Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

36. Death Is A Dialogue

You were everything and nothing at once, floating in a void that knew neither light nor darkness. You were between the first breath of life and the final sigh of death, the song of sparrows at sunrise and the howling of wolves at midnight, the beginning of destruction and the end of creation.

And, cradled by the paradox of this space, you found yourself drifting into that final goodnight.

This, you thought, was finally peace.

So you closed your eyes and sighed as you let the void take you to your next path.

And when you opened them again, you were in a familiar house. It was daytime. The sun was streaming in through the wall of windows.

You blinked against the harsh rays.

Then you turned to the right and caught your reflection on a decorative mirror on the wall. You looked... young. Your teenage self stared back at you—happy, unburdened, bright. You were dressed casually in a white t-shirt that said "Columbia University: Class of 2000" in light blue letters, and gray cloth shorts.

The elegant chime of a familiar laughter echoed through the house, and you looked to your left to find the source.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your dad was at the stove, sautéing something green with a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. He had a spatula in his right hand, and a glass of red wine in his left. Sitting at one of the island stools was your mom.

The quiet patter of feet crescendoed up the other hallway, and you saw a childhood version of yourself sprint up to the kitchen island, an even younger Lizzy running right behind.

You said something that made your mom grin, and she patted her lap. Lizzy happily lifted her arms up for your mother to pick her up, and you climbed your way onto the stool beside her. Then your father turned to you and held a spoon to your lips. You tried whatever he fed you, clapping your hands with delight.

Your father said something to the three of you—or... you thought he did. You didn't hear anything when he opened his mouth—but your mom laughed in response nonetheless. So in love. So at ease. So happy.

You were all so happy.

And suddenly, all your previous concerns and questions melted away.

How could two people like that ever have been affiliated with a mafia?

You knew Alex had been lying.

So you smiled and took a step towards them.

And then you felt a hand grab your arm and yank you back. You stumbled backwards, around the corner and into the living room with a surprised gasp, but you kept your eyes forward and tugged against the force.

"What are you doing?" a girlish voice asked.

You froze, slowly turning around to face whoever had tried to detain you. You knew that voice. You loved that voice. "Oh my god," you whispered.

Your voice—higher pitched in its adolescence. It shocked you even to hear.

But what shocked you most was how Lizzy stared back at you with one brow arched. Even though she should have been in her thirties, she looked just as she did at sixteen, and she was wearing an unzipped bright red hoodie with a grey camisole underneath and black cloth shorts. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail.

And there was an angry red scar that went across her throat, from one ear to the other.

You reached out to touch it.