Premeditated Chapter 19
To apologize or not to apologize? That was the question to be agonized over.
On the BAU jet, Reid snuck a peek at Emily sitting across the aisle from him. She sat with her head against a window, her eyes closed, her hands on her lap, breathing slowly, her breath fogging up the plexiglas, apparently asleep. He wondered whether she was actually asleep. All the physical evidence pointed to her being actually asleep. Her eyes were closed, and her eyelids were completely relaxed in a manner that was distinct from the way in which she would have scrunched them shut had she been awake and resting her eyes. Her arms lay in front of her with her hands on her lap, having crashed down from their earlier position folded across her chest. Both her arms and hands were completely relaxed, their lack of tightness coinciding with the looseness of her eyelids, together displaying the low muscle tone associated with sleep. She was breathing slowly a rate of 14 breaths per minute. That was on the low end of the range for waking adults, with respiratory rates between 14 and 18 breaths per minute, but in the middle of the range for sleeping adults, with respiratory rates between 12 and 16 breaths per minute. The ranges were averages for the entire human population. Without her personal waking and sleeping respiratory rates as controls, her current respiratory rate was inconclusive as an indicator of sleep or wakefulness. He wished that her eyes were moving rapidly within her eyelids, so he knew for sure that she was experiencing REM sleep and therefore sleep in general. If she were asleep, then what was she dreaming? If she were awake, then what was she thinking? In either case, what was she feeling? He wished to know. He wished to know for sure.
What was she feeling? Was she feeling angry? Was she feeling angry with him? Was she angry with him for taking up the couch that she had wanted to sit on? Three hours earlier, when the BAU had trudged grudgingly onto the jet on the evening of an interrupted Sunday, Emily had wanted to sit on the couch, but Reid hadn't moved to let her. Three hours later, when the BAU jet was still stranded on the runway during a raging snowstorm, Reid didn't know whether Emily was angry with him for taking up the couch. All the physical evidence that he could discern pointed to her not being angry with him, but in the case of conscious feelings, unlike in the case of unconscious states of mind and body, physical evidence was easily missed or misinterpreted. As a profiler, Reid knew that anger came in multiple forms that were classified into two categories: passive and aggressive. Physical evidence was useful for recognizing aggressive anger, but even so, not all forms of it. Passive anger was easy to miss or misinterpret based on physical evidence alone. Aggressive anger was an acute illness that flared up and burned itself out within minutes. Passive anger was a chronic illness that persisted past or with the stressor to mutate itself into a form that was no longer recognizable as anger at all. Reid wondered whether Emily was angry with him. He wished to know for sure. He wished that she would tell him. Then, he would know for sure.
If she were angry with him, then what should he do? Should he get up, step across the aisle, and apologize for his inconsiderate behavior? Should he do it now? Should he risk waking her up to do so? Should he do it later? Should he wait until she was definitely rather than possibly awake to apologize for his inconsiderate behavior? Was it better to apologize now or later? What would she think and feel about him if he apologized now, possibly waking her up to do so, as if he were desperately seeking her approval? What would she think and feel about him if he apologized later, waiting until she had possibly forgotten the offense, as if he were obsessively analyzing it and desperately seeking her approval? Should he apologize at all? Had he offended her enough to apologize? Did he think that he had? Did she think that he had? Was she expecting an apology from him? What would she think and feel about him if she were expecting an apology that he didn't offer? What would she think and feel about him if she weren't expecting an apology that he offered?
He didn't know. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to behave, not even around the colleagues with whom he had worked for the past six years. He knew them, but he didn't know how to behave around them. He could profile them, analyzing and systematizing their psychologies and behaviors based on all the facts that he knew about them, but he didn't know who they were, because they didn't tell him who they were. They didn't say what they meant. They didn't tell him what they thought and felt. They didn't tell him what they thought and felt about him. They didn't tell him how to behave around them. As a profiler successfully profiling people, he knew them. As a person unsuccessfully connecting with people, he didn't know who they were. As a profiler successfully profiling people, they knew him. As a person unsuccessfully connecting with people, they didn't know who he was. They didn't know who he was, because he couldn't tell them who he was. Because they didn't say what they meant, he couldn't say what he meant. Morgan would give him "The Look" and laugh. What did the laugh mean? What was Morgan thinking and feeling as he laughed? What was Morgan thinking and feeling about him? He suspected that Morgan disliked him. Because they didn't tell him what they thought and felt, he couldn't tell them what he thought and felt. Rossi would give him "The Look" and snark. What did the snark mean? What was Rossi thinking and feeling as he snarked? What was Rossi thinking and feeling about him? He suspected that Rossi disliked him. Because they didn't tell him what they thought and felt about him, he couldn't tell them what he thought and felt about them. JJ would give him "The Look" and roll her eyes. What did the eye roll mean? What was JJ thinking and feeling as she rolled her eyes? What was JJ thinking and feeling about him? He suspected that JJ disliked him. Because they didn't tell him how to behave around them, he couldn't tell them how to behave around him. Emily would give him "The Look" and shake her head. What did the head shake mean? What was Emily thinking and feeling as she shook her head? What was Emily thinking and feeling about him? He suspected that Emily disliked him. He didn't know for sure, because they didn't tell him. For sure, he knew what "The Look" meant. "The Look" meant, "Shut up and go away, we don't want to know who you are, you annoying whiny self-absorbed know-it-all arrogant obnoxious smartass blowhard!" Most of the time, he shut up. He wished to go away as well, but most of the time, such as now, he had nowhere to go.
Occasionally, he knew how to behave around them. Whenever and wherever that happened, he behaved that way around them. The hard part was figuring it out, so at any given moment, he devoted most of his mental faculties to it. They were the large majority, and he was the small minority, so it was his duty to fit in amongst them, no matter how mentally and physically exhausted it made him and no matter how bad and wrong and false and not himself he felt during it. They expected him to behave a certain way around them, but he didn't expect them to behave a certain way around him. They were the large majority, and he was the small minority, so it was not his right to expect it. He didn't expect it, but he wished it. He wished them to behave a certain way around him. Around him, he wished them to say what they meant, to tell him what they thought and felt, to tell him what they thought and felt about him, to tell him how to behave around them, to respond when he said what he meant, to respond when he told them what he thought and felt, to respond when he told them what he thought and felt about them, to respond when he told them how to behave around him. This way, he would know who they were, and they would know who he was, all as people rather than profilers. It was his dearest wish, but it was only a wish. Because they didn't behave how he wished them to behave around him, he didn't know who they were, they didn't know who he was, and they didn't know that he didn't know how they expected him to behave around them.
How did they expect him to behave around them? They didn't tell him, so he didn't know for sure. When and where did they expect him to speak up or shut up? When and where did they expect him to play smart or dumb? When and where did they expect him to lead or follow? When and where did they expect him to apologize or not? They didn't tell him, so he didn't know for sure. If he knew for sure, then he would do whatever they expected, whenever and wherever they expected it. All they had to do was to tell him. Whatever they told him to do, he would do it. Whenever and wherever they told him to do it, he would do it then and there. If Emily told him to apologize, then he would do it. If Emily told him to apologize now, on the BAU jet, then he would do it now, on the BAU jet. If Emily told him to apologize later, at the hotel, then he would do it later, at the hotel. All she had to do was to tell him. Why didn't she tell him? Why didn't they tell him? They didn't tell him, because they expected him to know. They expected him to know how to behave around them, but he didn't know how to behave around them. He didn't know, because they didn't tell him. They knew how to behave around each other, and they knew each other, because they were like each other. He didn't know how to behave around them, and he didn't know who they were, and they didn't know who he was, because he wasn't like them. He was Him. They were Others. He was an Other. They were Them.
His dilemma was best captured not in the works of Dr. Hans Asperger, who had understood it from the outside in, but in the words of Dr. Albert Einstein, who had understood it from the inside out, "The question that sometimes drives me hazy, 'Am I or the Others crazy?'"
Silently, Reid flipped over onto his right side to face the back of the couch.
"Owwwwwww!" silently.
Silently, Reid slammed the side of his wrong foot against the surface of the couch.
While agonizing over whether or not to apologize for taking up the couch, he had forgotten why he was taking up the couch in the first place. He was taking up the couch due to his injured ankle. Due to his injured ankle, he was sprawling out with his foot up on the couch, so the feverish reddish-black already-swollen and ever-swelling joint could break away from the torments of gravity, if only for the hour that it should have taken to fly down to Raleigh. That was why he was taking up the couch. That was why he hadn't moved to let Emily sit on the couch.
Not that she had known, and not that he had told her. If Emily had known, then Hotch would have known, and if Hotch had known, then he wouldn't have been here at all, taking up the couch and agonizing over whether or not to apologize for taking up the couch. Hotch would have thrown him off the jet, asking him what was he thinking, going on a case with a sprained and possibly broken ankle for which he hadn't sought medical attention. Hotch would have glared at him from the doorway, asking him what was he thinking, driving to the airport with the same injured ankle. Hotch would have called Anderson to pick him up like Anderson was his Mommy, told Anderson to drive him to the emergency room like Anderson was his Mommy, ordered Anderson to take him home afterwards like Anderson was his Mommy. Hotch would have told him what to do, but he wouldn't have wished to do it, so he hadn't told anyone, neither Emily or Hotch.
Still, Reid felt good that Hotch would have told him what to do. Hotch wasn't like him, but Hotch often told him what to do, so he liked Hotch a lot.
For the next few days or however long it would take to solve the case, he would have to fake it, masking his limp under a springy bouncy gait, a lopsided lurching stride, and the kind of tiptoeing skittering tread that was best described as a "little girl run" - anything to avoid setting his heel down and transferring his weight to the back of his foot. Combined with his customary spastic fidgeting and abominable posture, the symptoms of his subversion would lie only slightly outside his normal spectrum of physical mannerisms. Throughout the fakery, he hoped that none of his colleagues would do to him what Emily had done earlier, nudging him in the foot with her knee in an apparently good-natured manner that he hoped had actually been good-natured, and kicking his nerves, muscles, and bones into a frantic quest not to blast into smithereens as the pain receptors of his brain embarked upon the same quest not to do the same thing, not to themselves, which would have been welcome, but to their host, which would have been very unwelcome indeed.
Still, Reid felt bad about taking up the couch that Emily had wanted to sit on. Should he apologize? He didn't know for sure, because she hadn't told him. She hadn't told him what to do. Emily wasn't like him, and Emily rarely told him what to do, so he didn't like Emily quite as much as he liked Hotch.
If she were like him, then the question would never have come up to be agonized over. Casual apologies and the offering and non-offering of such were some of the social complications that existed for the two-fold benefit of torturing Him and People Like Him and doing whatever they did for Others that made Others so fond of them. When he was truly sorry, he wouldn't have wished to agonize over whether or not to apologize. When he was truly sorry, he would have wished to say that he was truly sorry, in a truly sorry manner that would have offered another a genuine expression of his genuine self, to have and to hold, whether or not they had ever seen or would ever see each other again. Except that he could never have offered such an expression to an Other, because such an expression would never have been recognized, by an Other, as either an apology or a genuine expression of his genuine self. He would have done it all wrong, and the scalars that multiplied the insufferability and/or offense vectors would have skyrocketed to unbelievable heights for the Other. Afterwards, they wouldn't have been able to speak to each other for weeks, months, or years. They wouldn't have been able to work together. They wouldn't have been able to play together. They wouldn't have been able to have a meaningful relationship with each other. Amongst Others, he was stuck, always wondering what he should have done, should be doing, and should do around them, always wondering how to behave around them and when and where to behave that way around them, always wishing to give of his genuine self and receive of their genuine selves, but never giving or receiving any genuine expression of any genuine self, because he and/or they couldn't and/or wouldn't. In the way that he wished, he found it impossible to connect with them, so he found it possible to kill them. He never worried about accidentally killing someone like him, because People Like Him he could recognize from the opposite side of a crowded lecture hall without so much as the exchange of a confident (nervous) smile, a friendly (awkward) wave, or a meaningless (meaningful) pleasantry (factoid).
Around People Like Him, Reid behaved how he wished them to behave around him. Around People Like Him, he felt the urge to meet and greet and engage in twelve-hour-long conversations on topics ranging from the evolutionary advantages of life cycles with prime-numbered periodicities for 13- and 17-year cicadas to the mechanism by which the Higgs field conferred mass to all elementary particles except the photon and gluon to the application of Grubbs' Catalyst for sealing microcracks on spaceship hulls through ring opening metathesis polymerization (ROMP) of dicyclopentadiene to the allegorical interpretations of pagan mythologies in the context of the Christian worldview in medieval literature to the paternalistic manipulations of humaniform robots in the development of galaxy-wide human societies in the "Empire", "Robot", and "Foundation" series. Or they could mix and match intellectual topics with the special interests that they shared - their ant farms, their LEGO collections, their comic books. Afterwards, they could get to know each other and make friends with each other and go out to dinner together and go see a movie together and drive around town together and set stuff on fire together and blow stuff up together and work together and play together and have meaningful relationships with each other. In time, maybe after a few minutes, they could offer each other some genuine expressions of their genuine selves, maybe some tidbits about how awkward and bumbling and clumsy and discombobulated they felt amongst Others and what it would be like to live in a utopia in which people said what they meant, told each other what they thought and felt, told each other what they thought and felt about each other, and didn't tell each other how to behave around each other, because it didn't matter as long as intent was good and motive absent, which were the assumptions that formed the foundation for that particular world. Then, after they had parted ways, they wouldn't have to hear from each other for a few weeks or months. Perhaps they would never hear from each other again. After a few weeks or months, if and when they had met up by appointment only, they would do the same things that they had done before, as if only a few days had passed. Afterwards and in time, then and after a few weeks or months, all this could occur. It could, or it could not. Whichever. Either way, Reid wouldn't have tortured himself by pre-guessing and guessing and post-guessing his way through all his personal and professional interactions. They would have felt good and right and true, he would have felt good and right and true and himself during them, and a genuine sense of belonging would have risen up to embrace him with its warmth and comfort. It would have been a thrilling high.
Around Others, Reid behaved in an awkward bumbling clumsy discombobulated manner in which he tortured himself by pre-guessing and guessing and post-guessing his way through all his personal and professional interactions. Around Others, he felt the urge to kill. It was a defense mechanism of small minority versus large majority to overcome the overwhelming oppression that he had suffered all his life in a dystopian society in which he had been designated an alien, odd and quirky and eccentric and whatever, to be disliked and ignored and patronized and whatevered whenevered wherevered, even though the world of the dystopia had been just as much his birthright as it had been theirs. Reid was a football fan. In football, defense won championships, but also in football, the best defense was a good offense.
On Monday morning, it was midnight. Outside, it was snowing. It was snowing hard, with thunder and lightning, and the BAU jet was stranded on the tarmac. Inside, everyone was tired and sleepy, and most everyone appeared to be asleep. The only person who was awake was Dr. Spencer Reid, who felt bad about and was truly sorry for taking up the couch and one but not the other for shooting and killing eight people who weren't like him on the Sunday that had, just now, passed silently away.
Reid felt bad about shooting and killing the large formidable man in the Mets baseball cap. He had wished to make a genuine connection with the man, but the man hadn't moved to let him.
First, he had worked up the courage to approach the man. That hadn't been easy for him, and he would never have done it if he hadn't wished to shoot and kill the man so so so very very very much. He had said "Hi", and the man had said "Hey". The man had responded favorably to him, probably because he had looked normal and blended in as an outdoorsy "Weekend Warrior" type hiking through the woods on a gray cloudy Sunday that had held the promise of snow. Something about the man had encouraged him to continue. The man had been wearing a baseball cap with the brim pulled tightly over his eyes just as he had worn his own baseball cap with the brim pulled tightly over his own eyes. The baseball cap had encouraged him to continue, so he had continued.
Second, he had made small talk with the man, asking him if he had thought that it was going to snow that day. That had also been difficult for him, but he had been encouraged when the man had responded favorably again, sharing something about himself, that he had been getting his jog in before the shit hit the fan. At first, he hadn't understood what the man had meant. What shit? What fan? Then, he had recalled the small talk and realized that the man had been referring to the abject incompetence with which the residents and municipality of DC handled each and every sprinkling of snow. He had gotten it! Not only had he gotten it, but he had also responded! In contempt, he had snickered at all the suckers who suddenly lost the ability to drive as soon as the white stuff started falling out of the sky. He had responded appropriately! He had responded appropriately, because he had recalled that in Southern California, where he had learned to drive, all the suckers also suddenly lost the ability to drive as soon as the wet stuff started falling out of the sky. Here or there, white stuff or wet stuff, he had always admitted that he was one of the suckers who suddenly lost the ability to drive as soon as anything started falling out of the sky, not that he drove all that well even when nothing was falling out of the sky. The successful interaction had been a thrilling high, so much so that he had soared into the bombarding sky only to fall back into his normal spectrum of social behaviors, sharing something about himself and the turtles that had been made up to be played out in one of the alternate realities in which he was not himself.
Often, Reid played out alternate realities in his mind. In them, he made friends with all kinds of people, all wishing to have meaningful relationships with him as he did with them, and all knowing how they all thought and felt about each other without having to wonder about or guess about or ask or tell each other. In alternate realities, he felt so good and right and true and not himself that the world of the dystopia appeared to be the world of the utopia. In this particular reality, after he had lied about himself and the turtles, the man had responded to him, so he had felt almost as good and right and true and not himself as he had in those alternate realities in which he didn't wonder if anyone would respond to him.
The man had responded to him!!! The man had known about the turtles!!! The man had asked about the turtles!!! The man had asked about him!!! The man had wanted to know about him!!!
!!!
Quickly, he had concocted another series of lies about himself and the turtles. He had wished to play out this particular reality, so he had made it up on the fly. Desperately, he had wished to make it up and play it out with the man. He had wished that it would end well, with a genuine connection with the man, who was someone, anyone, he didn't care who, for him to connect with, even though he had long ago given up wishing to connect with anyone, Others or People Like Him, and now left it all up to chance, not choice, as he had explained to the last one with whom he had made a genuine connection. This he had wished so very much that he had almost but not quite forgotten that he had also wished to shoot and kill the man so so so very very very much. In the end, the man had fulfilled his wish for him. Just when the interaction had appeared to sweeten, it had actually soured.
While clambering down the embankment, the man had remarked that the activity, his purported special interest that purportedly took up all his spare time, had sounded like fun. That was when the question had come up to be agonized over. Had the man really meant that his purported special interest had sounded like fun? Or had the man only said and not meant that his purported special interest had sounded like fun? He didn't know! He couldn't tell! Maybe the man had meant it. Maybe the man hadn't meant it. He didn't know! He couldn't tell! He had been burned so many times beforrrrrrre! So many times before, he had been burrrrrrrned! In his imagination, he had conjured up a jug of water to put out the fire. The water had been muddy, so he had taken it upon himself to stir it clean.
He had wished to know for sure, so he had asked the man. He had asked the man if he had wanted to join in his purported special interest. He had claimed that his purported special interest was helpful for relaxing on the weekends and also for blowing off steam from work. He had waited for the man to answer his question. The man hadn't answered his question. The man hadn't answered that yes, he would like to join in his purported special interest, or no, he wouldn't like to join in his purported special interest. The man had only raised his eyebrows to repeat his words back to him in the form of a question. Why hadn't the man answered the question with an answer? Why had the man answered the question with a question? What had the man meant by what he had said? Had the man really meant that his purported special interest had sounded like fun? Or had the man only said and not meant that his purported special interest had sounded like fun? Had the man wanted to join in? Had the man not wanted to join in? He hadn't known for sure, because the man hadn't told him. What he had known for sure was that the red-tipped dial on the Kill-O-Meter had jumped up a big notch. After that, the only thing that had remained to be done was the playing out of the alternate reality in which he was an odd quirky eccentric young man who just happened, in all realities, to carry around a murder weapon in the depths of his winter coat.
Casually, he had made a comment about the shooting range. Earnestly, he had bent over to look for the turtle. He had spoken to the elusive turtle just as he would speak to the imaginary turtle and just as he would have spoken to the real turtle had she been there and he with her. He could speak to turtles, real or imaginary, because he had always enjoyed a special rapport with children and animals. It was called "The Reid Effect". Children and animals flocked to him, and he felt warm and comfortable around them. Children let him pick them up and carry them off, even though he was a complete stranger to them. Animals approached him and barked out their greetings, even though they could have approached and greeted someone else instead. Amongst his colleagues, Hotch was the one who had initially recognized the unusual phenomenon. Reid liked Hotch a lot.
Eventually, after a few minutes of alternately conversing with the man and the turtle, the man had wanted to leave. That was the evidence that he hadn't made a genuine connection with him. The realization had made him anxious, nervous, scared, angry. It had stressed him out. It had fried his brain. His brain had melted down. He had choked. In the midst of the meltdown, he had spewed out random but accurate factoids about the turtles and the poplars in the park. He had spewed out random and inaccurate factoids about the imaginary turtle and her imaginary streaks. He had accosted the man with a rock that had turned into a turtle. In response, the man had patronized him. The man hadn't said what he had meant. The man hadn't told him what he had thought and felt. The man hadn't told him what he had thought and felt about him. The man hadn't told him how to behave around him. The man had patronized and therefore rejected him over and over and over again and again and again. "Yeah, sure, you bet. Yeah, sure, you bet. Yeah, sure, you bet." He had felt so bad and wrong and false and himself. He had felt so awkward bumbling clumsy discombobulated! Defective! Defective! Defective! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! The dial on the Kill-O-Meter had jumped up another big notch, past the blue line that said and meant "Kill". At "Kill", he had felt an overwhelming urge to shoot and kill the man just to get rid of him, so he could reset his brain in peace, quiet, and solitude. That was when the turtle had turned back into the rock. That was when he had drawn the murder weapon and aimed it at the man.
Faced with the murder weapon, the man had assigned him motives where he had none. He didn't like it when people assigned him motives where he had none, so he had taken it upon himself to right the wrong. He had explained that no, he wasn't a mugger, and yes, he was here to blow off some steam from work. He had explained how he had blown off steam then and there, back when and where he had friends like him to blow off steam with, and how he blew off steam here and now, where and when he had friends not like him, so he had to blow off steam all by himself. He had told the man how to behave around him. He had told the man what to do. The man hadn't done it, so he had shot and killed the man who wasn't like him.
For shooting and killing the large formidable man in the Mets baseball cap, Reid felt bad. The baseball cap had not been much protection after all. The bullet had pierced the swirly orange logo. The image bothered him as he viewed it in his mind. The thought bothered him as he thought it in his mind. The feeling bothered him as he felt it in his mind.
After the feeling of power came the feeling of remorse. Reid felt remorse for shooting and killing the man. In the rainbow, remorse was indigo, the color on the violet side of blue and the red side of violet, the color that may or may not be discernible to the human eye. In the rainbow, the only reason "ROY G. BIV" was not "ROY G. BV" was because Sir Isaac Newton had been obsessed with the number seven. The seven colors of the rainbow, the seven musical notes, the seven celestial objects, the seven days of the week - all special interests of Sir Isaac Newton. Without indigo, seven would have been six, and six would have been unacceptable to the superstitious old alchemist who had analyzed the Bible thoroughly enough to have prophesied, and had yet to be proven wrong, that the world would end no earlier than the year 2060.
With the short slender woman with the bangs and the braid, Reid had played out the alternate reality in which he was a shy awkward young man seeking to find a girlfriend amongst the woman's daughters, nieces, friends, or whoevers, and who just happened, in all realities, to carry around a murder weapon in the depths of his winter coat. In this particular reality, he had faked a fake voice, just like the fake voices that female telemarketers faked on the phone to trick elderly victims into purchasing their useless valueless products and services. With the woman, as with the man, the same sequence of events had occurred. He had worked up the courage to approach, very quickly this time. She had responded favorably. He had continued, st-st-stutter-ter-tering and st-st-stammer-mer-mering slightly. She had responded favorably again, sharing something about herself and her husband and assigning him motives where he had none. She had been wrong, so he had taken it upon himself to right the wrong. As usual, he had done it all wrong, but in the process, he had come up with a great idea for a potential special interest that he now felt an increasingly overwhelming urge to pursue. He had shared his idea. She had wanted to leave. That was the evidence that he hadn't made a genuine connection with her. The realization had made him anxious, nervous, scared, angry. It had stressed him out. It had fried his brain. His brain had melted down. He had snapped. In the midst of the meltdown, he had tortured the woman - forcing her up the embankment, chasing her through the woods, yelling and screaming at her, firing warning shots at her - before he had reset his brain enough to get rid of her and put an end to her sufferings. In one big leap, the dial on the Kill-O-Meter had jumped up past the blue line. By that time, he had already shot and killed the man who wasn't like him, so he hadn't even needed the Kill-O-Meter to tell him to shoot and kill the woman who wasn't like him.
As he had told the woman, the experience had been fun. He had felt good and right and true and not himself during it, and the interaction had felt good and right and true. The woman had responded to his requests in a straightforward manner and made her own requests in an equally straightforward manner. The woman had told him how she expected him to behave around her and behaved how he wished her to behave around him. It had been a genuine stress-free interaction devoid of torturous pre-guessing, guessing, and post-guessing, and he had loved every second of it just as much as he had always loved a thrilling high. In the warm fuzzy haze that had left him lucid enough to measure out the 5 meters, or 16 feet, between them, he had shot and killed the woman who wasn't like him. In the wake of the kill, the haze had dropped to the ground like feathers and hammers on the Moon, leaving behind the fresh cold air composing the gray cloudy sky. Breathing in the fresh cold air, he had gained the skill to go along with the will to shoot and kill the three flashes of movement composing the group of people, two men and one woman, who had been hiking through the woods together within a circle of radius 50 meters, or 164 feet, around him. One look at the bodies had told him that they weren't like him, so he had moved on in search of marijuana patches near the northern boundary of Rock Creek Park.
Near the northern boundary of Rock Creek Park, he hadn't found the marijuana patches. Instead, the angry young man had found him and infiltrated his utopia. The angry young man had meant what he had said. The angry young man had told him what he had thought and felt. The angry young man had told him what he had thought and felt about him. The angry young man had told him how to behave around him. Reid had liked the angry young man, but not nearly as much as he liked Emily or Hotch, neither of whom cursed at him or called him names, even when they could and/or should have.
Unfortunately for the angry young man, Reid was also an angry young man. By that time, he had already shot and killed the three men who weren't like him and the two women who weren't like him, so the Kill-O-Meter, unneeded and unheeded, had soared up to mellow out in the big marijuana patch in the sky. In the fresh cold air followed by the warm fuzzy haze, he had shot and killed the angry young man who wasn't like him.
In one way, however, the angry young man had been just like him. Like him, the angry young man had displayed aggressive anger, the kind that had flared up and burned itself out as soon as it had found itself on the wrong end of the murder weapon. Unlike him, Reid had displayed passive anger, the kind that had persisted past or with the stressor to mutate itself into a form that was no longer recognizable as anger at all, unless one of its aggressive meltdowns flared up and burned itself out within minutes on the other end of the murder weapon. As for the stressor itself, if a lifetime of overwhelmingly oppressive captivity in a dystopian society in which he constantly devoted 99% of his amazing mental faculties to faking his way through all his personal and professional interactions to fit in amongst the humans only to end up as an odd/quirky/eccentric/whatever alien to be disliked/ignored/patronized/whatevered whenevered wherevered weren't enough to drive him crazy, then it had been truly Him and not the Others who had been truly crazy in the first place.
Reid was tired of being crazy. From it, he was mentally and physically exhausted. During it, he felt bad and wrong and false and not himself. Reid was tired of faking it.
On his Sunday walk in the park, he had faked it. He had faked it all, both his interactions with his victims and the intent behind them. In this particular world, intent had been bad and motive present. At no time had he wished to make a genuine connection with anyone. At all times had he wished to shoot and kill someone, anyone, he didn't care who, as long as the shooting and killing of them made him feel good and right and true and himself again. All he had wished to do was to blow off some steam. He had done it. He had blown off steam, specifically from work and generally from life. In the process, he had faked it, and to his surprise, he had actually loved faking it.
He had loved faking it! What did that mean? It meant what it said! But it couldn't be! He hated faking it! Could it be? It could! How could it be? Because he had shot and killed and gotten rid of them!
Having wished to shoot and kill them, and having shot and killed and gotten rid of them, Reid had reset his brain to find it ready and refreshed for a new person, a new interaction, a new day, a new case, a new hack at life. That was why he had been able to approach the man, quite easily. That was why he had been able to approach the woman, even easier. With the angry young man, it had been easiest of all. The angry young man had been the one who had approached Him in the middle of the hiking/biking trail. Fake! Fake! Fake! He had been the angry young man who had approached the Other in the middle of the hiking/biking trail. Fake! Fake! Fake!
Previously, Reid had hated faking it. Whenever and wherever he had faked it, all his interactions had felt bad and wrong and false, and he had felt bad and wrong and false and not himself during them. The older he had become, the better he had gotten at faking it and the worse he had wished not to fake it. He had wished to say what he had meant. He had wished to tell people what he had thought and felt. He had wished to tell people what he had thought and felt about them. He had wished to tell people how to behave around him. Now, he had. Now, he had fulfilled his wish for himself. For Him, his interactions had turned from bad and wrong and false to good and right and true. He had felt good and right and true and himself during them. For Them, the opposite had occurred. They had felt as he had previously felt. The world of His dystopia and Their utopia had turned into the world of His utopia and Their dystopia. It had been just as much his birthright as it had been theirs. Afterwards, something, anything, he didn't care what, had risen up to embrace him with its warmth and comfort and melted away all his anger in all its forms and categories, transporting him to the world of His utopia in which he said what he meant, told people what he thought and felt, told people what he thought and felt about them, told people how to behave around him, behaved how he wished them to behave around him, behaved how he wished to behave, and got rid of them when they melted down in the world of Their dystopia. It had been a thrilling high!
On the BAU jet, Reid got up, stepped into the aisle, and bounced/lurched/little-girl-ran into the bathroom. In the mirror, he stared at himself and muttered the old words that had rewired his neural circuitry in the wake of a previous rewiring, but had done nothing, along with the previous rewiring, to rewire the original neural circuitry.
"The First Step: I am powerless over my addiction, and my life has become unmanageable."
He muttered the old words for five minutes before mutating them into a new form. The new words he muttered for five minutes before the steam blew off and condensed upon the mirror. Upon the mirror, he wiped away the steam to leave the glass ready and refreshed for a new person, a new interaction, a new day, a new case, a new hack at life. This process he planned to rinse and repeat for as long as he wished. This process he planned to rinse and repeat for as long as he needed. He muttered the new words for five minutes before the jet sped down the runway and took off into the sky.
"The Last Step: I am powerless over my condition, and my life has become manageable."
Master Post