Author's Notes: Firstly, this chapter touches on sexual abuse of a minor. So please proceed with caution.
Secondly, I probably don't have to even state this, but the language (ableist and derogatory) that Reid gets called in this chapter is obviously abusive and cruel. I am using terms that are pretty cringe worthy to highlight his experience as a child, finishing up high school, surrounded by ignorance and bullies. These terms should make people cringe, as they are pretty awful. They were also much more commonly used in the early 1990s.
Finally, my head-canon of Reid is that he has some sort of sensory processing disorder, which I will touch upon in later chapters. Kids (and adults) with SPD often stim, and often display mannerisms and indulge in coping mechanisms that are seen in those who have autism. I know that many writers (both on the show and in the world of CM fanfic) have hinted or alluded to the fact that Reid is sometimes played as having high functioning autism or Asperger's disorder. While I will not be stating that he does have autism anywhere in this particular fic, I will be touching upon sensory processing disorder as a possible reason for why Reid indulges in some of the 'eccentricities' that he does on the show. There are signs of hypersensitivities to an array of sensory input throughout all 11 seasons of the show, although many of the more overt signs were in earlier seasons. Which is not uncommon, especially in high functioning adults who have a mentor or friends to guide them (and who can learn of less 'obvious' ways of managing this disorder without drawing attention from others).
Most notably, Reid seems to be the most light sensitive, noise sensitive, tactile sensitive and socially awkward et al. character on the show. He also seems to do things just differently enough, but in ways which could stem from hyper or hypo sensitivities (and many individuals with SPD are hypersensitive to certain stimuli, but hyposensitive to other stimuli). Since I have many of the same issues, I am incredibly watchful of characters that exhibit these similarities. Also, for those who do envision Reid as having autism, SPD is very prevalent among those on the spectrum, too. (So if that's your headcanon, this story need not destroy your own take on why Reid acts and responds as he does).
Some notable signs of SPD in adults, which Reid seems to demonstrate on the show, include:
Bothered by certain materials, tags etc. - Reid seems to shy away from certain materials and even wears his watch over top of his wrist. I do similar things, simply out of a distinct hatred of the feeling of certain textures, which can cause me anxiety.
Many people with SPD are soothed by weighted blankets and weighted clothes, and Reid seems to always wear layers, even in hot weather. This could also be due to feeling cold when others are not cold (thermoregulation problems are common to those with SPD).
Difficulty maintaining eye contact. This was more notable in earlier seasons.
Difficulty with touch (can vary based on person and can manifest as disliking hugs from strangers, yet accepting hugs from a close friend etc.). Reid often seems to wave at new people, rather than shake their hand.
Will often fiddle with objects when speaking, and more likely to gesticulate while talking.
Will frequently spin in chairs or prefers swaying movements. (We've seen Reid spin in chairs during meetings, when others were still).
Restless when sitting through a presentation, or when bored.
Boredom will lead to greater acting out of stims (stereotyped movements that reduce anxiety or tension), as does fear.
Has many eating sensitivities, often sticking to a narrowed diet or a diet of similar textures, even well into adulthood.
Often has a very high energy level. More likely to ramble. Soothed by providing information as a way to dispel inner tension.
Overly aroused in group settings.
Has a tendency to interrupt, blurt information out etc. when overwhelmed or excited, despite knowing this is not always appropriate.
At risk for substance use and substance abuse disorders.
Can appear clumsy, uncoordinated or accident prone.
May prefer sedentary tasks over playing sports.
Difficulty with utensils/ messy eater. (This reminds me of when Reid could not easily eat Chinese food with chopsticks).
Easily fatigued with physical tasks.
Significant difficulty learning to type the 'proper' or instructed way. (Reid seems to prefer his pens and paper over tech devices).
Difficulty with social cues or non verbal language. (Many individuals with SPD do get better with cues as they grow up, but can seem less aware of the 'rules' when highly anxious, sleep deprived etc.)
Shows difficulty in understanding when people are bored of a discussion.
May appear disorganized or messy in appearance.
Difficulty sleeping/ maintaining a sleep schedule.
Over or under sensitivity to hunger or thirst signals (sometimes both).
Difficulty with temperature regulation of body.
Drinks excessive amounts of coffee or caffeinated beverages.
May appear to get ''lost in thought'' or may ''live in their head'' and seemingly disregard physical signals for rest, eating etc.
May engage in OCD-like behaviours when overstimulated.
Often talks or hums to self while working alone. Often does not realize they are talking are humming out loud.
May bump into others frequently.
Now, I am not saying that Reid, in canon, DOES have SPD. But it's interesting to note that is actually spikes in those that are highly gifted, and given the cluster of traits we've seen on the show, I am incorporating SPD into this particular fic as a means to explain some of Reid's upcoming coping mechanisms re: his attack.
And now - onto the story!
As always, reviews are love. :)
Reid's POV
Dirt.
Compressed and moist, it gives beneath my feet.
I can feel the moisture of the grass seep into the canvas portion of my Converse sneakers. Can feel the slippery edge of laces caught in dirt pull taut, and suddenly I am falling down onto the grass, scuffing my shoes and hurting my hands in the process.
When I push myself back up, my palms sting and small remnants of grass cling to the underside of my flesh. But I can't stay here, so I get up and frantically try to run away, despite the fact that my laces are untied and despite the fact that my left shoe is ready to fall off and that I've dropped my backpack, and that my hands are rubbed raw and stinging and I want to blow on them.
And then, like something out of an animal documentary, I can feel the pull from my middle, drawing me back against my will. I can feel the surge of air knocked out of my lungs and the sharp way my scapula hits the back of the terrain as I fall.
It's going to bruise. I always bruise so easily.
''No. Please,'' I beg, not daring to look at the face in front of me.
I hear a low chuckle. Amused. Then I hear many more laughs. Some sound more akin to snorts, while most sound hesitant and diluted in my head.
''We're just getting started,'' the hiss-voice comes back. ''We're going to have so much fun! Oh, no, no - don't cry. Don't ruin the mood, Spencer.''
I can now smell saline; all at once I realize I am crying in a sporadic, high-pitched fashion.
Even though a minute ago, I could not hear anything.
When I realize that I am terribly afraid, I start to move my hands up and down in a wave-like motion of anxiety.
''Look guys! The little freak is pulling his retard move again!''
A couple of kids flap their hands in exaggerated movements, mocking me, and I feel a surge of self-loathing fill my entire body.
The laughter this time is more genuine, too. Giggles in the mix, to boot.
''How can someone whose supposed to be a prodigy act like such a retard at the same time?,'' the voice booms out, happy. ''I guess that's what makes you such a freak, Spencer. You are like one of those hybrid freak creatures.''
I force my hands to stop their awkward dance against the sides of my torso and bite my cheek instead.
If no one was around, I'd probably rock until I felt less on edge. But that would be the worst thing to indulge in right now, and the building pressure of too much everything is attacking me at once.
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!
You are not disabled.
Stop it.
The hands are back on me again, dragging me off until the grass becomes less dense with actual plant life, and rife with small stones, sand and raw earth.
My shoe, indeed, does finally fall off and I bleat out for it stupidly.
Finally, I am dropped from my core and I land on all fours, continuing to cry whilst trying my damnedest to be quiet.
''You don't have to do this-,'' I whisper, and my mouth feels hot and warm and salty. I'm not sure if it's bile or blood. Possibly both, as my mouth stings. My lips burn, as does the inside of my mouth, and I use my tongue to push against a loose incisor. The pain is grounding in a different way. The pain is internal, and I control the pain. ''Please sto-''
But before the words have completely left my mouth, I hear the guttural, ''Hold him,'' and then I am being held.
Hands for both legs, and hands for both arms. Too many hands, and all the struggling in the world can't shake them off.
One on one, I'd be too much of a lightweight to likely have a chance with any of the other seniors. Never mind all of them, all together, swarming and hissing and laughing and holding me down.
The original voice comes close to my ear, and spits, ''Let's see what we have under these dork clothes. What do you think, guys? I think that would be interesting.''
My eyes close, and I feel a hand on my belt, a hand on the zipper of my cords, pulling them down. Rough hands play over my yellow and blue striped shirt, ghosting over my ribs and nipples, before pulling the sweat-laden article above my head.
''Stop it! Don't touch me!,'' I scream.
The voice comes closer. I can now smell beer and cigarettes.
''Whaccha going to do about it, freak?''
I push against my damaged, dangling tooth - relishing the pain. Then, almost without thinking I spit blood and saliva at my offender with as much force as I can, while I snort back tears.
''You little fucking shit! You're totally going to pay for that! Think you are better than everyone else, don't you? Well, whose smart now?''
I can feel fresh blood from the empty socket trickle down my chin as I try to gather enough blood and saliva to spit again.
''This is-isn't about intelligence at all. You weigh more than I do, and there is a whole group of you. You're just predators. Picking on someone years younger than-''
The voice whoops in amusement, before falling silent in sharp contrast.
Not really amused.
''Little fucking freak. You got some of your freak blood on me. Get those boxers off of him, Pete.''
I start to buck against the hands as they go about removing my cords entirely, and throwing them onto the damp ground. Hands stripping me of my socks. They are matching socks with trains. Navy blue and crimson red. I wear them inside out so the seams don't irritate the soles of my feet.
I open my eyes to look at my socks, take them in, absorb what they look like. I stare at them, and feel something split in my mind.
One is relatively clean, but the other one lands in a patch of muddy earth. I see the trains on the material swell and bloom with black earth.
Different now. One is damaged.
I focus on the trains, the colours.
The disconnect grows in my mind.
My socks are ruined.
They are absolutely ruined.
I might be able to wear the one that has avoided the mud.
But the dirty one is damaged.
They will never be a set again.
I can never keep them with the mud on them.
The pair is ruined.
''Look at the little baby's fucking train socks. Do you like trains, Spencer?,'' the voice mocks. ''How old are you, anyway, like four?''
''I- I am 12, and those were a birthday gift-''
My underwear is still on, and I want it to stay that way. So I talk.
The hands gloss back over my chest, rubbing against my ribcage as if trying to tickle me. The feeling is too intense, and almost painful in its intensity.
''I asked if you liked trains, dumbo. Not how old you were!''
I stutter, terrified.
''A-actually you asked if I was f-four, but I am considerably older than-''
More laughter from the group.
''You really are a special type of idiot, aren't you? That's why you're in our class, you know. No one wants to deal with idiots like you for very long, if they can help it.''
I talk and I talk. Hoping they'll get bored of me.
''Yes! I like trains. I like trains a lot. They were a gift for my birthday. From my mother, and she's going to be-''
''From his fucking mommy, guys.''
This time, the laughter is renewed.
''Can I have them back, please? I'm sorry. I'll stay out of your way. I won't tell anyone about this. Just p-please let me go home now. I only want to go home. I won't even tell a single teacher, and I won't get in your way, or even look you in the eye, and-''
The hands stop their trajectory over my chest and rapidly move south towards my boxers, tugging at them incrementally.
''No! Let me go! Stop it!,'' I scream hysterically, eyes scanning about for anyone who can hear me. ''Help! HELP! PLEASE!''
A fist comes out of the charcoal blackness and connects with my right jaw. More blood fills my mouth, but this time I spit it out on the grass instead, and hold in my sobbing.
The last tooth was a baby tooth, but if I anger them enough, I might start to lose my permanent teeth.
Be quiet.
Be still.
Don't make a SOUND.
Even if they touch you.
And my mom can't afford dental reconstruction or teeth implants.
She barely is coping well enough to deal with getting toilet paper or canned pasta and orange juice.
''Shut the fuck up! You scream again, and I am going to dig this into your skin! Do you comprehend, genius?''
I feel something sharp nick the side of my ribcage, before pressing in between two of my prominent ribs.
Something metallic.
Possibly a switchblade.
It's hot and cold, both, and I immediately go mute. Something warm wets my underwear, and saturates the cloth.
Dismally, I realize I've urinated myself. It spills in rivulets from under the garment and then runs down my long bones before pooling over the tops of my feet.
''I'm sorry,'' I whisper, ''Please don't hurt me anymore.''
The sun has almost set and I am getting chilled in quick order. I stare at my shirt and cardigan on the grass. My shirt is blue and yellow. It is lined in a very calming pattern. My cardigan is pea green with pale amber buttons. My cords are burgundy and my fingertips like the texture of the corduroy. It feels soothing against my hands when I run the pads of my fingertips over the surface. The indentation, the spike of cloth, the absence of cloth, the spike of cloth. A haptic pattern. My socks are navy blue and crimson red, and one is dirty at present, and both have trains on them. My boxers are light blue, with a bright red elastic band.
Everything I was wearing five minutes ago is currently littered over the football field, and the colours of the clothes are darkening in the lower light environment.
Even though I know that nothing has truly physically changed, the appreciation of my clothing is changing as the sun sets and my vision becomes clouded by the darkness.
My clothing looks as if it is slowly fading away into the blackness of the grass and the dirt, although part of that sense is likely generated by the fact that my glasses have been knocked from my head. And even though I am only myopic, my myopia is profoundly bad and the world around me is still blurry, which makes me feel as if I am overheating. It makes me feel frantic. There is only a slight source of illumination from the overhead lamp, and it highlights the backs of my attackers, their outlines. It shows me their numeracy.
Their faces are dark, their bodies are dark. Cut out nightmare men. Paper people.
Not real. Not real.
This is not real.
Someone flicks a lighter, and I can smell cigarette smoke, renewed.
''Can I please have my glasses back? I c-can't see,'' I beg, feeling nauseated.
My glasses are electric blue, and too large for my face. But I got the larger size last year, shortly before my 11th birthday and right after transferring to the local high school four blocks away from my house. My eyeglasses don't cling to my temples and hurt my ears like most glasses do, nor do they irritate the sides of my face that are bony and protrude. ''High cheekbones'' is how my mother refers to my face. ''No baby fat.''
But it also means things that touch my skin hurt. The bones grow weary of the pressure of anything touching my face for more than a few seconds. Headphones, hats, sunglasses, eyeglasses. They all are so needed, and also so hard to fit.
Which is why I chose these particular glasses. Because they are large. Specially curved at the optometrist's to fit the width of my skull.
It took me a week to choose them. It took work.
They are light, and large, and allow me to see more of my immediate area in clarity. Sometimes they fall off if I run home too quickly, or bend forward to pick something up, so I usually have them on a purple rope that typically hangs around my neck. But I don't see the purple rope anywhere. I think someone has ripped it off of me, and it could be anywhere caked in the mud, now.
Someone says, ''I think I found them!,'' which causes my thoughts to break apart - and then there is a chuckling sound that spreads throughout the group like a infectious prion disease. It starts with one kid, and then another. And before long, it seems as if dozens of kids are laughing.
This is followed by a splintering sound of plastic and glass, followed by even more laughter.
My eyes tense up in upset. My lashes feel damp against my cheeks.
My father got those for me.
They were a gift from my father.
And my mom won't be able to afford another pair. Maybe not ever!
I cannot see properly without my electric blue eyeglasses!
''Oops,'' the snake hisses in a sing-song mockery, ''you really shouldn't leave your expensive things laying on the ground, Spencer.''
I know there is a good chance I might vomit, but I keep my mouth taut and closed all the same.
If spitting blood enraged my attacker before then I can only imagine what sicking up on him is going to do.
I can also hear the distant sounds of a train - coincidences of coincidences - and feel the curdling sense of anxiety pulse in time with the long horn wailing in the background.
''I need those to see,'' I bite out, anguished. ''I can't see without my glasses. I can't see. I can't see.''
I am repeating myself.
I understand that this happens before I develop panic attacks.
These repetitions of movement and sound.
These yearnings to repeat movement or words.
''I can't see!,'' I wail, totally overwhelmed by the dark and the noise and the crushing sense of being alone even though I am caught up in a sea of people.
But the people might as well be sharks, because they are not helping.
Even the darkness would be better faced if I was here by myself.
With the jeering and the giggles and the laughter, it's hard to think.
Without my glasses it is hard to breathe.
''Oh, he can't see. Boo hoo! Little baby can't see. Tie him down, Pete.''
''Jesus Christ, Bobby! Come on. Let's just go. I'm getting bored of this,'' the softer voice says. ''He's already pissed himself. You made your point.''
A hand comes down and pushes against my underwear, checking the veracity of that statement. Then snickers.
''He DID piss himself! What sort of little pussy are you, freak? Tie him down, Pete. Use these,'' and the hiss-voice is back.
I open my eyes in panic as I feel my arms foisted above my head while scratchy fabric - panty hose? - is pulled taut around my wrists. Then knotted.
Next my legs are pulled back against the post, and receive the same treatment.
''Want to watch this, babe?,'' hiss-voice asks, and I struggle against the restraints until my skin chafes.
''Bobby, let's just go. Pete's right. He's just a little kid. You proved your point,'' and the voice this time is feminine. ''And you didn't have to break his glasses, for fuck's sake.''
It was a voice I used to consider sweet. Cute even. Dare I say cute?
''Aww, c'mon! This little bed wetter has a crush on you, Lexie. I just want to see how much.''
Forced laughter then. Even more awkward and false than earlier.
I hear the soft padding of a few people walking away. Some are whispering about things Not Being Fun Anymore, and Bobby Took This Too Far.
''A-a-lexa,'' I stutter. ''Please help. Please get someone.''
When I look up, I see a pinched face with ruby red lips and puffed up bangs. Silver over-sized star earrings.
The face is not unkind, but my pleading doesn't seem to be working.
''Please. Get someone.''
The girl bites her lip but appears indecisive.
''Bobby, come on. Untie him. Let him go home. You've already scared the piss out of him. Literally.''
And then I feel it.
Stroking. Over my boxers. Pressure. A hand cupping my genitals.
My breath starts to race in terror.
''Don't!,'' I scream, now frantically tearing against the ties. I let the weight of my entire body hang against the post, hoping to break free, and continue to flounder about.
The hand grips me tighter and starts to rub against my body frenetically; I feel a rising heat in my core, and a tingling pressure build in my stomach and my groin, spiking between my legs.
''Stop it! Stop hurting me!,'' I scream, as the hand continues to squeeze and pull.
''Hurting?,'' the snake asks, now slipping my boxers down to my knees. When the hand touches my body again, it's skin to skin, and something lurches in my belly.
I know what Bobby's trying to do. But it won't work. That doesn't happen to me yet. I haven't even started puberty yet, I don't think.
I won't let him do this to me.
The hand is now speeding up and the heat of his hand against my body is fierce. I bite down against my own lip, ignoring the sensations, confused by them. They are new and strange and make me yearn for my bedroom with my heavy blankets that my mom bought for me last year, after the diagnosis. My weighted blankets and my aquarium that bubbles, my books, my white noise machine, my sunglasses and my record player. I could put on Bob Dylan for the rest of the night, drowning out the thoughts, and get a long, hot shower with Pert Plus and mint soap.
I could call my father, and tell him I need to get new eyeglasses, and he might come back for that. Even just for a day or two. Because it's for my eyes.
I would stop trembling, eventually, and I could get new clothes on. Fresh pajamas. My dressing gown. Curl up in my bed, with my cloud duvet.
I could watch Doctor Who and eat Laffy Taffy until the salty taste in my mouth was gone. Banana Laffy Taffy, with the jokes on the back of the wrapper.
I could even call in sick tomorrow and skip school. Maybe I could devise a way to get out of ever having to come back.
Maybe I could even school myself from home. Maybe I could.
I try to focus on that, and block out the other sights and sounds and feelings of the present.
Then a spike of odd pressure deep in my belly, and something intense makes me cry out in alarm.
I try to console myself by reciting the periodic table of elements in my head over and over again.
''Lithium-,'' I croak, ''Beryllium. Boron. Carbon-''
''Bobby! Stop it! You are taking this way too far!''
''But Lexie,'' and the voice almost coos like a pigeon, ''Look! He has a tiny, baby boner for you.''
More laughter from the remaining kids, but most of it is fainter this time. It sounds more stilted and awkward and false than it did earlier.
Even uneasy. Nervous.
''Please,'' I whimper, utterly ashamed. ''Please don't touch me.''
This time, a few more kids speak up. One voice, I recognize as belonging to Harper.
''This is kind of gay, Bobby. I mean, he's crying for fuck's sake. Like, a lot. Stop touching him like that, too. That's kind of sick.''
Now the hand is off my body and the air is cool. I can feel my groin tense at the new sensation of cold, autumn wind. I twist my legs in different positions, desperate to hide myself.
It's pretty much futile, but I continue the attempt.
''Fuck off, Harper. He likes it. Take a look.''
''He's sobbing, you shit,'' and now Alexa is speaking again, sounding even more irritated. ''And he's just a little kid. You want them to call you a pedo, Bobby? Touching a little kid's dick like that? Just let him go home.''
I smell the Baby Soft perfume that Alexa wears so regularly, and flinch away from her.
Before I realize that she's trying to loosen the restraints.
''Oh whatever. Mommy the little baby. Fuck you guys,'' and then the sound of relief with the pounding footsteps heading off in another direction.
It's ultimately a sound of mercy.
I hear a second body pad near me, and now my boxers are being pulled back up quickly, too. I can smell a different perfume (cucumbers and pears?) and hair spray.
''Can you get them off his hands, Harp?,'' the voice asks impatiently. ''Fucking Bobby. Look, Harp - his hands are even bruised, that shit. If we get caught out here with him, we're gonna get blamed for Bobby being a fuckwit.''
''They're on pretty good,'' the younger voice states. ''But I think I loosened them enough. Can you pull your hand out or something, kid?''
I don't respond for a bit, not even cluing in that I am the one currently being addressed.
''SPENCER! Can you pull your goddamn hand out or what?''
Finally, the question registers and I tug my wrists against the restraints, before wincing. But I don't speak.
I don't think I can.
Distantly, I am aware of the fact that my flesh feels hot and strange. I wonder if my wrists are bleeding too.
More tugging, before a slight pause in my movements; I feel tingly and lightheaded, as if I might pass out.
The adrenaline is wearing off and I can feel myself begin to tremble more forcefully than before.
''I- I w-w-want m-m-my m-m-mom,'' my voice is thready and pours forth from my throat as if I am possessed.
''You know, Bobby didn't really hurt you. We had no idea he was going to do all that stuff! We didn't want him to touch you like that, Spencer, but he didn't really hurt you, either. Not really. We made him leave, alright, so just stop crying now, okay? He's gone now.''
The implications of what they are saying hit me, and I bark out a horrible and ugly sob. Louder than before.
''Be quiet! Shut up before you get us in trouble! We're trying to help you! We didn't want Bobby to touch you like that!''
Suddenly, I want to vomit. I need to vomit.
A light from the parking lot swerves into view.
''Shit! Might be security. Come on, let's go! They're loose, Harp. He'll get out somehow,'' and the tugging stops as the younger girl is pulled away from me.
The two last bodies scamper away through the trail path.
When I realize I am completely alone, I finally look down at my body.
I am covered in dirt, and my boxers are still tented, if only slightly. This prompts a new feeling of disgust, and a noise comes up to my throat, unbidden, bestial and frightened.
I know intellectually what's just happened, and I know it's extremely bad.
But all I can feel is shaky and numb.
I don't even feel like crying any more.
I hear the soft rustling of a blanket being lain over top me, the creaking of wood floors.
Rubbing at my eyes, I suddenly come to understand that I have fallen asleep. In the TV room.
But the other residents are gone. Even Katyn is gone.
Morgan, however, is not.
''I can't believe I fell asleep,'' I mutter to my lap, figuring out that Morgan must have been the one to place the blanket around my torso.
Morgan wanders to the television, mutes the program, and gives me a look.
He is studying me, with an odd look on his face.
Suddenly I remember the dream.
No.
The nightmare.
My wrists ping with a dull, ancient ache. A long repressed memory.
''You're exhausted,'' he tries awkwardly. ''You feeling any better now?''
Biting my lip, I try to concentrate on his words and aim for nonchalance.
''I wasn't feeling tired. I'm fine.''
Morgan wanders back near the communal sofa, and indicates that he'd like to sit down near me.
He seems to be waiting for my authorization, perhaps.
I honestly don't know if I want that. To have him sit in my proximity.
I don't know how I feel about anything any more.
My mind just feels very messed up. My thoughts are jumbled. My emotions are playing cat and mouse with me.
''Okay,'' I breathe, letting him in. Letting him take a place besides me. ''Sure.''
When I swallow, I am sure he can hear me.
''You obviously needed the sleep, kid.''
I frown at my fingertips, which are just poking through the top of my sweater.
''I really don't. I've been sleeping far too much, Morgan,'' and then I look up quickly, remembering to make eye contact. To seem normal. ''I don't need more sleep at all.''
Morgan watches me; I can tell he's profiling me.
It's a skill that's hard to turn off.
''Reid,'' he starts, with a note of apprehension.
''Don't,'' I get out. ''I'm not sick. I'm not.''
He seems to hesitate.
''Not sick-''
My voice rises.
''I'm not mentally ill.''
He stops what he's doing, looks down to his own bruised hand.
''I never said you were, Reid.''
I shut my eyes, try to control myself.
''Then why am I even here, Morgan? This is a mental institution.''
Morgan winces.
''It's a psychiatric residence, for anyone - anyone - whose-''
And just like that, we are back to this subject.
Even worse, I brought it up.
Didn't I?
I keep insisting that I don't want to talk about this subject, but it hasn't been Morgan who brought the issue up this time.
It was me.
I almost pressed it, just to get him to comment.
And then when he did, I got irritated.
''Reid?''
Somewhere along the way, he's realized I've been consumed once more by my thoughts.
''I'm sorry,'' I rush, uncertain how I feel and what I really want from him, from myself.
He inches forward. Just a little bit. Just a tiny little bit.
''Come on, kid. What's going through that big brain of yours?''
I look around at the low-light room. The television muted to the 10 pm news. Lights out, as it is colloquially termed, won't be for another hour - but most residents wander back to their rooms before officially asked.
So, in some ways that's good.
It's just me, and Morgan.
And in some ways that's even more terrifying, because it's just me - and Morgan.
So depending on what I do or say, I feel more exposed than I would with other residents littered about. Because I know Morgan would play the fool as to why I was in treatment if others were around. But now we are alone. Now he can let his guard down.
Not only that but he'll probably expect me to do the same.
For a moment, I stare at the television and watch the silent newscaster with his animated blue eyes ramble to a blackened and nearly empty room.
I pull the blanket up closer to my chin. It smells like Snuggle fabric softener, and it grounds me. I let my palms feel the material. I let the feeling soothe me. Fill up my mind, until I am filled with the scent and the tactile impression of the blanket.
When I open my eyes, I look at the buttercup yellow colour. It reminds me of an infant's blanket. The type you'd put in the crib for a newborn, with the same woven material and the same slippery soft edge of silk.
''I'm conflicted,'' I whisper at last, my throat swallowing terrifically.
Morgan doesn't respond for a few seconds. I merely hear him shuffle and redistribute his weight on the sofa. Shift his position to turn towards me, more so.
''Do you want to talk about that?,'' he queries, evenly. No pressure.
My forehead furls in frustration and my mouth works in open movements, in sputters.
''I don't know,'' I say a few moments later, only marginally louder than before.
I hear a faint expulsion of breath.
''What is confusing you? How you feel about being here?''
My hands tighten into fists under the blanket, unseen.
My failure to make or maintain eye contact is undoubtedly not being overlooked right now, but it makes it easier to talk.
The relative darkness of the low lit room makes it easier to talk, too.
''Maybe it's not about feelings. Maybe it's about their absence,'' I say crisply, while old and hard-to-peg anxiety runs through my intestines.
''What do you mean, Reid?''
''I don't feel a-anything,'' I start to stutter. ''Or, if I do and if this is a feeling-''
My hands are now clenching and opening rhythmically. When I look back to Morgan, his face has drawn into a picture of such seriousness that I regret opening my mouth.
A strange yearning to rock back and forth is tugging at me.
But I haven't indulged a stim as overtly obvious as that particular one in a long, long time.
It was something I indulged in as a child. Before testing. Before doctors visits and labels and diagnoses that made me squirm.
But right now, more than anything else, I have the urge to rock. Not just fiddle, and not just tap.
Just rock, back and forth.
Though I can't; I must not let myself.
I know how strange I already seem to the world as it is.
Morgan must sense my ever keening need to do something. He just doesn't know what it is, and I can't fault him for that.
''Hey, kiddo,'' he says softly, coming closer. ''Hey, Reid,'' and now he's matching me for whispers. His hands are open, in supplication.
And I don't know about that either. How I feel about that right now.
If I want him close, or if I want him gone.
I'm so tired of feeling like this; this gnawing ache. Why it comes on so strongly. Why it sometimes switches to rage, or sometimes to self-hatred.
''Whatever you need to say or do right now, you can do, Reid. This is a safe space, and I'm not going to judge you for anything. You know that, don't you?''
The inquiry sounds thick, choked.
So I close my eyes and cross my bandaged arms across my torso, effectively dropping my blanket-as-shield in the process.
The moment I do, my body hunches up, exposed to air that feels too cold.
''It shouldn't even help,'' I grit out, shame heating my face.
''What shouldn't help?,'' Morgan asks me, distantly.
My eyes meet his quickly, wincing. The restlessness and fatigue is twisting through my veins with an inexplicable claustrophobia. But I also feel odd. Possibly because I refused to eat my meals today. Perhaps this is all a biological issue linked to hypoglycemia.
Anxiety stemming from low blood sugar.
Finally, in the midst of these thoughts, I feel the blanket being removed from my lap, gently.
''Look, I know you are confused, Reid. But I also know this: I know you could have left this room awhile ago, but haven't. I know you probably feel like you don't want anyone near, but then paradoxically - sometimes, maybe you do. Maybe in your mind you even accept the things you'd be hesitant to accept in reality. I can sense that you're mentally berating yourself for doing human things, for having emotions that anyone in your position would be experiencing. So if what you need right now is something safe, and...''
Morgan stops talking, his message evident, and I tentatively lean my head against his shoulder.
He doesn't respond at first. Just sits very still, but then - slowly - his arms raise up and around me, nestling against my shoulders, before tentatively coming around to my back.
He is, effectively, hugging me.
And it's the first time anyone safe has touched me in any manner other than to lift me from the ambulance, or take blood, since I was found.
It's also the first time in weeks that I've indicated anyone could touch me.
''Is this what you need?,'' my friend grumbles, low and close to my ear.
And I don't know how to answer that, if only because I don't know what I need. I've never been good with physical contact. Even well before the events that landed me in clinic.
I don't know how to articulate those concerns, either. That maybe there is something wrong with me, if only because the disconnect between what my mind will allow, and what my body demands is so divergent.
''I don't know,'' I admit.
Morgan wraps his arms further around me.
''I can stop if this is making you uncomfortable. But if you need a hug, I have you.''
I bark out a sob against the nape of his neck.
''What's wrong with me?,'' and my voice is wheezy and congested as if I have been weeping for days.
Morgan shifts his position, lightly scratching the soft shirt. It makes my back tingle and I shudder.
''Nothing is wrong with you. You're in pain. That pain is a normal response to severe trauma.''
My breath comes out in a cascade of little shudders.
''I don't want to feel normal, then,'' I whisper. ''I don't want to feel anything at all.''
Morgan's hands stop their rhythmic stroking against my back, stilling into something tense.
He pulls back and tries to make eye contact with me, which I don't allow.
''This isn't something you can just pretend never happened. I don't even think the full force of everything has hit you yet.''
I bring a hand up and wipe at my eyes.
''That's why you guys want me here,'' I mutter, dully.
Morgan nods, almost imperceptibly.
''Yes. That's part of it.''
I freeze, apprehensive.
''What's the rest of it, then?,'' I query, timorous.
''You are severely depressed, Spencer, and I don't think you are even admitting that much to yourself, yet.''
I shake my head back and forth, wanting to disagree.
''I-I am-''
Knowing I can't.
''I feel so badly,'' I breathe out in a rush. ''And I don't know why. Everything feels so wrong, inside me.''
Morgan squeezes my shoulders, his hands looping about and holding me still.
''I imagine it does,'' he sighs after a few seconds. ''But it won't always feel this awful.''
His breath smells like toothpaste and his skin smells like aftershave.
Not cigarettes and alcohol.
I intertwine my hands around his back, then, and lock my knuckles in place.
Because even though I don't really want to talk about this at all, I know Morgan is safe.
And I haven't felt safe for a long, long time.
Part of me doesn't want to acknowledge that fact, but the bigger part of me doesn't want to let that safety go.
Not just yet.