❝ But I'm only human
and I bleed when I fall down ❞
The Behavioral Analysis Unit team around Aaron Hotchner gets called in to assist on a serial killer case in New York where they meet the young and surprisingly talented Special Agent Skylar Brown...
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A/N: TW ⚠️ mentions of panic attacks, kinda mentions of sexual assault (nothing specific, but still) and ptsd. i did extensive research on this, but if i got something wrong, please point it out to me. there's nothing more harmful than wrongful representation. i myself suffer from panic attacks a lot, it's part of my anxiety disorder, but i'm writing on a very complex topic including ptsd and so i apologise if i get something wrong and will change it as soon as someone tells me to. also, panic attacks and mental illness can vary from person to person. i'm writing the feeling of a panic attack from the point of how it felt to me, but it's different for everyone, and if your panic attacks are different, they're still panic attacks and it's still valid. there is not one simple line when it comes to mental illness, trauma and such. it's different for everyone. that being said, if topics like ptsd and panic attacks trigger you, you should read at your own risk or just skip until the next 'divider' in this chapter. thanks for reading, have fun!
also, i've seen some harry styles icons in the comments, does that mean i've got some fellow harries on here as well?? 👀 if so, hello! i think spotting harries everywhere i go has become my new favorite thing. it's like there's no escaping this fandom once you've entered it, not that i'm complaining. i'm actually quite glad and so if you're a respectful harrie, i automatically adore you. i don't make the rules...
[Brown]: "One of the greatest female country artists, Dolly Parton, once said: the way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain."
Cold. That's all she felt. With each second that passed, the shivers on her body grew worse. The fragile bones of her rib cage hurt every time she tried to move — she tried to, but her limbs wouldn't budge — with her heart thudding loudly against the protective shield of her organs. Something was broken inside of her, she knew it. There was pain, only pain and cold. It was so—so cold.
Little fragments of wood slid underneath her finger nails, piercing and tearing the flesh, making her fingers bleed. She didn't know how long she scratched at the floorboards, hours probably, just scratching away at the dull wood. Her voice was exhausted from the terrible screams, shouts and desperate cries.
She didn't know what day it was. The period between being passed out and being awake was unknown. Only the dim sunlight reaching through the room's tiny window managed to give her a sense of day and night.
He — this poor excuse of a man — would let her regain some strength. For hours, maybe, he would let her rest in this cold room, alone and fragile, and then the creaky door would open again. Gradually — really, really, gradually. She would be too tired to scream. She had given up on kicking or cursing a long time ago; it was of no use. She had to take the torture like the strong woman her mother raised her to be; she had to just take it and hope for better days that would probably never come. Days spent as this bastard's personal slave. Why would he even do this? She had no idea what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.
