Innocent Son

Chapter Nine

TW: TRANSPHOBIA AND SEXUAL ASSAULT

The room was dark and still, as if the night had swallowed it whole. The wet smell of rotting wood and decay filled my lungs. A small window across from me projected the full moon onto the floor and a crumbling wooden slat staircase. My wrists ached from rubbing against the rough rope the man, the unsub , had tied around them. I could barely move; my legs tied to the legs of the chair I was sat in was nailed to the floor. I wasn't sure how long I'd been down here, where ever here was. I wasn't sure if it was minutes or hours, but nonetheless, I was alone.

What the hell could he be doing? My heart pounded in my ears and the nauseous feeling in my gut only seemed to intensify. It didn't make sense for him to leave me here, what was he planning? Wouldn't he want to torture me as soon as possible? It didn't make sense.

I focused on the window across from me, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever lay outside the glass. Squinting, all I could make out was the faint outline of a boat bobbing peacefully in the water next to a long dock. The spinning of my vision and the stench of the room ignited the vomit sitting so unsteady in my throat. Against the silence of the room the sound of my puke splattering the floor echoed. It burned. My teeth tasted like copper. I always hated throwing up.

I had to calm down. I had to get myself out of here. I closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath. Sea salt and rot.

If I was at a pier, I was either in the bay or on the coast. Another breath. Sea salt and death.

We were on the west coast and the sun was setting when he... Another breath. Sea salt and decay.

The sun sets in the west, and I could see the moon directly out my window, reflecting off the water. I had to be on the coast. One more breath. Sea salt and rot.

I opened my eyes again. I wished I could have remembered how I ended up in this room. I had only driven for a half an hour before he shoved a pill down my throat. I couldn't remember anything after that. Who knows how far away I was from the city. I could be hours away from the bay. The only hope I had left was that Hotch knew what had happened, knew what the car looked like. Someone was coming for me. I just had to stick it out long enough for them to find me.

"You better not have puked on my floor."

All the attempts to calm my breathing were futile. His voice pierced through every thought I could've had in that moment. The crunch of boots against the dilapidated staircase drew closer with each of his steps. I could only see his outline as his figure obstructed the light from the window. My throat was cinched. I couldn't scream. I couldn't move. I could only stare into his empty silhouette.

"You did." he snarled. He made his way closer to me. He seemed to fill the room, his breath heavy and his body completely enveloping into darkness; as though the window had never been there in the first place.

"You're all the same, y'know." he muttered as he reached into the pocket of his jacket, rummaging until he found what he needed. "Liars. Dirty fucking liars." his words dripped like acid. The blade of a bowie knife glinted from his fist. It was still dirty. The stench of metal ripped through me as he hastily stepped forward again, pointing the tip toward my throat. Sea salt and blood.

"Don't you have something to say? Aren't you an FBI agent? Who the hell would let people like you do that job." I couldn't say anything. No psychological training in the world could've prepared me for anything like this. I could be empathizing with him, inflating his ego, exposing his flaws, something to get him to rethink his actions, or at least draw them out long enough for the team to find me. Despite this, I remained silent.

"Nothing? Well, that's fine with me. All the others screamed." He reached for the collar of my shirt with his large hand, pulling my face closer to his. I could feel his breath against my face. Sea salt and bourbon.

"It made for such a racket. Now I can have some peace and quiet." His eyes were dark, not simply from the lack of lighting in the room. It wasn't as if the light in him had died, for that implied something once lived. There was nothing: he was void.

He threw me back against the chair, my neck snapping back with the unexpected jolt. He placed the blade knife he'd been holding against my neck until now firmly against my cheek, breaking the skin ever so carefully under the metal. I felt the warmth of my blood begin to trickle down my face. The wound stung.

"I can't wait to use you all for myself." he flicked the blood from my cheek off with the edge of the blade, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to hurt. Still, I was frozen. Every conceivable thought, every voice in my head was telling me to fight, screaming at me to move. I could feel the urge vibrating under my skin, building in my lungs. I stayed still. Even as his boot pressed between my legs, shoving his knee into my chest. I did nothing. I breathed in and exhaled. Sea salt and mould.

Even as I heard the unbuckling of his belt, I did nothing. Sea salt and copper.

Even as he shoved himself into me, I did nothing. Sea salt and vomit.

Even as the pain ripped through me, I did nothing. Sea salt and sweat.

I breathed in and exhaled.