Echos of a Genius | Spencer Reid

Addict

Spencer

It's amazing how fast someone can change. How it only takes seconds for your life to flip completely upside down.

My name is Spencer Reid, I am a drug addict.

The room feels like it's closing in on me. The darkness is suffocating, but the needle on the nightstand is a lifeline—twisted as that may be. My fingers twitch as I stare at it, the pull so strong it's like a physical force dragging me toward it. I know I shouldn't. I promised myself I wouldn't, but the pain is too much. The thoughts, the memories, the emptiness—it all disappears with just one hit.

My phone sits on the bed next to me, no messages, no missed calls. Stephie still hasn't responded to the text I sent her days ago. I don't blame her; I wouldn't respond to me either. I'm not worth it. Not anymore.

The silence in the room grows unbearable, filled with nothing but the sound of my own breath—shaky and uneven. I can hear Tobias Hankel's voice echoing in my head. "It helps, doesn't it?" He's right. The dilaudid helps. It's the only thing that does.

With trembling hands, I reach for the syringe. My mind screams at me to stop, but I ignore it. I need this. I need the numbness, the oblivion. I press the needle against my skin, feeling the cold bite of metal. A deep breath, then I push down the plunger.

Relief washes over me instantly. The world fades away, the weight on my shoulders lifts, and for a moment, everything is quiet. Peaceful. I lean back, closing my eyes as the drug takes hold, feeling the familiar warmth spread through my veins. It's like sinking into a dark, warm ocean where nothing can touch me.

But the peace doesn't last. It never does. It's always followed by a crashing wave of guilt, shame, and the creeping realization that I've just sunk deeper into a hole I might never climb out of.

I open my eyes, the room spinning slightly as I sit up. I'm late. I'm supposed to be at work, but I've been sitting here battling myself for hours. There's no point in staying here, wallowing in what I've done. I might as well go.

I grab my jacket, feeling the slight weight of the dilaudid still coursing through me, numbing the edges of my pain. It's not enough, but it'll have to do.

The world outside is cold and indifferent as I make my way to the BAU. The streets are bustling with people who have no idea of the war I'm fighting inside. They go about their lives, blissfully unaware of the darkness that follows me like a shadow.

When I walk into the BAU, the familiar sights and sounds don't bring the comfort they used to. The bullpen is alive with activity, agents moving around, discussing cases, but I feel like a ghost among them. I'm here, but not really. The dilaudid keeps me detached, distant.

I slip into my desk unnoticed, burying myself in paperwork, hoping no one will notice the bags under my eyes, the slight tremor in my hands, or the way I avoid looking anyone in the eye. No one does.

Hotch walks past, his face set in its usual stern expression, but he doesn't stop. JJ is deep in conversation with Morgan about a new lead. Emily is on the phone, and Gideon is in his office. I'm surrounded by people, but I've never felt more alone.

I pull out a file, trying to focus on the words in front of me, but they blur and twist in my vision. My thoughts drift back to Stephie, to the text she never answered, to the way I lashed out at her. I wonder if she's done with me, if she's finally realized I'm beyond saving. Part of me hopes she has. I don't want to drag her down with me.

Hours pass in a haze. I go through the motions, pretending to be the agent everyone expects me to be, but inside, I'm falling apart. I want someone to notice, to ask if I'm okay, but no one does. Maybe they're too busy, or maybe I've gotten too good at hiding.