be better than these stupid canvas KEDS.
The shoes I'm wearing these days just scream mentally unstable.
"Come in, Spencer."
I feel like I've been called into the principals office.
Actually, I feel like how I'd imagine someone whose been called into the principal's office would feel.
I have the distinct honor of having been that child. The one that never had a detention, or truancy report or trips-to-principal's-offices to contend with growing up.
(I just had to deal with 9 year old bullies that beat me up as a six year old, whilst finishing my last year of elementary school. Or 17-going-on-18 tormentors who tied a pre-teen me up to goal posts on the football field, and removed all my clothes for extra humiliation).
No, I wasn't the one going to the principals office.
I was the reason why the other kids got sent to the principals office.
I sit down abruptly, and try to will myself to relax.
The couch is a firm one, and my underside usually feels bruised well before the 55 minute appointment comes to an end. Which just makes everything even more uncomfortable.
"I'll get you a pillow or two this time, if you'd like, Spencer," my doctor offers, and I will myself to remain impassive.
My arms belie my anxiety, however, as I cross them in front of me like a shield.
I almost can't help myself.
Even though I know better.
I know so much better.
"No. That's okay. That you, though," I answer primly. "I'm fine just the way I am."
Dr. Berreville gives me a raised eyebrow in response, then consults my patient records.
"Have you used the washroom in the last two hours?"
I hesitate.
"I take it that's a no, then?"
My face, I'm sure, is red.
"You can use the one in my office, and then we will get the weighing out of the way before we start today. How does that sound?"
I feel my teeth clench against my jaw, but nod sharply.
I wash my hands with apricot-verbena scented triclosan soap from Bath and Body Works and let my eyes wander over the counter top to take in a variety of little scented toiletry products.
There's a Candy Cane Lane mint hand cream that I feel compelled to just pick up and sniff.
So I do so.
It smells like chocolate-mint ice cream, so I add a dollop of that to my hands and rub it in.
"Feeling better?," Dr. Berreville asks, her expression unreadable.
I shrug my shoulders.
"I wasn't doing anything on purpose. I merely fell asleep. I mean - as to why I hadn't used the washroom."
Dr. Berreville stares at me, as if trying to determine whether or not I'm telling the truth or not.
"You can run it by Evan. He's the one who woke me up. Frankly, I'm surprised that I can stay awake for longer than 10 minutes at any point in time, anyway. The rooms here are warm, and dim. Better suited to a nursery."
My doctor nods her head.
"That's part of the plan, Spencer. I would say that the vast majority of patients in this clinic have been chronically sleep deprived before admittance. In most cases, sleep can help with treatment and recovery. Something as simple as deep REM sleep? One of the most critical components of healing."
I fiddle with the bandages around my wrist. Debate saying anything at all.
But find I just can't help the words from spewing out, after all.
"And the fact that I was a little on the sleep deprived side has absolutely everything to do with me not taking care of myself, does it?"
My doctor seemingly ignores my words, and continues to study my chart.
A few moments later she adds, "I am not laying blame here. Certainly not on you. I'm asserting that in almost every case that we see, sleep deprivation is a component. Now, please stop delaying the inevitable. Socks and shoes off, please. Sweater too.
My 'pants' are thin sweats without pockets, and my shirt is a white tee that clings to my side.
"Should I turn around?," I gripe, staring moodily at the electronic scale.
It reads, with high accuracy, to 1/10th of a lb.
Dr. Berreville seems to play with the question in her mind for a moment before responding, and I realize then that impulsivity doesn't suit me.
"Do you need to turn around? Am I treating you for anorexia too, Spencer?"
I cross my arms once more, and step on the scale.
Face forward.
A moment later the red display hisses out:
117.3
Down almost another two pounds.
Morgan was right.
Dr. Berreville's mouth is a stark line.
"That's another 1.9 lbs down, Spencer."
I can do the math for myself, thank you very much.
"I realize that."
"You can step off now. Go and take a seat, please."
She tosses me a pillow, and then retrieves a blanket and hands that to me, as well.
"So where should we go from here?," she begins cautiously.
As if this is a conversation.
"I'm not doing it on purpose," I add flatly.
"Not my point. And frankly, while that's at least a more consoling answer than the alternative, weight loss at this stage - regardless of the motivation - is concerning. You must realize that."
I shift about on my pillow, then stop. Stifle down a gasp.
The bones in my spine feel bruised.
Dr. Berreville consults her charts again.
"Your FBI annuals show a fairly consistent weight for the last three or four years. About 138. And even that was pretty much the lowest you should have been at your height."
"When I started with Gideon, back in my first year, I was about 122. And I weighed even less in University."
A couple more pages turn back as she consults the records with a frown.
"And what brought that on, do you think?"
I resent her line of questioning.
"I pretty much have always been on the thin side."
"It says you had esophageal surgery shortly after you turned 24. Couldn't swallow easily before."
I shrug.
"Fair enough. I had a hard time eating back then. Point taken."
"So what happened when you tried to eat a typical meal, before the surgery?"
I fiddle with the edge of the tape on my wrist.
"It would hurt. Sometimes I'd bring up a bit of blood."
"I see. Any history of stomach ulcers?"
I nod.
"Sure. They started when I was about 13. Then I was treated on a triple therapy regime, and was ulcer-free until about 17. But I developed a duodenal ulcer at 18 and from that point it was on-again off-again until I was almost 23."
"So, from the sound of things one could surmise that you didn't have the healthiest relationship with food? That it represented a source of potential pain for you."
I feel my heart begin to speed up and struggle to main a false sense of indifference.
"I guess. I was pretty nauseated after most meals."
"So, we are going to have to come up with a workable plan that allows you to regain some weight without generating more nausea. If what we are feeding you is making you sick, I want to know. Suggestions?"
I lean back against the couch. Try to seem almost casual about the whole thing.
"Ensure's out. Anything with dairy, really. I'm lactose intolerant."
"Well, we could make a dietary, caloric equivalent. Something without dairy, then. Peanut butter, almond butters, avocado. How does that sound?"
It sounds like a gastrointestinal nightmare, is what it sounds like.
Dr. Berreville sighs.
"Alright, Spencer. Well, before you were taken...what was your typical day like, food-wise?"
Damn it, why won't my heart stop racing?
"There was no 'typical.' I wasn't ritualistic with what I ate. We'd be on cases much of the time as it was, but I guess I usually started the morning with coffee and milk replacement. Sugar, of course. Sometimes a piece of fruit. It really depended on how I felt. I'd usually get something around brunch time. Eggs, often. Salad."
My psychiatrist passes me over a lined piece of paper.
"Your homework assignment is simple. After our session, you'll construct a list of your favorite foods. Things you like, nothing too low calorie, please. We'll do our best to construct a dietary plan that you can live with."
Better than nothing, I suppose.
"And when can we talk about my leaving here?"
Berreville closes her eyes. She looks like she has a headache coming on.
"I want you up 5 lbs first - at the very least - and I'll want to see you minimally once a week for a session. You'll be on an OP trial basis, so if I feel as if you're not taking care of yourself, well-"
"And then I can go home? That's it?"
My doctor seems hesitant to continue.
"What else do I need to do so that I can leave?"
"I need to be confident that you won't hurt yourself again."
Something whips up beneath my eyes, under my skull. A rage, that I quickly bat down into a submissive emotion.
So that it won't spill out.
"There were extenuating circumstances that led to me doing what I did," I speak sharply, lest I say more than I intend.
"I realize that, Spencer."
"I didn't think I'd be found. It wasn't a choice. It was what any sane person would have tried to do. Except, unlike the other people Kevin Daly took, I knew what was coming. They didn't. But if they had, they would have tried it, too. Morgan would have. Hotch. The whole team. Any normal person."
"Yet, Kevin Daly was the one who found you in that state, and stopped the bleeding. The bulk of it. He was the one who hurt you - but he was also the one that kept you alive."
I count back from 10.
Slowly.
And when I speak, my voice is a little too high, and a little too aggressive.
"Because he was a sexual sadist, and he didn't want me to escape what he had planned for me. We both knew what was coming next, but I was the only one who knew that we both knew. He didn't save me to be kind, Dr. Berreville. He kept me alive because he knew death would be preferable to what he needed to act out with me."
And that's true.
It hadn't been a glimmer of compassion that I had seen in his eyes...
not that night
when he had found me on my bed
my legs chained down
ankles impossibly thin
like chicken bones
and blood everywhere
almost black, like oil stains
No.
He hadn't tried to keep me alive because he cared about me.
He had been delirious with hated.
Knowing I had been so close to escaping
the finale.
His saving me wasn't some latent bit of humanity clamoring up within him. It was just one more telling sign of the depth of his sadism.
He just hadn't conceived
that I would've cut my wrists
I close my eyes, and try to keep my limbs from shaking.