Hi, guys. This is my very first attempt at a Criminal Minds story, as well as my first attempt at getting into the complicated little head of that delightful super-nerd, Spencer Reid.

DISCLAIMER: Don't own it, don't own, don't own it.

Well, here goes...

- - -

We go one way or the other, at the end of the day. Honest to God, no fiction involved; we take the high road or the low road, and then pretend to ourselves that there was a whole lot more choice involved than that. We lie.

Spencer Reid was no stranger to fiction, and neither was he a stranger to the notion that life is just (no, life is merely) a simple system of questions and answers, of actions and consequences. He knew, of course, exactly how it is that we all come to overcomplicate things, and how difficult it is then to get back to zero.

For some things end, is the truth of the matter, and some things, they go on forever. Like the choices we make, and that paths that we walk, forever and always, in a world without end.

- - -

Patricide. A word first learned when he was nine. The act of killing one's own father. He rediscovered it again at the ripe old age of twelve.

And perhaps it shouldn't have shocked him quite as much as it did, the second time around, but then, perhaps he hadn't actually understood it at all before. Back then, he had been young. Now, alone, he felt ancient, almost ageless. He felt abandoned by time.

Patricide (noun) - The act of killing one's own father.

…no. It wouldn't work. Spencer knew that he would have to go out and find him first. And besides, he didn't really want to do it anyway, did he?

Did he?

No, of course not.

The act of killing-

He put the dictionary down.

- - -

Yes, one way or the other, just like all life; Spencer has met the men (and the women) who have gone on to kill their fathers, or their step-fathers, or anyone who even slightly resembled their fathers or step-fathers. Killed them, or worse.

It had frightened him once, their hate and their intensity. It kept him up sometimes at night, in those first, most difficult years. But what had always frightened him more was the uncomfortable fact that, by God, he understood them. These people who (more often than not) had suffered the most awful atrocities at the hands of those who were meant to protect them, only then to go on and commit such sickeningly similar atrocities themselves. Similar, and (more often than not) worse.

For they had gone down the road that he could not follow. They had chosen the path that he had tried so hard to avoid, and succumbed to the overwhelming influence of their genetics. Each and every one of them seemed to scream to him (though their quiet indifference or their raging insanity) that, eventually, oh God eventually, we always succumb to what we really are.

And then, and like always, he was more than glad for the cool, expansive glass of the two-way mirror as they were interrogated.

(He did not want to see his own face reflected as he listened to them talk)

- - -

So, what did you think? A review, however brief, would be much appreciated, thanks!