Bella Carter and Spencer Reid first crossed paths after Spencer's release from prison after being framed, both finding themselves working in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. From the start, they couldn't stand each other. Spencer, with his 187 IQ, neve...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
'And if history's clear, the flames always end up in ashes And what seems like fate, give it ten months And you'll be past it' ________________________________________________________________
Spencer
As I walk in, the sound of clinking glasses and cheery laughter breaks the cycle of deafening thoughts running through brain. It's warm here, probably because everybody's bodies are so close to each other. Everybody is just trying to forget that life sometimes is a bitch that keeps biting you in the ass. Or... maybe they're all just alcoholics. For me it's the first.
I sit down at the bar and tell the barman to just put it on my tab, since I'm probably gonna be here for a while. Ever since I was released from prison, my coping mechanisms have been failing me miserably.
My attitude has shifted from anxious to just not caring. Not caring about myself, not caring about the entire fucking world. Except for my team... my friends. I'd die for each and every one of them. Even Bella. The woman gets on my nerves a lot, but I don't hate her. I just strongly dislike her... I think.
After this night I don't know anymore.
Seeing his hands on her just made me... sick. I felt sick to my stomach. And I know she did too, I could see it in her big, regretful, green eyes. The way she was pinching her thighs, hoping it was all just a really bad dream.
I shouldn't have left her alone.
I down the last bit of my drink and order another one, a stronger one. I need something to help me forget how much of a fucking jackass I can be sometimes.
After five drinks, I start feeling the sensation of the alcohol burning through my body. My head feels lighter, with less thoughts. Maybe drinking is bad, but at least it keeps all the flashbacks away.
The coldness of my old cell, the screams of the mentally disturbed prisoners, the feeling of being trapped inside a cage you were never supposed to enter. But especially thinking of the people you might never see again, because surely if I had been convicted, they wouldn't visit me every week. I knew they'd just forget me after a while... it makes sense, it's natural.
Im glad I got out.
But what if I hadn't? What if I had to spend the rest of my life in a four by four room with no windows, no privacy and no human touch?
