Battlecry | Criminal Minds (gxg)

Chapter 12

~Present Day, May, 2010~

Carli's POV

I love you too.

I trust you.

I want you.

The chains of the punching bag clink and rattle as my fists connect, again and again.

I'm in love with you...

It hurts how much I love you...

Carli...

I can still hear it. Over and over. Her words in my ear, promising me.

She loves me.

I don't understand why.

I pause from my striking only when my vision is blurred with dripping sweat and tears. I pull off my boxing gloves and toss them into my gym bag, wiping the sweat away with my forearm. I go back to striking, nothing protecting my knuckles from the punching bag.

I don't stop. Not when the first knuckle splits and bleeds. Not when the second does, or the third.

I stop when I realize how much blood I've gotten on the bag. I curse, sending a final kick into the worn side. It takes another fifteen minutes to clean up the mess I made and to wrap my knuckles in a thick, sickeningly white bandage.

Then, I collapse onto the bench and hold my head in my hands. I'm alone—it's Sunday night and the gym is abandoned. It's quiet, too quiet, when the thoughts in my head are drowning me.

Elle. I need Elle.

But she's across the country and I don't know if she's ever coming home. It's been three days and she hasn't called me. Not once. I've tried to reach her but she never picks up. And I wish I could say I'm not reminded of a night five years ago, a night when I came home to find myself abandoned.

But Elle runs when she gets scared. That's the difference between us.

She runs. I fight until it kills me.

And this time, it just might.

────

It's late when I get home. I skipped dinner—I don't feel like eating, anyways. I get through the front door and toss my car keys into the dish, dropping my bag on the floor. My arms feel like lead. I close the door and trudge to the kitchen for a glass of water. My mind is distracted. So much so that it takes me a moment to notice that the alarm didn't go off when I entered.

I freeze the moment I realize. My gun appears in my hand as I stalk back to the door and check the alarm. It's been disabled.

I turn back around, scanning the entire apartment. My gun is steady as I examine each corner, every window. In the far left side of the living room is a set of sliding doors. They lead onto a tiny balcony, so small that we never bothered to put chairs out there. But now, it catches my attention. The sliding door is opened just a fraction. Wind whistles through it as I approach.

My fist closes around the handle and I slide it all the way open. My hair whips back at a sudden gust of wind. I scan the tiny ledge and find it empty of any intruder. I holster my gun as I examine what's been left.

A single red rose lays on the floor. And tied to the stem, an envelope with my name on it.

I pick it up slowly, scanning the street beyond for any signs of something suspicious. But all seems normal. I go back inside, closing and locking the door behind me. I do a full sweep of the apartment, coming up empty, before examining the rose. I rest it on the kitchen island. It's real—deep red petals the color of blood, thorns sharp enough to draw it. The note is secured with a black ribbon. I pull it off, staring at the all too familiar handwriting.