addicted {spencer reid}

Chapter 20

Help,
I have done it again.
I have been here many times before.
Hurt myself again today,
And the worst part is there's no one else to blame.
Sia, "Breathe Me"

Warning: This chapter may be triggering for some readers. Read at your own risk. If you need to talk to someone, feel free to talk to me. I love each and every one of you, stay strong!

Courtney's POV

Christmas went by quickly. My mom got me a new phone, some clothes, some posters, some albums. Spencer got me some money, some books, and a t-shirt that I had been wanting, one that sports Demi Lovato's face on it.

Today is New Years Eve. Garcia is hosting a party at her house tonight with her, Morgan, Hotch, Prentiss, JJ, Will, Reid, Haley, Kevin, Maeve, Morgan's girlfriend Savannah, and I. Garcia finally asked Kevin out on a date.

I haven't been any better, in fact, I feel like I'm getting worse. Even with Spencer here, I still feel extremely stressed and under pressure.

"When do you have to leave tonight?" Mom asks.

"Garcia told me I could go over at 7," I reply. She nods.

"Okay. I'm leaving at four today for a business trip, remember?" She announces, trying to stick it in my head like butter.

"Yeah, I know," I reply. She smiles.

"You're going to be okay for a few days while I'm gone?" She asks. I nod, swallowing back the lump that resides in my throat.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I reply.

"Okay. I need to go pack my bags," She says. I nod and watch as she disappears up the stairs, the door creaking open and slamming shut.

I release a deep sigh, catching my reflection in the mirror. I feel like a disgrace, like I can't do anything right.

I run upstairs to my room, running to the bathroom. I lock the door behind me, sinking to the ground. I rest my head in my hands. I need to talk to someone, I need to get help. I'm finally admitting it.

My mind takes control over my eyes and I find myself looking in the direction of the toiletry bag that holds my blade in the ripped lining.

Before I can stop myself, I crawl across the cold floor, stretching my arm out to reach the toiletry bag. I zip it open, fumbling with the tattered fabric. My hand travels inside the lining, and my hand rests on something cold. The blade.

I grab it, bringing it up so I can see it with my own two wide, bloodshot eyes. The light reflects off of it, tinting in my eyes.

A week clean is nothing, who cares if I cut again?

I slide my pants down, revealing the maze of cuts that are mysteriously painted across my skin. I press the blade to an open patch of skin, a canvas ready to be painted on.

I want to paint a picture, the only problem is the canvas is my skin, the paintbrush is the cold, metal blade, and the paint is the crimson red blood that the blade seeks out.

The paintbrush does a delicate dance across my skin, like a violin bow going back and forth, back and forth. The blade dances around my skin in a synchronized melody, each move careful and delicate.

When I'm done, there's a tainted picture painted across my skin, one that hides from prying, nosy eyes.

I'm always taken away somewhere else every time I do it. There's always a feeling of security and insecurity. You feel like you're becoming your secret.