CHERRY FLAVOURED || Re-Write

SIX

Authors Note:

just a reminder, this story is not much like criminal minds the show. Sure, there is a lot that is indeed the same, like names and such, but fun facts like their favorite colors and homes and the way they act will be different. Please do not leave comments like "THEY'RE NOT LIKE THIS WTF??!" Because yes, I am aware, but this story is fictional. Just like the characters.
Not edited.

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Your head was banging, running thoughts across your mind until that was all you could manage to focus on. Every sip of your dark red wine brought another aching memory to live in as people blabbered around you. It had gotten sickly—the amount of times you drank everyday—and how much you relied on it to hold a conversation. A life, really.

You hadn't gotten any new information regarding your parents. They were doing just as bad as they were the week after their accident. Your dad remained in his coma and your mom was tired; she hated speaking, and she would only stare at you through the phone. She shook her head but her lips weren't spreading into a smile like they used to.

Your dad was asleep. He was pale like always, but there was a yellow undertone in his skin, almost blue and purple. He looked like a bruised peach: all sorts of colors that didn't match the natural 'orange' he was supposed to be. He looked old and mushed together and you could only watch him deteriorate.

"YN, you there?" Tara asked, her hand waving around your face. You blinked the images of your mother and father away and focused on her brown eyes and soft smile.

You nodded. "Yeah." Your head shook as fast as you could to brush away your pain. "Sorry, day dreaming."

"You alright?" JJ asked, her eyes scrunching into small circles of pain.

"Yeah, yeah. Just my mom and dad, you know. That's all," you replied, nodding your head as you passed every curious head beside you. Rossi was staring into your soul, as was Luke, and Tara, and Emily, and even Spencer Reid. "Don't worry about it though. There's a reason we have wine!"

"You sure you should be drinking?" Reid questioned from the opposite side of the table. He raised a brow and rested his hands on the table. "Just you know, since drinking while dealing with pain is shown to not work in the long run. I think it's best to...chill on that."

You popped a sarcastic smile. "Right. Well good thing you don't get paid to think."

"It's a suggestion unless you want to die of alcohol poisoning. 27,000 women die of alcohol poisoning every year so unless you'd like to be apart of that 27,000 I suggest—"

His words were drilling into your brain. It was like a bee crawling into your ears, housing themselves in the crevices of your brain. You were becoming impatient, annoyed, willing to crawl to him and slam your wine glass against his skull. Your fingers were curling against the staff of the glass and the red liquid shook all about the inside.

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" you exclaimed, your words coming out as if you were out of breath. Everyone stared at you from their corresponding seats whilst you shot up as soon as the words exited your lips. "Shut up, Reid. I wasn't asking for your opinion. Thank you, but obviously if I'm drinking right now...I'm willing to be apart of that 27,000."

His jaw was still. He looked you up and down—at your breasts that were spilling from your tight T-shirt, at the curve of your stomach that quietly flopped outside of your denim jeans, at the way your zipper sadly began flopping down. Before he stared around at your body deep enough to notice you were struggling, you scrambled out of the room and into a spare bathroom down the hall.