Beautiful Things

The man returned with a thick knife in his hands. I was terrified, but I tried desperately not to act like it. If he was going to kill me, right now, right here, I wouldn't allow him to enjoy it. I wasn't Rebecca, and I wasn't going to be her for anything.

"Are you scared yet?" he asked, amused.

"Not even a little," I lied smoothly.

"You can't lie to me, Becca," he warned me as he kneeled down to my level.

He brought the knife up to my neck and smiled as he dragged it along. He wasn't applying enough pressure to actually cut me, so I figured he was trying to scare me. And he succeeded, but he'd never know that.

"Cut me," I growled, "I dare you."

He chuckled as he held the knife down. "Oh sweetie, you think I'm going to kill you that easily?"

"What do you have in mind then?"

"I don't know just yet," he replied as he admired the shiny metal blade, "But I know you've seen my work, and you know I'm creative."

His smile was sick and twisted. What he did was nowhere near "creative," and for him to think of himself as an artist was insane. But what was I expecting really? He was insane.

"You're a real Picasso," I hissed sarcastically.

"You've got quite the mouth, Becca," he noted out loud, "Just like I remembered."

"I'm not Rebecca, you bastard!" I screamed, temporarily losing my cool.

"Becca, baby, let's cut the bullshit," he laughed easily. "How about we talk about something else?"

I ignored him. I wasn't going to talk casually about the weather with him. He was a killer and I was next in line and nothing in this world could get me to talk to him civilly. I wished my arms were untied.

He stretched out his arm with the knife in his hand. He used the tip, placed under my chin, to direct my face back to facing his. He stared into my eyes, and I stared back. His gaze was uneasily cold.

"Come on, Becca," he said melodically, "Talk to me."

"Listen, you sick jerk, nothing you do to me will get me to be Rebecca for you. You might as well just kill me now, because you're not going to get any pleasure from this, but before you do, I just want to say whatever Rebecca did to hurt you this bad, you deserved it."

He paused. I could tell he was angry with me. I was ruining his little fantasy, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could cut me, but that would only make me resist more. He could hit me, but that definitely wouldn't make me break, I've been hit before. He could shoot me, but I knew that wasn't his style.

He hit me again. This time much harder. I used my tongue to check my lips, which I found were split. My mouth filled with blood. I spit some out onto the concrete beside me.

"You'll learn," he told me before he disappeared.



They left me for an entire night, or at least what had felt like an entire night. I still wasn't sure what time it was, but I had fallen asleep for at least a few hours. I remember briefly awakening and feeling the same pinch I had before. I was sure that girl had given me another shot to knock me out.

I was stiff and cranky, and if he came down here and began barking at me, I would scream. I wasn't sure I could keep my cool much longer, but I knew I had to. I couldn't become the hysterical vulnerable victim. I had to show him I didn't care one way or another, as if I didn't value my life at all. But I did, and I was no actress.

"Hungry?"

I turned my head to see the girl walking towards me. She had a plate in one hand and a cup in the other. She seemed so oblivious to everything. I wasn't about to trust her, though. And she was stupid if she thought I would actually eat or drink anything she gave me after she stabbed me with needles.

"No," I replied grumpily. I avoided eye contact with her, but continued talking. "Since you know my name, isn't it fair that I know yours?"

"This isn't how this works," she informed me.

"How does this work, then, exactly?" I retorted.

"Why hasn't the FBI found you yet?" she freely ignored the question by asking her own. I guess this was how it worked: I wasn't allowed to ask questions, only answer them.

"Why would you kidnap me if you want them to find me?"

"I never said that," she scoffed. "I'm just curious as to whether you're going to die or not."

She said it so calmly it almost didn't seem real. I guess it's easier to say when you know you're safe. It slowly sank it, and I tried to pretend I didn't hear it.

"I'm not going to die," I assured her seriously.

"If the team doesn't get here by ten o'clock tonight," she said, "You're dead."

She didn't laugh evilly, like in the movies. Instead she stared down at me, and it looked as if she almost felt bad for me. I wasn't sure what was wrong with her or why she was helping a serial killer, so I asked her.

"Because I know Rebecca, the real Rebecca," she replied, avoiding eye contact, "And I want her dead, too."

"So why kill me?" I asked her, becoming more fearless with each word.

"Because," she said nonchalantly, "he think you're Rebecca."

"But that's not what you want," I reminded her.

She laughed. "I tried getting that through his thick skull, but he won't listen. I guess you're better than no Rebecca at all."

"It won't be as good, you know," I taunted her freely, "But go ahead, find that out for yourselves."

"Don't even think for a second we hadn't already planned on it."

I clicked my tongue, tired of her attitude. She was too quick to be able to beat. She wasn't as unstable as this unsub should be, and I wasn't prepared for it. Although, she wasn't the true unsub as far as I knew. I decided to take advantage of her open conversation starting.

"What happened to the man I was with?" I asked softly, referring to Reid.

She laughed again and shrugged. "I don't know, I wasn't the one who shot him."