Rustic, but hardly pure. Nature, as a rule, was meant to uphold a tradition of truth — the dirt beneath your feet, and the prick against your flesh meant that, somehow, you were more human than you were surrounded by concrete and noise. However, when sealed away from the buzz and hum of city veins, the silence meant to cleanse him dirtied his hands more than ever.
Choked his voice.
Stifled his lungs, his desperate words.
We can’t be saved.
Smoke rose from a hearth of wary flames (afraid, afraid — everyone’s afraid) to illuminate his prison. Dancing against tired walls, the reflection of warmth, tainted warmth, spelled no more than cruelty unrequested.
Biting, teeth, fangs, ropes about his wrists. Manacles that knew, unnervingly aware, that torment did not end when the solitude returned. In that sense, he was protected, or at the very least accompanied — by his horror, his anxiety, and crippling fear.
I’m just an i n s t r u m e n t of God.
Instinctually, his tongue (once bitter, dry) darted forward to heal creases inspired like rivers upon his lower lip. This was practice, commonplace, when the hallowed halls of his thoughts became haunted of spectres of his past. Marks against the crook of his elbow, his mother, death. Wrapped about the space, and his throat, like a noose written in Genesis.
♟ — ❝I don’t camp.❞ Came his all too quick reaction - each nerve in his countenance reacting (twitching) in tandem. ❝Bugs — leeches. Countless species — some still undiscovered — have the potential to poison, even partially consume any unwary travellers of the woods.❞
I’m Raphael. ❝——— Not to mention the lasting smell of smoke that haunts your clothes for weeks after the fact.❞
♤ — fear was an emotion accompanied by many things — this job, especially. fear of death, fear of pain, and most of all, fear of that breaking point that everyone was sure would arrive at one point or the other. no one knew when, though, and perhaps that was the most frightening thing about it. fear, for he, was associated with Tobias Hankel. of all the unsubs they’d gone through, all the men and women they’d thrown away, the lingering, ghosting touch of Hankel still remained.
( the thought of losing Spencer still remained. )
a lingering emotion that had yet to be spoken of throughout the team. nothing but a discouraging silence wafted throughout the room, at times, the emptiness of Reid’s desk cutting through the air like a knife. no one wanted to speak of the happenings of that night, yet not speaking of it seemed to be making the situation all the more real. all the more terrifying.
❝ I’m gonna go check on him. ❞
it was the only warning given before Morgan was out of the building, into his car and on his way to the man’s house. the loss of the genius’ voice was scalding — itched at his skin in the worst way possible. he was okay, physically, but no one knew the emotional toll it had, no one would understand, no matter how hard they tried.
and Derek was seconds away from fleeing back to his car once he’d worked up the courage to make his way to the door. but that would be selfish, or, at least, that’s what he’d let himself come to believe.
the sound of knocking resonated through his ears before he even realized it was him creating the sound. ❝ Reid, open up — it’s me. Came by to check up on ya. ❞
♟ — Tell me it doesn’t make it better.
Regulation, above that, common sense, whined in his ears when he opted to part and pursue the divided radical into a sea of disorientation. Waiting at her side, perhaps, the two could at least have put up a fight reasonable enough to momentarily detain a trinity of thought housed in a single form. Perhaps. In this line of work, and down the path of life coincidence persuaded him down, nothing remained concrete.
Pinpricks of crimson were a gateway to death’s euphoria. Veins, and healing bones alike, stung with rejection that he knew to be futile. Robbing a corpse of its eternal safeguard moments after the light dwindled and died from toxic eyes could be justified. Could be, should be, were the purchase not that worthy of his official revocation.
Hands, fingers, nails were still grimed with blood, despite the repetition of cleansing. The only solution, though his stomach turned, and his mind barked refusal, was to pull the curtains on his view to abolish the sight of crimson for that of a nostalgic night.
Why choose the washroom to submit? It could be the shudder of his reflection before all sanity dissolved into black, or the frigid embrace of the tiled floor that ushered him gracelessly back to the world of the living. Truthfully, and the heart of his consciousness, it was the flow of water provided from the sink that sealed over the open wounds left by remorse that covered his flesh and soul.
vibrations like thunder stirred him back.
just barely.
He inhaled, the air seared his lungs and throat. Calloused digits scraped at the floor, shakily rose his weight on trembling arms – [ side effects: clamminess, confusion, dizziness, fatigue – ], and the energy exerted somehow gave him leverage to lean his back upon the cool lip of his tub.
❝I —- take it Hotch didn't tell you that I’m sick.❞ The voice that left him, even to his own senses, came through disembodied and frail. Both hands rose, shaking for what felt for weeks that continued to multiply, cupped his sallow countenance and dug harshly into his eyes, ❝Sick enough to call into work, and enough to leave you bedridden unless you —- go – go back and leave me be.❞ Not convincing, not convincing – don’t you lie to me, boy.
Anonymous: Wood smoke
