Lockdown

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

 

30/06/2019. 11:38 hours. Spencer Reid’s Apartment, Capital Plaza Apartments, Virginia.

 

Spencer was immensely grateful to be home, yet he was unable to clear the feel of being so completely and utterly exhausted. He dragged his weary form to the lounge with a luke-warm mug of coffee in his hand and dropped heavily onto his brown leather sofa with a sigh. He stifled a groan as a jolt of pain shot through his lower back. His cell phone pinged on the dark wooden coffee table in front of him. He picked it up and glanced at the screen. He had several missed calls and text messages from the team. He threw it back down onto the coffee table with a clatter. Could the team not accept that he wanted to be alone? An itch under the bandages on his left wrist attracted his attention. He set his mug down on the table as his mind went blank. He knew he was dissociating. He picked at the tape securing the bandage to his wrist and unravelled the off-white linen. The bandage came loose and fell away, fluttering with ease to the wooden floor. He stared at the neat sutures holding the cuts together from the handcuffs. He scratched numbly at the cuts, barely feeling the sting and the tug against the sutures.

The itch beneath his skin seemed to heighten, and Spencer scratched harder, red welts left in place. Yet, his scratching did nothing to appease the crawling sensation up his arm. It was the sutures. It had to be. Spencer quickly came to his feet and padded through to his bathroom with a sense of urgency. He would have to fix the issue. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet above the wash basin, ignoring his reflection in the mirror. Ignoring the bruising that had begun to melt into shades of lighter purple. His fingertips brushed the first aid kit nestled at the back of the cabinet. He tugged it out, sending bottles of medication and toiletries scattering into the sink with a clatter. He reached into the cabinet once more, fumbling for his razors. He too easily pried apart one of his razors, slipping the blade out. He leaned back against the tiled wall, eyes transfixed on the blade in his hand, the silver a stark contrast against the raised pink scar in the centre of his palm. He slid down the wall until he was in a seated position on the cool floor and crossed his legs underneath him. He set the first aid kit down on the floor next to his knee. With the pointed tip of the blade, Spencer picked at the sutures until the cuts sprung open. They stung, but they did nothing to satiate the ache in his heart. He dragged the edge of the blade against the cuts, opening them up further. He gasped at the sweet release the pain gave him. He watched in amazement at the blood oozing out of the wounds. It felt good. He deserved to feel the pain. The high he felt in that moment was better than any dose of dilaudid. He moved the blade further along his arm and dragged it across, deeper than anticipated, but feeling good all the same. Blood beaded up against the blade. He could see the underlying tissues through the cut but that did not phase him. In fact, it thrilled him.

Spencer rested his head back against the wall, eyes closed in pure bliss and his bloodied arm stretched out over his knee. He could barely feel the blood soaking through the plaid fabric of his pyjama bottoms. He was so lost in his high that he did not hear the banging on his apartment door, or the yells for him to open up. He heard nothing as the door crashed open, frame splintering. A pair of hands tightly gripped his shoulders and shook him. Spencer’s eyes snapped open to see Matt and Luke in his bathroom. He narrowed his gaze at the pair, a small growl emitting from his throat.

“What are you doing here?” hissed Spencer, his usual soft, hazel eyes blackening with anger.

“Reid? You haven’t been answering our calls or messages. We had to come to see if you’re okay,” responded Luke. Matt grabbed a blue hand towel from the rail to the left of Spencer’s head and pressed it firmly over the wounds that continued to ooze ruby liquid.