SUICIDE HOTLINE: 800-273-8255
warnings: mentions of self harm and alcohol
Relapsing has always been something on your mind, ever since you began your road to sobriety. Not many people have been supportive, though.
It's never been "if" you relapse, it's always been "when" you relapse. It's foolish to you. And the sad part is, Raven was the first one to tell you.
You understand that she was being honest with you, but she would continually tell you the same thing, accompanied with the murderous smile laid upon her face. She seemed odd to you, so you left that therapy group and joined a different one.
After leaving the rather toxic group, you continued your road to sobriety. And now, it's officially been five months since you've touched alcohol. You find yourself to be lucky as hell to be apart of the small percentage of people who succeed in staying clean.
But maybe the reason you haven't touched alcohol is because, well, you've been doing something else when troubling times come your way.
And if Spencer finds out, you think he'll go insane.
Albeit the hurt resonating inside of you, you try your best to put on a face for the team. You've been okay, maybe somewhat confused about your emotions, but you've been okay.
Emily has left you little to any paperwork this morning, which surprised you at first glance when you walked in, but then you realized why. You're five months into recovery.
You finished the stack quite quickly, and even went on to finish some of Luke and Tara's. You spin in your chair, your vision becoming blurred quickly.
You come to a stop and you turn slowly, your eyes flicking up to see Spencer standing over you. He seems happier than usual, due to recent events. You didn't tell him, but he had a calendar.
You purse your lips, choosing to stay silent. You've been distant recently and instead of spending your weekends at his, you've been spending them at yours- alone. You would go to Emily's, but she has things to do and disturbing her peace is something you'd rather not take part in. But the thought is tempting. Her place is rather calm and nowhere do bad memories flood in.
"Five months," he says in a giddy tone. The expression that swifts across his face cracks your bones, making you weak.
Lying to him is something terrifying, and that's why you've chosen to stay distant. You should be able to talk to Spencer about whatever the hell's been going on, and you're sure you can, but you don't want to disappoint him.
You nod. "Yeah, excited," you respond plainly.
His eyebrows scrunch together, concern lacing his lips by the way they turn down. He sets the small cupcake in hand on your desk, his movements slow. "Is something wrong? Did you-"
"No, no definitely not." You shake your head aggressively, leaving you with a short headache. You don't want to look into his cursing eyes, so you bounce them around the room.
"Can we talk?"
You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling your stomach flip inside out. You aren't sure you want to be any closer to him, especially in a room isolated from everyone else. You look around the room, waiting for someone to stop this conversation from happening. Then you see Prentiss walk out of her office.
You get up and fix your blazer, standing inches away from him. You step back, stumbling over the wheel of the chair. "I have to talk to Prentiss, I'll talk to you," you hesitate. "We'll talk later."
You run up the stairs, your boots clacking against the steps. You run out of breath so you stop midway, blocking Prentiss from moving anywhere. "I have to- erm, talk to you."
In a way, you do have to talk to her. You thought you could push the conversation back, setting it to next week maybe. You aren't prepared for it, but neither were you to have a close conversation with Spencer. You had to pick, so you chose the less stressful one.
Emily nods and you follow her up to her office. She twists the doorknob and pushes open the door, revealing the dimly lit room. She maneuvers around her desk and sits down in her chair, motioning for you to do the same.
You slowly make your way to the chair, pulling it open and sitting down. The cushion is hard and it often hurts to sit. You've spoken to her about it, but who would care- right?
You place your hands on your lap, intertwining them. You fight the urge to pick at your skin, but it's more difficult than it seems. You forget what you're in there for a minute, but it suddenly smacks you in the face.
Prentiss clears her throat. "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"
You sit straight in the chair, your back slightly cracking from the movement. "Oh, yeah. I wanted to ask if I could," you pause. "Move in with you?"
Her eyebrows raise and her eyes widen. She leans forward and rests her elbows on the table. "Is something wrong? I'd gladly take you in, I just want to know why."
"Yeah, of course," you state. "It's just that every time I'm in my apartment, I'm reminded of what happened and I can't bear the image."
The statement is true. You thought you would be able to tear the image and scene away from your mind, but it only grew more vivid as time passed.
"Oh. I understand. We can work something out, okay?"
You nod, smiling as nicely as possible. You don't want to return to your desk, so you think smiling creepily at Prentiss for as long as you can will work. You smile, and smile, and continue smiling, until she shifts in her chair and blinks repeatedly, her eyebrows scrunching.
"Are you okay?" She asks in a high pitched tone.
You swallow the lump in your throat. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, I'm not sure. You've been avoiding Spencer and you haven't came out to girl nights," she replies. "Your life has been revolving around work, AA meetings, and therapy for the last month and a half. You don't seem okay."
You remove the smile on your face, tucking it away for later. You often forget about the fact that this team is full of amazing profilers. They can see right through you, and you have no idea how to cover it up. You think you're a great liar, but do others think the same?
"I'm okay. Just, stressed is all."
She reaches for your hand and you lift it from your lap, placing it on the wooden countertop for her to hold. She runs her thumb across the top of your hand. Her fingertips feel like satin and you melt into your chair. Emily is comforting to say the least.
"If you ever need a little break, just come to me, 'kay?" She says, her lips pulling up to offer a loving smile.
You feel obligated to smile, so you do. The corners of your lips twitch up, probably giving the most ugly smile known to man.
She clicks her tongue and you stand, following the queue to exit. You push in the chair and begin walking out of her office, closing the door behind you. You tread down the stairs and walk up to Luke's desk, taking a stack of paperwork.
You try to run back to your desk, but he grips your wrist. You roll your eyes and groan under your breath, turning back around to face him. He glares at you, his eyes screaming "give me my work back," which confuses you because- why would someone want so much paperwork?
"You already took a stack this morning," he reminds you. He lets go of your wrist and takes the paperwork from your hands, placing it back on his desk.
"Yeah, but I have nothing else to do so," you reply. "Please?"
He shakes his head. "Sorry princesa, no can do. But why don't you just take the rest of the day off then? If you have nothing to do."
You stare at him, squinting your eyes in wonder as to why you truly are still at work. You sigh, pursing your lips once you come to a conclusion.
"Fine, but next time let me." You pat his back and nip over to your desk, claiming your bag and slinging it onto your shoulder. You quickly organize your space, putting your pen back into its cup.
You race up the stairs and return back to Prentiss' door, knocking three times. Her voice comes off muffled through the thick door, but you assume she said "come in."
You twist open the doorknob and slightly open the door, peeking your head through. "Hey, is it okay if I take the rest of the day off?"
"Yeah, of course. Just uh- yeah go have fun."
You throw her a thankful smile and close the door. You pace down the 'hall' and down the steps, heading for the elevator. You push open the glass doors and almost make it to the elevator, but-
"Hey, can we talk now?"
You let out an internal sigh, closing your eyes for a split second. Spencer asks questions, dozens of them, especially when your mood cracks in the slightest way.
You turn to him slowly, keeping your eyes downcast in hopes he won't stare into your soul and retrieve all information. "Hey," you say, exaggerating the y.
"Can we talk?" He repeats, digging his hands into his pockets.
"You can walk me to my car if you want," you say, walking up to the elevator and pressing the button.
"Sure," he replies. The doors open and you step inside, holding onto the strap of your bag. You wish to stay silent, but Spencer obviously won't stay that way.
"Can you tell me what's wrong?"
"Nothings wrong, Spence. I'm fine," you lie, pressing your lips into a thin line. Now that you process your tone of voice, your lying is worse than many of the lying unsubs you've faced.
"You're lying," he notes, his voice stern yet laced with care and desperation.
"And if I am? You should understand why so I don't really think I need to explain myself."
He turns around and grabs your forearm, earning a groan from you. You overreacted and now he's probably thinking the worst of things. But it hurt. Not a killing pain, but somewhat of an ache. You pull away in time for the elevator doors to open and you take in a deep breath, rushing out as fast as you can.
You exit the doors, the sound of heavy breathing trailing behind you. Having him find out is one of the worst things imaginable on your mind right now. You want to explain to him about how you don't want to kill yourself, rather to let go of some of the anger cooped inside of you. But the problem is, he thinks you're in denial, but you aren't.
You don't want to die, you just need relief.
"Y/N!" he exclaims, running up behind you and placing his hand on your shoulder. "Y/N what's wrong?"
You jerk your shoulder back, avoiding his touch. You pull your keys out of your pocket and unlock your car, taking hold of the handle and pulling it, opening the door. You throw your bag inside and turn around, finally facing Spencer. You stare up at him, his eyes an open window to his broken heart.
Spencer's supposed to be the first person you tell this kind of stuff to. He promised you that he would help through your journey, but you just threw his words away. He wants to take care of you, and you won't let him.
You continue looking up at him, the seconds passing by and a tear streaming down his cheek by the thirty second mark. You try to refrain yourself from the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes, but the longer you stare, the harder it becomes.
Your vision becomes impaired and you're unable to distinguish the world around you. The flood of tears falls down your cheek, the warmth burning through your skin. Others are around and you don't want them to see you both crying in front of each other, so you decide taking him home with you is best.
You reach your hand up to his cheek and wipe away the tears, running your hand under his dark eyebags. "Come on, I'll take you to my place and we can talk," you say, patting his cheek, then letting go.
He nods, quickly maneuvering around the car to the passenger side and opening the door. You open the door as well and take your bag, throwing it into the backseat. You sit down and pick out the correct key, the smell of copper transferring onto your hands and into your nose. You insert the key into the ignition and twist it, hearing the sound of the car turn on. You switch the car into drive and pull out of your parking spot.
You drive onto the road and you cannot bear the silence, the feeling pulling your hair out of your head. You grab the aux chord that's laying in your cupholder and plug it into your phone, powering it on while you're at a red light. You open the music app and hand your phone to Spencer. "Here," you say.
He takes the device and skims through your music library, the sound of "Imagination" by Foster the People buzzing in your ears. You only have that song in one playlist, and that one is dedicated to him.
He scoffs, setting the phone on his lap. "You have a playlist named after me?"
You tap your fingers on the steering wheel, your nerves coursing through you. 'Of course I do' you say in your mind, 'why wouldn't I?'
"Yeah, I- I listen to it when I," you hesitate to tell the truth. "When I miss you. Or thinking about you."
"Is that why it's your top favorite playlist with the most repeats?"
You let out a breathy laugh, the red crimson blush crawling up your neck and staining your entire face. You didn't realize he could see all of that, and damn, do you feel like a creepy- obsessed chick right now. "Yeah, I guess so."
He scrolls though them and picks out songs you've danced to, his singing crappy but adorable. You believe that maybe he'll forget about the talk and stay with you, even have a dance party again like you usually do. But with the memory he obtains, it's almost impossible.
You continue the drive to your apartment, the songs played becoming muffled in your ears as though the artists are singing into plastic cups. You feel relaxed in the worst way possible, like you have something to worry about but you're choosing to take a break.
You're lucky. You haven't taken a drink in five months and you haven't died, so why do you feel like the shittiest person alive? Your luck has been drained like the pills Spencer threw down the toilet. You know it's still hidden somewhere, but your thought process has blocked you from finding where it's placed.
You pull into your parking spot, turning the car off. You unbuckle your seatbelt and reach into the backseat, taking your bag and gripping it in your hand. You grab the door handle and pull it, opening the car door. You step out and feel the heat beating down on you. It's mid May and you're wearing long sleeves and black pants every day, there is no way you feel comfortable.
You sulk along to your building door, opening it and walking inside. Spencer is behind you, so you hold the door for him. You twist your head to see if he's inside, then you let it go, heading towards the flight of stairs. You hold the strap of your bag while going up, a strong feeling of bricks tied to your ankles.
You finally hit your floor and you take your keys, picking your apartment key and sticking it into the lock. You turn it and hear a click, which is your queue to open the door. You twist the knob and push it open, the dread already filling you from head to toe.
You tread along and drop your bag on the couch, rubbing your eyebrows in agony. You aren't sure how to start the conversation, and jumping into it by saying "well I'm using myself as a human cutting board" is not what you're going to do.
"Spence, I've been doing something that I should probably stop doing, but I don't know how," you state plainly. You stand numb in front of him, your fingernails digging into the palms of your hands.
Spencer tilts his head to the side, his eyes trailing down your body, in attempts to figure you out, you assume. He returns his gaze to your eyes, noticing your glass eyes. You roll on the heels of your boots, pulling your long sleeve into your hands.
He moves in closer to you, his chest heaving up and down. You swallow the lump in your throat and begin sliding your shirt off of your body, ignoring the tightening made in your stomach. You pull the shirt over your head, dropping it on the floor. Your eyes flick back to his hazel eyes, seeing them widen almost instantly.
The cuts on your arms aren't deep enough to cause long term scarring, but they're still visible and still hurt. You feel ashamed to stand in front of him half naked with cuts on your arms, but it's not over. You kick your shoes off and move to your belt, unbuckling it and pulling it out of your pant hoops. You lay it on top of your shirt and continue on the buttons. You unbutton them and pull down the zipper, pausing momentarily.
Does he really have to see this?
You slip off your pants, revealing the small amount on your thighs. There are barely any there, and they wont leave long term scarring either. But to Spencer, they're just as awful.
"I'm sorry," you whisper.
He pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping around your waist. You cry into his chest, your shoulder racking in his arms. You thought life would become better, you thought you were ascending the flight of stairs to success and peace, not descending them.
You feel his chin rest on your head, his warmth radiating onto your cold body. Spencer rakes his fingers through your hair, the delicate and soothing tenderness of his fingertips bringing you down from your breakdown. Spencer hasn't spoken, but in this case his silence means millions of words.
He lowers down and hooks his arms under your knees, picking you up bridal style. He makes his way into your room, delicately placing you on your bed. You sit up and grab a pillow, placing it over your exposed stomach and thighs. Spencer gently grabs your forearm and raises it to his lips, placing kisses on your small wounds.
You're rather surprised that he's kissing them when he's one of the worst germaphobes you've met, but you don't mind the warm acts. He continues, kissing each one until he hits the sixth one. He then removes the pillow, lowering his lips down to your thighs and kissing each one, too. You feel yourself warm up, the blush that was restricted to your cheeks now spreading through your entire body.
He finishes up, and he returns back to your face, planting a soft kiss to your lips. You close your eyes, feeling his peppermint breath hit your face with a strong force. He moves in next to you on the bed and pulls you in. you lay your head on his chest, your exposed body laying on top of the millions of blankets invading your bed,
"I just want to put you in my pocket and carry you around everywhere," he whispers.
You laugh quietly from the comment. "I think I'm small enough. Or maybe you can use a magic trick," you say.
You trace shapes on his chest, the material of his clothing quite uncomfortable, but you bear the minimal discomfort. You can hear his heartbeat, the beats a song in your head that you can't get enough of.
Spencer is going to help you, you have no doubt in your mind he will. You have one problem under control, but now you have to take care of the other one. Your life is going wrong left and right, but you have Spencer. And even if your life is crumbling into dust, you have him.
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heyhey:) surprisingly I didn't cry while writing this, so yay. but this chapter is emotional and I have added another terrifying piece of trauma, but I promise the story will all settle and make sense, if it hasn't already.
but, if you are performing acts of self harm, I am always here if you need to speak to anyone. It is extremely difficult for me to talk to people due to the lack of friends I have, so I understand. I am always open, I care about all of you<3 (my instagram is in my tiktok bio if anyone wants to message me)
-keyly
SUICIDE HOTLINE: 800-273-8255