LAST CHAPTER! *throws party*
so glad (sorry) that this nightmare is finally over. i thought it was a good idea at the time, but after all the hate i got, i'm not sure if i wanna continue with this idea... but it's up to you guys! if you like how this ends and want to see more (this time, original serial killers by me) then right a review saying you want me to keep on going. otherwise, i'm just gonna let this one go.
Charles slowly dawned on a snow white hazmat suit. He knew Maggie and his captive wouldn't wake for quite some time. Each white glove was slid across scarred hands with perfect precision; the hood was stretched across his head after that. Finally, a white mouth mask was tied back. He liked the way the red looked on the white background. He still had every single suit from each kill, hung with care in protected clear plastic in a special closet in his home. Unfortunately, the red would soon fade into a dark brown. It still smelled the same though.
He strode down the hallways, his steps confident—he could never, ever get lost in his own domain. He gingerly weaved around the many pairs of shoes: his trophies. It showed how many had failed—99% perfection. He frowned at the thought of her. She lay right next to Maggie, blonde hair splayed out around her head like a golden halo. She'd almost succeeded in guiding the whore through his maze. He'd be sure to punish her for that.
Grabbing Maggie's ankle, he carelessly dragged her body across the floor, occasionally hitting her head on a corner or wall. Sometimes on accident, sometimes on purpose. He had to fill his life with fun somehow.
Blood dripped off her feet. It coated the leather shackles that bound her to the slowly moving steel cart. Her captor whistled softly, face covered with a white mask, goggles on his face. His eyes remained forward, refusing to give the gasping girl any attention. One of the wheels squeaked in the stillness. "Are you gonna hide you face from me? Coward. That old man was begging. I'm not gonna give you that, you son of a bitch. I'm not gonna beg you for anything."
"But you will beg, whore. They all do." Charles responded as he ran his fingers over all the delicious instruments of pain in front of him. So many options… He'd used the chain saw last time—it got an A in sound level; the old man's shrieks had been music to his ears. But it got a D- in time length. The man went into shock and soon felt nothing. That took all the fun out of everything. Finally deciding on a large steak knife, he went to work. He wanted this one to last.
"Charles Holcombe!" his name bounced off the walls. He stopped an inch from Maggie's arm, looking around in alarm.
"FBI!"
"Don't do it." Morgan warned, gun pointed straight at Charles's head.
"Let me do my job!" Charles screamed, crazed eyes flashing around to study the threats. He lunged for Maggie, desperate to finish what he'd started.
Morgan fired two rounds to the heart, his aim perfection, as always.
Prentiss rushed to the woman, stroking her hair out of her eyes. "It's ok, it's ok. Look at me." She didn't want the woman to be more scarred than she already was.
She sobbed uncontrollably; she'd been so close to death. "You're all right. It's over." Hotch comforted, taking her hand.
"The face." Maggie groaned, rolling her gaze towards where Morgan was checking on Charles.
"You've got some cuts, but you're gonna be ok." Hotch said, not understanding what she was saying.
"No. I want to see his face." She needed to unmask her monster.
This was what Maggie needed, Hotch could see that. "Morgan." Hotch ordered.
Morgan pulled of the face mask, showing the plain and slack face of her torturer. "I won." Maggie snarled to the dead body.
"There's an ambulance outside." Hotch said gently.
"Can you have someone check on my baby? My mom's baby-sitting her, and—and I didn't get home last night." Even after all she went through; she still put her daughter first.
"We'll take care of it." Hotch said kindly, understanding a parent's devotion to their children; putting their needs after their own.
"Thank you." Maggie smiled weakly, blood trickling down her lips. As the medics started wheeling her away, her eyes widened and she attempted to sit up. "W-wait. What about the girl? Did you find her yet?"
Hotch's eyes narrowed. Multiple victims at once didn't fit the profile. "Who?"
"A girl... she- she tried to help me out... gave me her shoes when he took mine... and, and guided me as best as she could... she's still trapped in here..." Maggie's eyes began to close, exhaustion taking its tole. The medics wheeled her away as Hotch looked on, worry creasing his brow. The Unsub had kept someone alive. That also didn't fit the profile…
"Okay, everyone fan out and look for a young girl, god knows what condition she's in." Hotchner called out, directing his agents with his arms. Prentiss and JJ nodded, their inner mothers roaring to life at the mere thought of a kid trapped in this place. They all spread out throughout the massive slaughterhouse, calling out for the missing girl.
"Hello? Hello, is anyone here?" The voices echoed throughout the filthy hallways.
Her head snapped up, blue-gray eyes wide with disbelief. "H-help" she rasped with a voice that was hardly used anymore. A wrecked voice, a broken voice. She tried again, "Hello?" silence was all that greeted her. She lowered her head to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. She knew it was too good to be true. He was getting crueler, pretending to save her. She began to tremble in her skin; what was he gonna do to her? She'd been so close this time. She'd actually felt the sun against her skin; she'd lost track of how many days it had been since she'd seen the sky.
Footsteps boomed off the dank hallways. "It's not funny, you bastard!" she snapped, voice cracking. The footsteps grew louder- someone was running towards her cell. Hope couldn't help but crawl its way up her throat. "Is- is somebody there?"
"Hello? This is the FBI. My name is Aaron Hotchner! Is anyone here?" a deep voice—not him—resounded off the walls. To her, it sounded like the voice of god.
"Yes, yes! I'm here! Please let me out!" she yelled as loud as she could. She could feel blood trickling down her throat. A face appeared at the bars. A man with dark hair and ice blue eyes looked through, eyes wide with shock. He was wearing some sort of vest with FBI across the front. As he rattled the bars, she whispered feverishly, "You gotta hurry. He'll be here soon, you- you don't want to see him when he's angry."
"Don't worry, he won't bother you anymore." Was all the FBI agent said; his focus remained on shaking the bars of her cell.
"You- you mean he's..." Hotch looked her in the eye, saying nothing. "Oh my god." she gasped, trembling with relief. "He's gone, he's gone, he's gone." The words sounded foreign to her ears.
With one last heave, Hotch yanked the door open, the rusty lock finally giving in, as if it knew that its master was dead. Hotch's heart twisted at what he saw. She was skinny, her ribs clear through the rags of her shirt. Her long blonde hair was matted and filthy, hanging in thick tendrils in her face. She was so weak, she could barely stand. Blood trickled from cracked lips. Cuts covered her face, and her feet... were cut to ribbons. Not an inch of her skin wasn't scarred or bruised. But what saddened him most were her eyes. Too big for her heart-shaped face, they were filled with eons worth of pain and suffering. Her stormy blue-gray stare penetrated him, a sad look that cut him to the bone, laying him bare in front of her. Those eyes could see right through him.
As gently as he could, he scooped her up in his arms, her body limp like a ragdoll. "I'm gonna get you out of here." He promised. She nodded weakly, pupils dilated with fear.
Morgan felt dread pooling in his stomach. 20 minutes had passed, and the girl still hadn't been found yet. Anger began to boil inside of him. Who knew what that sadistic monster could've done with her…
"I got her!" Hotch's voice bounced off the walls. His form appeared right after, carrying a limp bag of bones. Morgan couldn't see her face—it was hidden from view by a knot of blonde locks. But when Hotch started down the hall, calling out for the medics, Morgan's blood stilled. The girl's right arm, which was draped weakly around Hotch's neck, was flipped, wrist up, and on that wrist was a black tattoo of a pair of angel wings.
FLASHBACK:
"Do you like it?" She asked, her blue-gray eyes twinkling with excitement. All Morgan could do was sit there with his mouth open, flabbergasted.
"Is- is that a tattoo?" He breathed, still doing his fish-out-of-water impression.
"Umm... yes?" She whispered, starting to feel unsure about telling him this way.
"Did you seriously get a tattoo at age 13? Of angel wings?" Morgan all but yelled. He knew better than to raise his voice fully with her. Some memories would never fade.
"Wait—just listen!"
"I can't believe you! I left for one day—one day— and you got inked? What kind of tattoo artist gives one to a 13-year-old? Where did you even get the money to buy it?"
"Please, Der, just listen! Don't you wanna know WHY I got angel wings?" She asked softly.
He stopped, actually curious. He made a gesture for her to continue.
"Well..." she started, looking embarrassed. "They're, they're kinda a symbol of you, actually..." Morgan blinked a few times. "W-when you saved me, I was in a really dark place, and I even considered..." she tapered off, then blinked and continued. "And you were like my guardian angel, raising me from perdition." She finished quietly.
"I-I don't know what to say." he breathed, still shocked.
"So I'll repeat myself: do you like it?" She asked again, her cheeky smile back in place. He liked it better that way— you could see her dimples when she smiled.
"I love it!" He crowed, swooping her small frame up into his arms, spinning her around and around while she shrieked with glee.
Morgan's entire world began to crash down around him. "No, no, no." He whispered, catching the attention of his team. But before they could ask any questions, he was gone, sprinting down the hallways like his life was on the line. The sirens grew louder and louder as he neared the entrance, but to him it was all static in the background. Only one thing was important to him right now. By the time he'd made it outside, Hotch had just laid the girl down on one of the gurneys. She was about to be wheeled up into the ambulances when Morgan shouted "Wait! Wait a second!"
Hotch looked up in surprise, but said nothing as his friend raced to the girls side.
With a tenderness that Hotch had never seen, Morgan brushed the girl's hair out of her face. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, and cuts covered almost every inch of her skin, but he'd never forget her. The way she'd giggle if he made a funny face at her, the way her brow creased while she cooked or read, the way she'd always beat him at chess, and never let him forget it. Her eyes cracked open slightly, but he could see their blue-gray hue shining up at him. "Der?" She whispered hoarsely, her lips quirking up in a smile.
"Shhh, I'm here, Vi, I'm here. You're gonna be alright." Morgan soothed, tucking her hair behind her ear. She gave him a weak, but genuine smile before closing her eyes once more, content that her guardian angel wouldn't leave her. Morgan nodded to the EMTs, who pushed the gurney up the rest of the way into the ambulance.
As the car drove away, Hotch came up behind Morgan, the rest of the team off to the side. "You wanna tell me who that was?" He asked, not unkindly. It was obvious that Morgan cared deeply for the young girl.
"That" Morgan said, voice cracking slightly, "was my younger sister, Violet Morgan."
"Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.—Charles Chaplin."
there- i finally did it! you like the ending? if you want to know more about violet's background or see her helping her adoptive big brother solve crimes, let me know and i'll start working one something.
thank you for sticking with me this far, if you did. bless you, bless you.