Title: You Can't Change The Past
By: Erinne Willows
Pairing: gen
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own nothing. But I wish I did :P
A/N: So, I have no idea where this came from…none whatsoever…but here it is – a one-shot straight from my crazy mind…hope you enjoy…I'm sorry it it's a little confusing...
Warnings: contains cutting and angst and child abuse...and implied mm sexual feelings...but no actual mm.
Summary: Reid's musings on the past.

***

Sometimes there isn't anything you can do. Nothing. Like when he says you're nothing, and you know he's right because if you were something, you'd be able to stand up to him – you'd have a reply. If you were something, he wouldn't treat you like this anyhow. No. It has to be because you're nothing – and there's nothing you can do about it, either. Just sit back and take it and try your damndest not to cry because you know it'll hurt worse if you do. Sometimes there isn't anything you can do. And that's the lie you tell yourself every time he gets that glint in his eye and your legs tremble too much for you to move. That's the lie that lets you sleep a couple hours every night. It's the lie you have to tell so you can live another day.

There is music coming from somewhere, but it's not like you really care – you've holed yourself up in the showers down in the basement of the FBI building. It's not like anyone will look for you there – it's only for emergencies – when the FBI is in danger or there's a close-to-home case where you're working so much, there isn't time to go home and shower and sleep. Those are the cases that drive you insane – the ones that shave more and more hours of sleep, until you're really not sleeping at all, and you find yourself staring at the case file long after everyone else has been sent to bed for three or four hours. You ignore the music; it's not like it really matters where it's coming from anyway. In fact, the music itself doesn't even matter all that much. You find not much does matter anymore.

You wish you were stronger – you really do. Just like you wished someone would come and take you away from your home, wished your mom would step in just once and smooth back your hair and tell you that she loved you. But she was rarely sane enough to register what you needed anyway. And it's not like he would have really listened to her. You can understand why she didn't step in, and though it hurts, it's okay now because it's over – and the words still echo in your head – the ones you thought you were long past.

What are you?

I'm a freak.

Why?

It's freakish to be smart. It's bad to be a freak; it's bad to be smart.

Do you want to be bad?

No. No, I want to be good.

You know I love you.

You give me punishments because you love me; you are the only one that loves me – the punishments are there so I can be good.

Is it good to be hungry?

No. It's bad to be hungry.

Is it good to disobey me?

No. It's never good to disobey the one who loves me.

Are you strong?

No. I'm weak. So weak, you have to protect me and take care of me. This costs you money you shouldn't have to spend.

That's right. And you will earn back our money by being good, won't you?

Yes, sir. I will earn it all back.

So you will be good.

So I will be good.

You know it hurts me to do this, right?

Yes, sir. I'm sorry for my weakness sir.

It's alright, Spencer. Just try harder next time, so I can be proud of you.

I will, sir. I will.

"No!" You scream angrily, pounding your fist against the concrete floor of the shower you're sitting in; your back was against the cool tile wall until you exploded like that. You'd thought you'd buried that – you really thought you had, and the fact that it came up so quickly bothers you. It's because they said they cared about you – but he said that caring denotes punishments for your own good. He was wrong, wasn't he? Wasn't he wrong? Didn't you discover that? They would never hurt you. But still, but still! There's that tiny little bit of doubt in your head. And that tiny little bit is all that's needed to make you question your safety. Especially when you can still feel their hands – those hands ghosting up and down your thin frame. You lean back against the tiles, willing the sensation away. It's times like these you feel the weakest. Times when you remember what you let them do to you – the things you didn't stop. Sometimes you feel so worthless, you don't even want to breathe anymore.

One slice for you, one for the team, one for the past, and one for the whole fucked-up world. And one just for the hell of it. Five neat little bloody lines on your wrist. Not that they'll see them underneath the long shirts you wear. And the nerdy little sweater vests.

They said it was punishment – and you hated yourself for it. He said you were a horrible child – that people like you didn't deserve skin to skin contact with others – that you'd contaminate them. That all these men were loathe to touch you, but had to because otherwise you wouldn't learn. One time he even said he had to pay them to get them to touch you. You had to learn, and he obviously wasn't teaching you well enough. You never felt as bad as you did right then – the implication that you were so bad, he needed help in order to help you be good. But still – their hands; they were everywhere. You learned so many skills you didn't want to learn – how to please someone. How to be a damned good little whore – because that's all you really were in the end – someone's fuck-toy; another's payday. And, of course, a stress-reliever. Where else would you have gotten all those bruises.

He loved to mess with your head – or else he wouldn't have made you memorize those words. The words that now you can never forget because, oh wait, you have an eidetic memory, and a damned IQ of 187. Let's not forget that you can read 20,000 words a minute. When you were little, you were afraid to be smart – and now you have the job you've always wanted because of it. Ain't life just full of hateful ironies? You wanted this job to hunt down the people like him so no one else had to suffer – because you were the only one who deserved it – there's no way anyone else could be as bad as you.

Filthy…contaminate…whore…deserve this, you know…pay them to touch you…teach you to be good…so bad, so bad…

You hate the voices in your head – not because they remind you of your mother, but because they won't leave you alone. Just a bunch of ghosts echoing around in your head – and you hate them. You hate them almost as much as you hate yourself – and that is pretty scary. You don't even hate your father that much – and he's the one who made you feel this way.

You sigh in frustration. You hate the way you feel. You hate the way you still flinch when someone comes near you. You hate the way you avoid contact with others because somewhere in your brain you still think that you don't deserve to make contact with them. That somehow you'd contaminate them. You hate the way you feel about your recently-divorced boss. You hate the way that you know exactly how to make him squirm and beg. You hate the way that you can be the best damn fuck he's ever had. You hate that he'll never love you. And you hate yourself for wishing he would.

Aaron. The name sounds sweet in your head – and you know it'd roll off your tongue and taste just as good. You wish you could say it, just once, without fear of retribution on your head. Because at work he's "Hotch". And anyway, trying to even initiate closeness when he's obviously still vulnerable is a bad idea and you know it. You can dream, though. And in you dreams, he comes and says your name and he looks so beautiful and loved you can't help yourself. You haven't had a wet dream since you were fourteen. And you got punished for that – but only because you admitted (though under duress) that your mystery mate was in fact a boy, and not a girl. Apparently, he thought it was wrong to be gay. It was the night after that – the first guy came. You guess he was trying to show you how much it hurt, and how wrong it was. Even though you could tell they were enjoying it. Maybe they were just happy you were learning. Not likely. Besides, regardless of his attempts, you're still gay – and still in love with your boss. Not a smart move on your part. You'd cut out your heart if you could.

You inhale gently and slowly through your nose, taking a quick look at your watch. It's long past time for you to have left – you know everyone's gone by now. And you're still bleeding. Maybe it'd be nice to bleed all the way out? But the blood's already clotting. And besides – it wouldn't change anything and as selfish as it may be, you don't want to burn in hell for your wrongness just yet. Not just yet. Another sigh because the tightness in your chest hasn't eased at all which was the reason you were cutting in the first place. The knife again in your hand – just a few more, just a few more, even though there's a small puddle of blood on your pants. It's a good thing you brought a change of clothes.

Just a few more. Just a few more. You have to feel something, you have to feel something because otherwise he's succeeded in breaking you. And damn, you really don't want to be broken. Fuck. Too many cuts – too much blood – you nicked something – think damn it, think! But everything's fuzzy – too fuzzy, and there are tears on your cheeks, and you're trying to think, but you just can't because there's so much blood and you fumble with your phone and you dial the phone and you're tying the tourniquet you brought around your wrist – stop the blood, stop the artery you nicked, and you're staring forlornly through the tears at the bottles of Tobias's stash, and his voice is on the phone, and he's calling your name – and you whisper "I'm sorry" before you feel the darkness claiming you.

And as you fall into the void, you realize how broken you truly are.

Next story in series - Aftermath.