Author's Note: First thing I'd like to clarify is that if there is a story alike this one, I want you to know that I had NO idea. I would not have posted it had I of known it was similar to an existing story.
I rated it M because of I may go deeper into detail about her rape later on. Now, I'm not good with rape scenes in general, whether it be in stories or on television, I tend to cringe during them, even though it's fake. Even writing the rape scene for this, I cringed, as vague as it was. I'm rating this M for those of you that are sensitive to the graphic nature of that, as well. Also, I do not want to have limitations for later chapters. I hope you understand.
Review if you have the time- I look forward to them! Thanks for reading. XO.
She's biting her thumbnail, watching the clock. She's not a nail-biter; never was, but today she's got the clock on her mind. Today the time is against her, ticking on agonizingly slow. Two minutes just needs to go by, and she can wander off to the bathroom with her cell phone. Two minutes. Two minutes. Two minutes. "I don't think we should commit to this case," Morgan's voice speaks broadly throughout the briefing room, as he's relaxing in the chair, his one elbow propped up on the table, combing his goatee thoughtfully. "I just don't see this as a guy that'll attack again."
Emily pulls her face into her hands, but has to peel them away immediately to snatch another look at the clock. A minute and a half until twelve. They said they'd call at twelve. She just wants to get this over and done with. Soon the awaited call comes in, and the phone starts ringing fervently in her tight pocket. Everyone looks in the direction of the noise, as it sounds loudly, seemingly echoing through the tight briefing room. "That's me." She tells them quietly, standing up, stealing away to pull it from it's tight squeeze. "It's my phone." She makes an apologetic glance, then lands her eyes on Hotch for approval. He stares at her.
"Is it an important call?" he asks sternly, not unlike typical Hotch. She pauses, stares down at the phone buzzing in her hand, the caller ID blinking rambunctiously. Technically, it's a very important call.
"Well, yes, sir," she says quietly, having her thumb already traced over the Send button. "But I guess it can wait -"
"If it's important, take it," Hotch says, gesturing to the door with his hand. "We're not deciding on anything just yet anyway. Go ahead." She sends him a grateful smile before tip-toeing her way carefully through the door, quick to answer the call before it hangs up; presumably it'll only ring once more before it clicks off, sends another beep to inform her she missed a call.
"Hello, hello, yes, I'm here," Emily speaks urgently into the small phone, walking down the hallway of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. People pass by her freely, clutching files, on their way to finish their duties. "This is Emily Prentiss. I called earlier?"
"Yes, I remember. Sorry about that, our computers were down earlier, we couldn't schedule your appointment through our system. It's all good now, though, and we appreciate your patience." The woman says to her, in a radio voice, like she rehearsed it or has told it to people several times within the two hours their computer system has been down. "You still would like to schedule that appointment, correct?"
Emily sucks in a hesitant breath. JJ peeks her head out of the briefing room and looks at Emily. "Hey, Em, we've come to a decision," JJ looks at her invitingly, tilting her head to the side. "When you're done, we need you in here."
Emily nods, mouthing something in response, cupping her four fingers over the phone. "Yes, I'd like to keep that appointment," Emily tells the woman on the phone. "Thanks." For some reason she's not sure of, she felt she owed her a thank-you. Maybe for not judging her on this decision; for accepting her, taking her in; for overlooking her carelessness and possible irresponsibility.
"Alright." The woman says, and the sound of a pen hissing on a piece of paper comes through the phone. Emily waits; looks behind her, at the opened door of the briefing room, where everyone is waiting for her. She prays this will hurry on up. And not just the phone call, everything in general. This whole disgusting situation. She wants to wipe it from her life cleanly, like when you sop up a mess with a cloth. The surface stains gone. "How far along are you again? I'm sorry, I fo-"
"Five weeks." Emily blurts into the phone, whispering it shamefully. She peers around her self-consciously, afraid somebody overheard, staring her down, shaking their heads with disgrace.
"Okay," the scribbling of the pen sounds through again. Scribble, scribble, scribble. "When would you like to have this procedure done? It's best to have it done as soon as possible-"
"Whenever is fine," Emily says again hurriedly, just wanting to hang up already. She wants to slide back into the briefing room, back to when things were simple. Handling serial killers, debating on which cases to take charge on; those types of things she can handle head-on. Not this. Not again. "Whenever someone can take me in. Soon as possible."
"Okay then," the woman writes again. Clicking noise. She's typing her appointment on the computer. Emily's file locked and sealed into a system. She hopes someday that system will crash again, lose all of her files, swimming into a sea of history. If it's erased from all physical evidence, maybe she can erase the mental evidence. "Is this your first pregnancy?"
"No," she recalls the memory, of being that fifteen year-old girl, pregnant and lonely and scared. Not so much unlike now. Except she's not fifteen anymore and she's not ashamed for the same reason. But she's still ashamed. Add poorly cut bangs and a shorter hair cut and she could trick herself into believing she's still that teenage girl. "I was pregnant when I was fifteen. I'm thirty-eight now."
"Did you have an abortion then, as well?" the woman asks this gently, but it comes back to Emily as an insult.
She lowers her head, spent. "Yes." she breathes out.
"Okay, miss," the loud clicking of a finger slamming on a keypad, sending away her information to the system. To the world. It's final. Another click; sounding harsh and judgmental. "Your appointment is for February 27th, 3 P.M. Does that sound okay?"
"Yeah, that's fine," guess she will have to make up some excuse on why she can't make it into work that day. Saying a Doctor's appointment wouldn't be too much of a lie. Actually, it's not really a lie at all. Not revealing information technically is not the same as not telling the truth. "I'll be there."
"Okay, we'll see you then. Goodbye, have a nice day."
"You too," Emily says back, but she thinks the woman clicked off the phone before hearing her. February 27th the throwing up will stop. The tender breasts, the allover sore feeling will be diminished, thrown into the past, sailing down a mess of memories and regrets.
It was cold outside. Isn't it always bad weather when something horrible occurs? Does it always seem to fall on a gloomy day naturally? She remembers it was cold and rainy and dreary, because her hair was soaked and the freshly clipped ends of it was sticking to the FBI vest she had on. Her make-up was beginning to fade due to the heavy wind and rain, and her cheeks were flushed. Confident, she walked inside, the small barn on the far left of the residence they had located, alone. Inside the small barn, was patches of hay, tools stacked in the corner; a wrench here, a tool kit there. Nothing too alarming. Her boots kicked around a rock or two, digging up stray pieces of hay, dirt on the ground. She'd just began snooping around when he sneaks around the corner. Tall, lengthy in his legs and stomach, hunched over slightly. He had choppy short black hair, thick eyebrows and a small beauty mark on the right side of his face. His smile was permanently crooked, and his clothes were stylish but dirty. He had on this green army jacket, two sizes too big for him, falling loosely over his frail shoulders jutting out. The sound of straw cracking under his shoes filled the air like a whisper in the night, and the wind gushed on outside the opened barn doors. He'd made it to her. He'd made it over to her, quick, leaving her unguarded; enough time to cover her mouth with his greasy oil-stained palm, and to wrap his other free arm around her unsuspecting waist. Try as she did to kick, squirm, bite, scream, it was effortless. He dragged her over to a safe spot behind where she'd be invisible, her legs all the while resisting, buckling as she drove her legs forward, then backward to kick him. He tightened his hand over her mouth, squeezing her waist tucked under his arm. He wasn't dumb. No, they'd profiled him long enough to know he was far from dumb.
He walked with a slight slouch and had an arrogance about him unknown to most parts of the world, but his unmotivated and quiet way of speaking lead people to underestimate him; to assume he was far from intelligent. Rather, he was very brilliant. Storing information somewhere in his thick head, chaos stirring into a dark abyss, ready to explode. He'd taken women, like he'd taken her, storing them in the back of the barn. Shoving them down into the scratchy hay, defeating them. How he stripped them of so much more than innocence, or their clothing, or their ability to control what happens to them. He stripped them of the ability to trust men, to trust the world, to trust the hometown they grew up in, and then, when he was ready, he stripped them of life altogether. Not unlike other victims, he had in mind exactly what he'd first do to Emily. But unlike other victims, Emily had came prepared. Her gun laid near the tallest stack of hay in the front of the barn, lying there, unused. She'd dropped it at the shock of her mouth being cupped closed and her waist being squeezed until it was too hard to breathe. With her weapon safely tucked out of reach, he tightened his grip around her, his arm now pinching her stomach, sending a pain soaring up to her ribcage.
"What are you doing here, sweetheart?" he cooed quietly in her hair. With that, she tried to drive her boot directly into his shin. He winced, as the tip of her heel caught an inch or so of his leg, but he didn't loosen his grip. She muttered soundless words into his palm, making it hot from her breath, then tried her hardest to scream. Though he appeared lanky and weightless behind his frumpy clothes, he was trained at lifting heavy things, with arm muscles flexing to prove it, and was definitely skilled at taking women. He pulled his arm away from her stomach just long enough to grasp the silver duct tape on the storage shelf in the back, where his tools laid. She squeezed her eyes shut at the duct tape, knowing full well that it's never good when your mouth is concealed. Then there's no way anyone will hear you.
Quickly, he unwrapped the duct tape, making a sharp noise that echoed through the barn. He taped her wrists, her mouth, then lastly, her ankles. At that point, she could hardly stand. He shoved her to the ground, sounds of hay and sticks and rocks groaning under her weight. He stood above the storage shelf, from Emily's point of view from the ground, admiring his tools thoughtfully. He thought about which to use. She squealed and shook on the ground, thinking of ways to make her escape. She caught glimpse of the full moon peering in through the opened barn doors, calling out to her. A full moon, bright as could be, shining down on her, igniting the sky like a flame. The moon, so full and bright and beautiful, it almost looked like a prop in a movie. It almost looked like a bulb in a ceiling light. It almost looked close enough to touch. If only there was a man on the moon; maybe he could have saved her.
The sound of metal clinking above her height from the ground made her tremble more, finding it impossible to imagine what he could be grabbing to use on her. Metal clinked once more before he turned around, unveiling a long piece of gardening scissors. She gasped behind the tape concealing her mouth, tight and pulling on her skin. She felt her eyes tear up, expecting the pain to be excruciating, already somehow feeling it. She could just envision the scissors ripping through her tender skin, for his viewing pleasure. But instead, he snipped the duct tape around her ankles, reacting quickly. Just as she lifted them to kick him in the throat, he grabbed a strong hold of her thin ankles, pressing them down. Her heels dug into the ground. She cried and whimpered, knowing she'd lost another chance to make her escape. He grinned, pleased with himself, as he tore her from her pants. When the button came undone, she shuddered. When the zipper fly unzipped with a sound so piercing and frightening, she winced. When she felt the soft cotton inside material of the pants slide down her cold, bare legs, she felt tears form into her eyes. She wasn't trying to kick him anymore, because she couldn't. She was terrified to move, knowing how many tools he had up on that shelf, right above them. She laid there, unmoved, hoping her team would think to check outback. They would come roaring in, saving the day. But not quick enough, they didn't.
He messed with the buttons carelessly on her button-down white shirt, but eventually he grew bored, once the buttons wouldn't budge quick enough for him. She closed her eyes, digging her fingernails hard into the dirt patch beneath her tied wrists. She listened to the sound of gravel as tires squished it each time another car passed down the road, a little distance from there. She focused on the sound of her ragged fingernail scratching at the small rock underneath her; the feeling of dirt piling underneath her fingernails; cold and moist. He slid his hands, rough and oily, up her thighs slowly, as if to set the mood. As if he was giving foreplay. As if she was enjoying it. He left kisses on her ankles, at the spot where the tape bore into her skin like rug burn. He held both hands down on her ankles, pressing them together. She was trying to escape, in a different way; land somewhere, worlds away from this place. She couldn't help but wonder if this is what all of the girls had done; had they escaped after all? Mentally, that is. With his other hand, he fumbled with the belt of his jeans, which was holding them up. His jeans, too, were a size or two too big. Without the need to unzip or unbutton, he slipped out of his jeans, falling on top of her body like she wasn't a human being, but something faded away. Like she was already dead, decomposing. He combed a bang away from her face. She shut her eyes.
"I'm so glad you're taking this so well." He whispered to her face, tracing his fingertips over the silver glistening duct tape, where the outline of her pursed lips stuck out. He traced the outline softly, smiling down at her like she was his lover, rather than his victim. "You know if you're a good girl, I won't kill you." She tried to believe him. God, wouldn't that be nice? If she gave him what he wanted from her, he would let her go. Naively, she tried to buy into that. All she wanted was to escape. But prematurely, she called the battle a loss. She figured she was out before she even gave herself a chance to fight. He forced her legs apart. She laid there, stiff, unaware, eyes still closed. If she opened them, by some chance, she promised herself she'd look beyond his jutting shoulder blades, to the full moon. It wasn't long before she felt him make his way inside of her, rough and hard and careless. He drove in, without any recollection of her existing at all. She may as well already been dead. She squeezed her eyes shut, until they burned, until tears fell from not only the sheer horror of it all, but the pain of not being able to close her eyes any more than they already were. Lights flickered behind her eyelids, colors streaming, shapes forming, from keeping them closed too long. The longer he remained on top of her, the longer she spent lifeless. He said things to her during the act, but she hadn't heard anything but the harshness of his voice. The way he sweet-talked her like he cared, as he watched her tears fall, her body quiver not from enjoyment of the act but fear and disgust. He might have only been with her for ten minutes, but it felt like years passed before she realized he was no longer on top of her; actually, he was done.
Now what would become of her? Could she be any more of a better victim than she already was? She stopped resisting; she didn't encourage him to stop by kicking, screaming, biting, throwing a tantrum. She was too scared by the sharpness of the blade on the scissors to attempt stopping him. She finally opened her eyes, and the light from the moon felt like razor blades when she witnessed it, seeing as her eyes were unaccustomed to anything but darkness. He was indeed done with her, still in his boxers, touching his tools on the shelf. She curled her knees up to her, feeling exposed, unable to say anything. Her underwear laid somewhere near her pants, she'd noticed, but couldn't remember feeling him shed them off of her. He turned around, sharp tools abound, the haughty metal of it catching light. She couldn't stop staring at the tools; he watched them with empowerment and admiration; she watched them with paralyzing panic. He lowered down to her with his large knife, turning her around. She kept her eyes closed, hard again. He grabbed her hand, pulled it closer to him. She could almost feel the pain tearing through her; her skin being ripped open. But instead, the sound of loud clipping filled the air, but it was the duct tape around her wrists slicing open, not her. She still squealed at the very horrifying sound. He yanked her wrists free of all duct tape, then climbed on top of her, threatening the blade to her throat. "Come on," he taunted viciously. "Fight me."
Hay cracking, boots slamming on hard ground. They were here. They'd discovered the place she wandered off to. They were coming to save her. Suddenly scared, he jumped off of her, running with his sharp-bladed knife. Running, running for his life. His shoes hitting the ground hard evaporated into the distance. She crawled over to her clothes, pulled them on haphazardly, knowing they'd be in here really soon. She buttoned up, zipped herself, and lastly, ripped off the duct tape around her mouth with one mighty thrust of a yank. She cried, holding her mouth in her hand, feeling like she tore off the first layer of her lips. The duct tape crunched under her boot as she dropped it and walked over it, back to the front of the barn. Hotch was inside, gun drawn. He lowered it the second he saw Emily, hair tousled, mouth red and marked. Hands held behind her back like they were still restrained. "Emily!" he said breathlessly, racing over to her. "Did you... God, look at you... Did you find him? Did he hurt you?"
She shook her head. Did I what, Hotch? Did I let him rape me? Yes, I did. And I know, look at me. I'm disgusting. Yes, I found him. And yes, he hurt me. More than you know. Hotch touched her arm, then her face. "What happened, Emily? Are you hurt?" he leveled his eyes to her.
"I fell," she said instinctively, poorly lying. She didn't have enough time to cram together a decent story. "I slipped and fell back there." She could have helped the case had she of spoken up. But then she'd get those looks, and those sympathetic hugs. Then she'd have to be a victim. Then what would she have?
Emily slides her phone back into her pocket, making her way back into the briefing room. Instantly, all eyes are on her. JJ is looking at her quizzically, her freshly waxed eyebrows shaped at her funny; Morgan, his eyebrows also expressively saying the words he is not; then there's Reid, sipping his coffee wholesomely, keeping quiet; and Rossi, Mr. Cool, with his feet up and his attitude, is now perceptively interested in her phone call; and lastly, Hotch, the one with the best poker face. "Is everything alright?" Hotch is the first to ask. With those words, all ears pipe up, and their caring eyes turn to curious ones.
She slides into her chair and the wheels squeak on the waxed floor. "Yeah, everything's just fine," she insists, forcing a beaming smile. "Nothing to be concerned about." She meets each pair of eyes with a hearty glance, insinuating that she is, indeed, okay after all. It takes the team a second or two to recover from the interruption, but soon there's chatter all about all over again. And there back to discussing another case, this one in Atlanta, where there's a man going on a raping spree, who recently resorted to murder on his last victim. JJ, with the flick of a remote, flashes images, too cruel for Emily to look long enough.
"Elizabeth Jennings, seventeen," JJ announces. Click. "Brutally beaten and raped. Ashley Torrence, eighteen," Click. "Also brutally beaten and raped. Only one day later," Click. "Was Jessica Tisbon found. She's twenty-nine."
Reid strokes his hairless chin with deep thought and concentration, keeping his eyes on the photo of a bloody Jessica, undressed, in a field of clean grass near a small pond. "The ages change," Reid points out. "He went from teenager to adult in two days."
"He's evolving," Morgan says pointedly. The pounding in Emily's head reappears; she's not sure if it's a migraine from her pregnancy, or if there's a bomb ticking away in a slot in her brain. Her head's closing in on her, the sides throbbing. Can they hear the throbbing? It sounds so loud to her. "He doesn't stick to one type. The first two victims were black and white. We've got dark hair, light hair, dark eyes, light eyes. He doesn't stick to any age or type of woman."
"It tells us it's not about the woman," Rossi interjects. Emily's throbbing is getting louder. Pounding away like a jackhammer constructing inside her brain. She wants so bad to massage it, or pinch it tight, but that would only cause more awkward staring contests. She collects her hands on her lap quietly, trying to focus on the way the glass window has an orange tint at this time of day, everyday. How pretty it looks. "It's about the crime. The power he receives during the act; the sexual pleasure, he drives on it."
Yes, they do. They all do. All men do. "Emily," Hotch says. She brings her head up, the light burning her eyes, making her migraine unbearable. "You're quiet. What do you think in the matter of this case?"
All eyes on her again. Make it stop. The pounding, the staring. She's still fighting it. Don't squeeze your temples, Emily, resist the urge. "I think, uh," she wipes off her pant-leg, though there's nothing visible there. She keeps swiping at nothing. "I think Rossi is right."
"Were you even listening over there?" Morgan laughs, bringing his coffee cup to his lips. "You were in dreamland I think, honey."
"Morgan, cut it out," Hotch says harshly, his words turning the room ice cold. Everyone sits perfectly still, tensing. "We're taking this case in Atlanta. Emily?"
She looks up, past the migraine, the throbbing, the blinding light. "Yes, sir?"
"See me in my office."