checkmate , s.reid

031 » THE CONFESSION

It has been three weeks since I was kidnapped, yet I am still not allowed back to work. My days are long and boring, filled with paranoid glances out the window and feeble attempts to distract my mind. My nights are filled with bad dreams and sweaty jolts awake, panicking that I am back in that room, tied to a chair. Thankfully, the team will sometimes call when they are away on a case and want my input, and I am easily able to help out— with the bonus that it gives me a quick distraction.

I do everything that I can to force away the bad thoughts that threaten to overtake my mind like a wild fire spreading uncontrollably, burning everything it touches to a crisp. I know that if I let them in, if I allow myself to think over and relive what happened, it will warp everything else in my mind until there is nothing good left. So I have been trying as hard as I can to keep myself from thinking of anything bad. It is easier said than done, though, due to the scars that cover my body from what he did to me.

My sleep is infrequent, and when I do manage to force myself into it, it is anything but relaxing. Without my conscious mind able to force the memories away, my brain constantly makes me relive it all. It is horrible, it is scary, and it makes me want to die.

I can barely leave the apartment, my paranoia spiking each time I have to leave. I have tried rationalising, telling myself that Jackson— or Jonathon, apparently— is in prison, and his brother is dead, but it does not do much to calm my nerves. Each sound outside my front door makes me freeze, and each creak of wind against my windows sends jolts of panic through my bones.

That being said, I almost jump out of my skin at an unexpected knock on the door. Taking a breath, I try to keep myself calm as I slowly get up off the couch, setting down my book, and quietly head over to the door. I unlock each of the locks, but leave the chain on as I open the door a crack. I anxiously peer through the gap, my body relaxing significantly when I see Reid standing outside.

"Reid," I say softly, and he meets my gaze with a slight smile.

"Hey," he responds, his voice equally as soft. "Can we talk?"

I hesitate slightly, a little nervous for what he has to say that has prompted him to show up at my apartment in the middle of the afternoon with no warning.

"Okay," I reply. I close the door momentarily so that I can undo the chain, before opening it for him to step inside. Shutting the door gently behind him, I mutter, "Sorry about the mess," as I hurry to clear some of the lazily strewn about items from the couch, ignoring the dull pain in my ribs from the movements. I have gotten used to dealing with the pain at this point.

"It's alright," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay. Just sore."

It is an obvious lie, but he does not push further. It is something I like about him— he won't push things if he notices someone is uncomfortable.

As I take a seat on the couch, curling my legs beneath me, I gesture for him to sit. He does so, gingerly placing himself on the other end, his hands in his lap. I study him for a moment, nervously biting my lip, before I ask, "What, uh, what do you want to talk about?"

He hesitates, swallowing. Finally, he meets my gaze and speaks, his voice quiet, his words reluctant to be said. "I... I owe you an apology, and an explanation."

I do not say anything, observing him carefully as I wait for him to elaborate.

"I'm going to start by saying that none of this is an excuse for how I have treated you, and I am not trying to use it as such. I have been horrible to you," he starts, "and you deserve to know why. And I- I need to say that I am so, so sorry for all of it. I never should have treated you so terribly. You didn't do anything to deserve that."