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CHAPTER TWO { Every Breath You Take } ***
WITHOUT THINKING, you slide into the back seat of the SUV. You want to be as far away from Hotch and Emily as you can.
Emily falters at your door, shooting a torn glance to the front seat before filing in beside you and leaving the passenger seat barren. You hardly notice, but edge toward the door on your side of the car regardless.
"Drive fast." You tell Hotch. He nods, peering back at you through his rearview mirror. "Please."
"I will. Where exactly am I driving to?" He implores.
You lean forward slightly from the backseat, your voice lowering involuntarily as you hope that the agents don't have a reaction to the location. The last thing you need is anyone hovering over you, although you suppose that's already happening.
"Memorial Hospital."
As he keeps a stone gaze on you through the mirror, Hotch promptly peels away from the curb and begins driving.
Usually, you have a sort of electric energy to you. It's hard to explain, but you attract those around you—you're charismatic, witty, fun. Right now though, this electricity seems to have dispelled. There's still a heat to you, but it's not electricity. It's more like a violent, unpredictable forest fire.
You sit in the backseat, your posture stiff and your gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the car window. You stare out the window with an air of practiced indifference, the streetlights reflecting off the glass and casting fleeting shadows across your face.
Dont bounce your leg. Dont let yourself shake. Don't bite your lip.
You haven't seen your brother in person in years. The last time you picked him up, taking him out for ice cream without your parents knowledge—you got caught. Aside from threatening you, they threatened him as well, and his safety is something you're not willing to risk. Since then, he's pleaded with you. You can only assume that he feels the same way that you did in that house. Trapped.
They were never overly physical with you or your brother—not until you came out to them. Sure, they roughed you around more than they probably should've, but they weren't beating you. You didn't even realize that they were abusing you until you got out of that house.
You didn't realize, something just always felt off. You didn't like to be around them, you didn't love them like you should've. You felt guilty for everything you did and snuck around to avoid getting caught doing normal things. Other than a firm grab of the wrist, a frustrated shove, or maybe a quick smack, they never touched you, but they were always angry about something. They yelled, threw things, and had questionable methods of punishment, but until you came out—until you got caught—they never really laid a hand on you. You were constantly walking on eggshells. You stayed out of your own home as much as you could, because when you were around your parents, a constant fight-or-flight instinct nagged at you. It tore at your chest.
