A/N: Hi guys. This is going to be a selection of one-shots. Several of them may be expanded into two-shots if I feel it's getting lengthy, or if I want to create suspense (Mwahhhaha). Anyway, I hope you all enjoy.
Reid couldn't remember. He tried to, he really tried. But when forced to sweep away all else, focus, and retrieve the memory from his finely-tuned brain, he just couldn't.
He couldn't remember when things had gotten so bad.
Perhaps that was simply because there wasn't a singular, precise moment for him to recall. It hadn't happened all at once. It wasn't as though one day he was Agent Reid: genius geographical profiler for the FBI and boom, the next day he was just Spencer: drug addict.
He knew that much, he knew he was "just Spencer", and his heart, though weakened and ravaged from the damage he had done to himself, wasn't willing to accept "just Spencer."
"Just Spencer" wasn't good enough. Just like he hadn't been good enough when his father decided to leave all those years ago. Just like he hadn't been good enough when he was relentlessly tormented and tortured in school. Just like he hadn't been good enough to pass his Firearm Qualification exam. "Just Spencer" just didn't cut it.
"Just Spencer" was pathetic, a weakling drug abuser who knew nothing, nothing but escape, nothing but his desperate attempts to wash away the pain and regret and the knowing and just... numb.
He just wanted numb.
He wasn't sure what changed, what had happened, what made him need to become "Just Spencer" again.
Then, the dawning realization. "Just Spencer" had always been there. Agent Reid was a facade, and "Just Spencer" was lying dormant, waiting to crawl out and claim his body once again.
And now, "Just Spencer" had returned. He had been clean for a while, a long time... if you asked Agent Reid, he would have said 458 days, but to "Just Spencer", it was simply a while. But on day 459, "Just Spencer" returned. He returned when Reid found himself at work, alone, after everyone else had gone home. He was working, he didn't know what on... he was mindlessly scribbling, filling in lines on necessary paperwork. He just filled in the right words in the right places. The bullpen had been empty for a few hours. Three hours, 38 minutes, 42 seconds... 43... 44... When the pen slipped from his fingers and clattered to the desk, startling him, he hadn't even realized he had lost his thoughts to the beckoning call of sleep. He didn't remember shutting his eyes.
Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say, "I'm falling asleep."
He remembered his mother reading these words to him, and the memory stirred and provoked a sudden longing within Spencer. He was angry with the pen, angry for waking him up. He hadn't slept in days, he hadn't been granted such a luxury.
He picked up the pen with his spindly fingers once more, becoming frustrated with the tremors running through him as he fought to grasp the writing utensil. A growl of frustration as he could not steady himself, and Spencer finally dropped the pen to the desk again with exasperation and a guttural noise rising from his throat, something of a cross between a gasp and a sob.
He wasn't even aware that he was crying until he felt the tears squeeze through dampened lashes and drip down the angles of his face. He didn't bother trying to control it, and he was silent as he cried... He simply picked up his completed paperwork, neatly deposited it in the drop-box, and slowly packed up his things, shifting his bag over his shoulder and heading out the door.
Once at home... or at least the dingy apartment he pretended was his home, Spencer took of his shoes (neatly arranging them next to the three other pairs perfectly lining the back of his closet), hung up his cardigan (Color coded. Obviously), and turned on his old-fashioned radio. Classical. Routine as always. Routine as always... until he calmly went to the kitchen, reached into his pantry, and rifled through the box of cereal for the prize inside. After retrieving the small vial (a back-up, just in case, that he had purchased 459 days earlier), he went to the bathroom and plucked up the sterile supplies from the middle drawer. He always kept them in the middle drawer. The middle drawer represented balance, which was exactly what he needed, and exactly what he got from the poison in the vial.
He shifted back onto the bed, up against the flat pillow against the wall, and set about preparing his relief. Still so calmly, oh, so calmly... there was a simple resignation, a resolve in the way he worked. He did not fret, he did not chastise himself for what he was about to do... in a way, it was just the way things were. Spencer didn't feel bad. Spencer didn't feel anything.
Needle guided to skin. Sharp breath inward. Sharp point breaking flesh.
Spencer released the plunger slightly, watched it move up as the blood let into the chamber, swirling and blossoming into a diluted, sick and twisted shade of pink that made Spencer shudder, then carefully edged the plunger forward again with the tip of his thumb.
The chamber was empty, and the mixture filled his veins. He felt it work its way through him, darting through his blood and warming his soul. The warmth spread through him, it started in his lips and ears, then it spread to his face. He felt it work down into his belly, swirling around like butterflies scattering at a stone thrown their way. It moved down his legs, into his arms, and finally fizzled out at the tips of his fingers and toes, then exploded into pleasure. His ears buzzed, his mind clouded, and his thoughts... stopped.
They just stopped. He finally laid to rest all his feelings of inadequacy.
He stretched out on the bed, and as he lay back, his eyes closed so quickly that he had not even time to say, "I'm falling asleep."