A Miracle From Hell

Chapter 11

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.---Khalil Gibran

Spencer watched his father give him a pitying look, ignoring his mother cries, then he turned and walked out the door. 

The scene flashed and he was holding a letter in his hands. He recognized the handwriting and his chest tightened. Gideon, he had left him too. He understood why he had left, but the pain and yeah, betrayal even, he had felt still stung. 

"don't leave me. don't leave me."  he whispered, holding onto the letter, watching the letter fade away. 

He woke up, sweating, murmuring from his nightmare. God, his nightmares just keep getting worse. He tried moisten his mouth, but was alarmed when he couldn't. He was severely dehydrated. 

"Hey," he croaked. He frowned. He needed water quickly. "Come on, I need water." There was no reply. Was this how he was to die, dehydration? If he had to pick a way to die, he would pick a way where he was at least partially hydrated. It didn't fit his profile, he wouldn't die this way. 

A long five minutes passed and the door finally opened. Chaser walked down the stairs, a cup of water in one hand.

Reid looked at him. "Is that drugged too?" He croaked. 

Chaser shook his head and held the cup to his lips, spilling more of the water than getting it in his mouth. 

"Chaser, you have to help me." he begged, trying to maintain eye contact. He had to establish some sort of human contact with him. Chaser avoided his eyes. "Listen, all you have to do is call my team, hell, just call the police. Help me Chaser, please." He was desperate. Chaser backed away, shaking his head.

"No, no, no, no. I can't do that. I can't talk to him." He was agitated, pacing back and forth, ignoring Reid in front of him. 

The door slammed open and Reid jumped in his seat. Chaser looked at him, partly out of guilt, partly out of remorse and sulked towards the door. Reid closed his eyes, knowing that his pleas for help, had earned him some sort of pain. 

"My god, I bring you water and you try that?" His voice was high, pitched with anger. "Really?" He brought his hand across Reid's face, snapping it back. 

He stepped back, a calm settling over him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switch knife. He flipped it from hand to hand, noticing with pleasure the terror in Reid's eyes.  He sat down on a chair and dragged it forward, his face inches away from Reid's own face. He held up his knife to his face, tapping Reid on the forehead with it. He traced the knife slowly down his face, never breaking eye contact. 

"You listen to me," He practically breathed the words. Oh, he enjoyed this, watching the terror build up in Reid's eyes. "I am in control here." He emphasized each word, by applying pressure on the knife. Reid pressed his lips together, trying not to give him what he wanted. Blood ran down his face from the fresh cuts on his face. He moved the knife down to his chest. He ran a finger over Reid's chest, causing him to shiver. He pressed the knife down and cut, fast and deep, little x's over his heaving chest. 

"You have no power." He looked at the agent. He had beaten him, wrung him out to his last nerve, and exposed him to his worst fears. All he had left was a broken man in front of him. 

Reid brought his head up, and looked at him for a split second before, letting his head drop back down. 

He hated that he was so weak. He knew that if it were Morgan or Hotch, they would have fought back. But he was so so tired, was it that bad? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that seemed to always inhabit it these days. "Not bad." he slurred. "Not bad." 

Too late he realized his mistake. He felt fingers entangled in his hair, forcing him to look up at him. "'Not bad' do you have a death wish?" Maybe he did. 

He couldn't believe it, this FBI scum had the audacity to say not bad? To him? He slammed Reid's head back and walked off, exhaling loudly. "You...bitch!" He turned on him venomously, "I took you, you little stuck up bitch, from the FBI." Spit flew from his mouth. "My intellect always goes unnoticed, always, and you." He grabbed Reid by the shoulders. "You get recognized for every little thing you do." 

Reid watched him. After all this time, he was here because he was jealous of some IQ difference? Was all this, because of that? God, some people. 

"I want to see if your miserable team can actually survive without you. If they can possibly move on after your disappearance. But they couldn't, they wouldn't. So I let them know you were alive, let them know you had five days. But they won't find you. Not in time at least. I've made sure of that." 

Oh, so it went deeper then that then. Reid grimaced, ignoring the blinding pain in his head. He wondered if he should hazard a conversation with the guy. He was going to die tomorrow. 

"You don't have to do all this to prove your intelligence." 

The man turned around. "I don't have to prove anything, all I want is some damn respect."  He walked back towards Reid, anger blazing in his eyes. 

"I respect you." He said quickly. 

"Like hell you do." 

"No, no, no, I do, I respect the fact that you managed to fool all of us and set all of this up." There was some truth in that, he did respect the intelligence behind all of this, just not the man himself. 

The man raised an eyebrow. "That's enough. No more talking." He took his knife out again, balancing it in his palm. "You respect me?" He flipped the knife around and jabbed it down into Reid's leg. "You still respect me now?" 

Reid felt the room spin, as the white-hot pain spread across his leg. He felt sick, and desperately wanted to lie down and go to sleep. Hot flashes overtook him and he closed his eyes, fighting against the rising waves of nausea. 

Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.