Broken

Reid. If you're watching, you're not responsible for this. You understand me? He's perverting God to justify murder. You are stronger than him. He cannot break you.

Gideon's words echoed through his head the whole week he took off work after Tobias. The team insisted he take off after the ordeal so he could "recover". He didn't want to take any days off. He didn't want to be alone. He was afraid if he was alone, he'd succumb to the intense cravings. The cravings he didn't know he could ignore for much longer.

Dr. Spencer Reid sighed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. His messenger bag sat on the kitchen table, seemingly taunting him. He paced back and forth, back and forth, quickly, wanting and not wanting what he'd hidden inside the bag.

You are stronger than him. He cannot break you.

Ha, Reid thought bitterly. If Gideon could see me now, would he still believe that? Somehow, he doubted it. No one would believe it if they knew what had been going through his head since being rescued.

He'd hoped he'd be able to forget it. That he'd be able to forget everything having to do with Tobias Hankel. But his eidetic memory, which he usually thought of as a gift, was proving to be a curse in this case. Thanks to it he remembered everything clearly. The images were so clear in his head and, as a result, his nightmares were vivid. He craved the dilaudid the most in the mornings after he woke up. It had taken every bit of restraint to not grab the bottles and the syringe and plunge it into his arm. To feel the release. To not be able to think about things. To forget, just for a little while.

But he couldn't. Not if he wanted to go back to work. He knew during the mandatory psychological evaluation they'd check his arms for any fresh track marks. He had to resist the cravings. He had to. He had to try not to think about other places on his body he could shoot up that wouldn't be noticed during the evale. Groaning in frustration, he grabbed his bag off the table and marched quickly to his bedroom. He opened his closet and threw the bag inside, shutting the door lightning fast. He collapsed on the end of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and running his hands over his face.

He knew what he had to do. To distract himself from the drugs he wanted and didn't want. He knew what he'd been doing instead of drugs was just as bad as shooting up, but a part of him had convinced itself that what he was doing was a good distraction from the temptations of the dilaudid. The high he felt from this didn't make him forget, but it did make him feel better for a while and made the cravings lessen for a while. He ran his hands over his face again as he sighed, his decision made. He got up and walked to the right side of his bed, where his bedside table was. Opening the drawer, Reid pulled out the box cutter inside.

He placed the box cutter on his bed, got up and locked the door to his bedroom, just in case. Morgan did have a key to his apartment, after all. There was never any telling when he'd choose to stop by. After ensuring the door was locked tight, he took off his pants, grabbed the box cutter and went into the bathroom that was connected only to his bedroom.

Sitting in his boxers on the edge of his tub, he hesitated.

He cannot break you.

Staring at the multiple scars on his legs starting where his boxers ended, Reid wondered if he wasn't broken already. He hated doing this, yet in a sick way he loved it. Loved watching the blood drip off his legs. Loved feeling the release it provided. Loved that it distracted his mind from the intense cravings of the dilaudid.

The dilaudid he loved so much more than this. At the moment, he'd say he loved it more than his job. When the cravings were really bad, he wondered if he wouldn't be better off just giving in. Forgetting his job, his friends. Fogetting Gideon and his words.

Gideon.

You are stronger than him.

No, Reid thought to himself as he positioned the razor of the box cutter. I'm not. With that he stopped hesitating and pressed down on the box cutter, dragging it down his leg, blood spilling out of the wound and into the tub. He winced for a moment; it was a much deeper cut than he'd intended. The pain quickly passed, however, and the relief soon followed. It took the edge off the cravings and he watched, interested and disinterested, at the blood on his leg. He took his finger and wiped up some of the blood, bringing it to his mouth. He sucked his finger clean, vaguely wondering if there was perhaps some dilaudid coursing through his veins down here.

Three million Americans engage in some form of self injury.

An estimated two million Americans purposely cut or burn themselves.

90% of self injurers begin cutting as teenagers.

More than half of self injurers are victims of abuse, and most report emotionally abusive or neglectful childhoods.

Self injury is prevalent in all races and economic backgrounds.

Although most self injurers are women, up to 40% are men.

Most people who self injure are not trying to commit suicide, instead using it as a coping mechanism.

Self injury does become an addiction as it helps you feel better, but only for a short period of time.

Most people who self harm are not "crazy", although there are some exceptions.

The statistics went round and round Reid's head of their own accord, making him desperately wish he didn't know so much. They were stressing him out again, these damn statistics, so he pressed the blade down again. As he pushed it into his skin, he felt his heart rate go down again and he again watched the blood flow into the tub. The few seconds of pain he felt with each cut was worth it; he felt the slight high, the relief he was looking for.

A/N: I found this on my laptop, not sure when it was written. I'm sure I meant it to be longer but after discovering and re-reading it, decided it sounded fine as a one shot. If you want more, let me know.