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“If the sound of happy children is grating on your ears, I don’t think it’s the children who need to be adjusted.”
-Stefan Molyneux
It was raining, like it always did on the weekends during the hazy length of summer. The soft pitter-patter of harsh raindrops against the cool metal of the damaged gutters was the only sound that echoed through the small house. Well, apart from the quiet murmuring of a feminine voice from her locked bedroom, frantic and laced with fear as she paced. If she didn't pass out soon, she may have walked a trench through the hardwood floor.
Books littered the small room, on every surface, every inch of the floor and every square on the quilt that lay folded on her bed. They had been strewn across in her search for bugs, cameras and microphones. She knows someone is watching and supposes she rather be safe then sorry.
The sky was dark, the lights of the small house all out, the only glow illuminating coming from the neon letters of the digital clock under the television in the family room. The television screen itself was lit up as well, but the volume was nearly all the way done, British voices whispering softly from the speaker box.
The house creaked with ghosts, floors stretching and the walls whispering secrets among one another.
It was cold, as always in the rickety house, and the inhabitants found that they neither cared nor tried to fix this, as it simply didn't cross their minds. They were far to busy, too caught up in their day-to-day lives, their emotions, to even notice how dreadfully frigid it was. A small family of three, all cursed with utter dreariness and despondency, lived rather robotically through the weekend rainstorms. The weather seemed to describe their mood, as cliche as it seemed, though no one was willing to admit it.
William Reid went to work, smiled at his coworkers, helped his clients and filled out paperwork with no complaint. No one truly knew of the horrors that laid behind his house's thin front door. And he intended to keep it that way, no matter how bottled his emotions became.
Diana spent her days wallowed up in her room, speaking with herself and avoiding the patronizing, scarred faces of her delusions. Her incessant muttering could be heard throughout every hallway, in every room and reached every crevice of every corner. William never hurt her, never yelled at her and never told her to just "shut up" no matter how badly he wanted to. Simply because she was ill, couldn't control it, and he was far to exhausted to even approach his wife with intent to harm her. In fact, he never did interact with her much unless she had escaped towards the kitchen and had grabbed a hold of a knife. Then, he'd leave, and he wouldn't come back until hours had passed and Diana is once again in her room, sobbing and screaming as haunting thoughts crept through her troubled mind.
Spencer, the poor, young thing, was similar to his father in only one regard: his life was meaningless. Day by day, hours would pass and he could himself feeling less and less like a child, and more like an adult going through a mid-life crisis, plagued by depression at the small age of ten. School was hell, no matter how much he enjoyed learning and swallowed up every word his teacher's spoke, his books wrote, and his peers contributed. The bruises coating his pale, fragile body were evident of the downside to one of the only things he lives for. His intelligence was unmatched, indescribable. Many recalled him as being the child who knew everything. And yet, he couldn't find a reason wake up in the morning apart from taking care of his mentally-ill mother. His father was neglectful, practically nonexistent, but he supposed it didn't bother him much in the end.
The boy sat on the leather couch, which was tearing faintly and smelled of his father's cologne and his mother's perfume. Somewhere within the mix, he thinks he smells baby powder, but then again, he didn't care enough to investigate further.
Spencer's sweater, which hung off his thin frame, was wrapped tightly around his middle as his arms cradled his ribs, his knobby knees tucked up to his chest in a defensive little ball of darkness.
To an outsider looking in, they might assume he had just witnessed the death of his entire family.
Truth was, he was simply a boy who was forced to grow up to quickly. His innocence and childlike nature faded from him, like a bulb losing it's fuel, as Diana's disease worsened and his father pulled away. Any other mother would take the child to a professional, to see a therapist or to get something to take his overwhelming depression away. But Diana Reid was not a normal mother, and William couldn't even be considered a father.
The rain picked up, hitting violently against the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard, which was flooding rapidly with every passing hour.
Spencer adverted his eyes from the blue-light of the television.
It was hardly ever on, William being the only one who ever really watched it, late at night when he couldn't sleep as impulsive thoughts ran ramped through his dull mind. Tonight, for whatever reason, the youngest Reid felt like watching the Discover Channel as opposed to reading.
He wouldn't admit it, but he had been looking forward to reading with his mother tonight, hoping she was lucid enough to do so. As it turns out, she wasn't, and for that reason alone, he couldn't bring himself to pick up a book. The television was soft, peaceful even, though he still much preferred getting his information from paper rather than electronics, but he settled for now.
Spencer found himself "settling" quite often.
Suddenly, the front door opened, a loud creek following as the roaring rain outside whipped passed the doorframe.
The boy watched as his father walked in, shaking the water off him and huffing as he hung up his trench coat, laid his brief case on the floor and toed off his loafers. He watched as William laid his forehead against the wall at the mud room, breathing labored as he squeezed his eyes shut. Like he was trying to hold back tears. With disinterest, Spencer looked away from the sad scene and watched as a scientist uncovered a fossil on the television.
The older man sauntered into the room, eyes downcast as he ran a hand through his hair, ripping at the strands.
William looked up, surprise evident on his face as he jumped slightly at the unusual sight of his son sitting on the couch, hip hugging the arm of the furniture. His boy looked small, younger than he really was, bundled up under a thick blanket and sad eyes watching the screen impartiality.
The older man sat down on the other side, careful not to disturbed the boy too much as he settled down.
"Hi, Spencer." He muttered softly, feeling odd as he talked to his son for the first time in three days. Guilt ate at his soul as he glanced at the smaller male, who was twiddling his thumbs and gazing around the room with moist eyes.
"Hey."
The silence carried on for multiple beats as the rain refused to let up. William blinked at his back yard as it filled with water, drowning Diana's flower garden and weathering a hole under the fence. He wouldn't fix it. His muscles hurt from living.
"What're you watching?"
Spencer blinked and gave his father a thoughtful look before shrugging dismissively. William knew that if he were anyone else, his son would rant about what he was watching, what he was learning and an abundance of random facts and statistics. A monster clawed at the man's heart, and when he looked at his boy, he knew the same demon was eating away the young boy's very being.
"Dinosaur Planet. I suspect it's meant for children considering the format in which it's directed with the computer animated reptiles and fictional story-line. It's not something I would normally watch but... I can't sleep. How was work?"
Spencer had an old soul, William knew from the first day he laid eyes on his young boy. From the way he spoke, to his clothes, to the books he read (though he read all genres anyways) and music he listened to. More often than not, it felt like he was talking to a coworker rather than his own flesh and blood. His son. The boy he wished he could go outside and play ball with, and cheer on from the sidelines at his sport's games, and bring into work without the humiliation of being one-uped by his own child. But young Spencer wasn’t good at sports, he hated them, and was too busy caring for his mother or furthering his education to play games with his father.
"Good. Has it been raining all day?"
"Most of the afternoon," Spencer muses. "Momma's petunias are going to die."
William ignores the drab though and nods absentmindedly. "Are you..."
The ten-year-old meets his eyes, something the boy never does, and they creep into the elder's brain and squeeze it until it's nothing but mush. He aches to hug his child, to cradle him and love him unconditionally. But they are both too tired, too sad and too isolated to deal with physical contact. Spencer never did like it.
"Do I make you uncomfortable?" The young Reid's question catches his superior off guard. William looks at the illuminated screen, out towards his damaged yard, and back at his son. His hands shake but he hides them half-heartedly between his knees as they bounce anxiously. My kid has adult eyes, he thinks bemusedly, he's an adult in a kid's body. It's like staring into a dog's eyes and seeing recognition, seeing understandings at your words. The man chastises himself for comparing his son to a dog before shrugging.
"I don't know."
"I'm sorry, dad," The little voice just about breaks his heart and he hates himself for what he plans to do, what he wants desperately to do to ease his mind from the pain. "That I can't be the son you always wanted. I really am sorry. If there was something I could do to change that I would do it. I’m sorry I wasn’t good at T-Ball; I should have tried harder.”
The rain darkens the room, but William can still see the unshed tears in Spencer's eyes.
The guilt is something he can't deal with anymore. His departure will be swift, and rage-full and hurtful. He hopes that Diana's heart aches as he walks out that front door with his belongs in tow. He hopes Spencer cries himself to sleep every night until he's dead. He prays that the two of them fall apart without him, just so he knows that he was meant for something. That he had been important for something and needed by someone. Or rather, two someones. The selfish thought doesn't scare him. He knows Spencer has them too.
"It was never your fault, it was..." Your mother's, he finishes in his head. But he knows how beloved Diana is to Spencer, and he knows he can't say it to his face. "You're good at taking care of her,” William says instead. “You'll be one hell of a father some day."
That isn't important to Spencer.
"I'm not sure if I will live long enough to become a father," The sentence is so grim, so hopeless for a young child like him. But the thought is truthful and full of emotion, so William knows it isn't just some random thing he once read in a book. It's what he truly believes. The older man wonders if he'll be invited to his son's funeral, or if he would even be notified when it happens. "And that's okay. Right, dad? Because nothing really matters in the end, huh,” A pregnant pause. “According to a study done in Florida by Doctor Edmi Crotes-Torres, the presence of rain can cause serotonin levels to decrease, increasing a person's natural cravings for carbohydrates. It's even proven that long stretches of rainy weather can cause pain die to a decrease in atmospheres pressure- bodily fluids move from blood vessels to tissues which can cause pressure on nerves and-"
Spencer stops himself short when he sees William begin to dissociate, cutting himself off from the conversation.
"You gotta stop saying stuff like that, Spencer. Or you'll end up as crazy as your mother. I worry about you, Spencer, when you say crap like that with a straight face- like it doesn't even phase you," The man stresses, and the only reason he cares is because he feels exactly the same. The overcast, heart-pounding sense of dread that follows him wherever he goes. The rain cloud that stalks him and drowns him in salty puddles of mud and tar. The want- no, need- to feel wanted and useful because if he doesn't, he is as good as dead and has no qualms about making that a reality. "You're only a kid. You have no idea what pain feels like."
"How would you know?" Spencer whispers. William's ego cracks. "You don't even know me. You never even try to talk to me. I doubt you even know when my birthday is."
Spencer looks up at him with wide, doe-like eyes and scoffs at the man's expression.
William doesn’t know- he hasn’t since the boy turned three.
"You don't understand, Spencer, what I have to go through everyday to put food on the table and to keep you and Diana alive. If you did, you'd realize how ungrateful you are and you'd see how tired I am."
The boy lets the tears he fought so hard to conceal, fall as his cheeks flush a boyish red and his breathing labors slightly.
"It's hard for me to, you know. I'm with her everyday for most of the day and you don't want to know the things she calls me, what she does to me. Who she thinks I am. I'm sorry if you're 'tired' but that's no excuse to-to neglect your family."
William's temper rose, and he found himself hating his boy more than ever.
Denial, though he wouldn't admit it (ironic, isn't it?), coursed through his veins as he mulled over his intelligent son's words. The child was too smart for his own good, more genius than he own father, and with that thought in mind, William cursed him. Before he knew it, his body was across the couch and his hands were in Spencer's hair. He ripped the boy from his vulnerable position, ignoring the youthful gasp of surprise that followed.
The older man threw the young genius to the ground, ignore the sickening crack that echoed through his ears when Spencer's head hit the corner of the coffee table.
Before he could stop himself, his fist was hurdling towards his son's face, cracking his nose with no remorse.
His foot comes down like the rain that tore up the flower garden, breaking skin and crushing bones beneath it. Teeth barred, the man shows no emotion as he brings his foot up and down against the trembling form, his glazed over stare invisible in the darkened room. Spencer pleads, but they fall upon deaf ears.
He stood over the small form, which was as curled up in a small, pathetic ball and breathed out a sigh of relief at the sobs that reverberate passed his ear drums. A sense of accomplishment and solace washes over him as he observed his only child wallowing in pain at his feet. His heart skips a beat, and for a moment, the overcast sky opens up to reveal the bright, cascading beams of sun that had been hidden away for so long, William had forgotten what they looked like.
Eyes glaring daggers into the crumbled body on the floor, blood pooling under the head and staining the carpet below, he makes no attempt to help.
Another ten minutes pass, with only the sound of Diana’s wailing and Spencer’s soft cries resounding through the dark halls. Like specters haunted by their past life and their past woes, they sob. It isn’t until then that the man realizes with a horrible sense of dread, what he had done.
Falling to his knees, William cradles his son’s battered body to his chest and squeezes despite the boy’s whines.
“Oh, god,” He whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
His incessant whispering does little to console the child as he sobs fitfully into his father’s chest. For a moment, he leans into the warmth and pretends the man hadn’t just beat with with the upmost cruelty. His touch-starved skin screams at the contact, aching for more as he nuzzles closer, utterly humiliated.
“I-I... wh-why? Dad-Daddy, why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m sorry, Spencer, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why. Please, I’m sorry.”
Spencer doesn’t accept his apology that night, nor the night after. Years later, he still won’t accept his apology, even as he frames his father for murder and learns that he had almost been a victim to a child molester by the name of Gary Micheals, if it weren’t for his mother’s instincts. But the boy doesn’t accept his apology, even as the older man tries as he might to make it up to his son. Derek Morgan and David Rossi think he should accept it and move on, despite how irked they are that the man would abandon their youngest in the first place, but they don’t know what happened that night, during the midst of a harsh rainstorm. They didn’t hear his pleas, his cries or any word that left his small lips that night. They didn’t hear his mother’s screeching, and they didn’t see the dead flowers the next morning, necks dropping despondently.
William Reid left a week later, much to Diana’s chagrin.
Spencer wished he would stay. Even after what happened that fateful night, he still loved his father and watching him walk out that front door was like a stab through his heart with the sharpest of blades. It doesn’t matter much in the end, he reminds himself, as he turns twenty-six and the sense of despondency returns. William left his family. Spencer struggles endlessly, grew up in constant sadness and never-ending anxiety about whether or not he’d live to see the next day.
The saying goes, “That was when the world wasn’t so big, and I could see everywhere. It was when my father was a hero and not a human.” Jack Hotchner refers to his father as Super-Man.
Spencer wonders what it’s like to see a diamond through the eyes of a rock.