The third one-shot in my Pride trilogy. This one delves a little deeper into a certain damaged mind. This one's slightly longer to make up for the last one being so short. Enjoy!

Another day in with the sharks. I'm beginning to lose count of how many there have been wasted in this place. Perhaps I am finally breaking, going mad with my captivity. I never did handle cages well. Perhaps that is why I never bothered with furthering my education, because such a thing would keep me trapped in one place. Of course, now I'm trapped in one place anyway, and it isn't a very pleasant place. It is a place I would do anything to escape.

I'm led out of my cell by two guards, unpleasant and overconfident men. They are setting themselves up for a rather painful fall taunting me as they do. My head is not fuzzy and clouded now, the drugs have worn off and their effects have almost gone. I will be forced to take some more on the way out of the doctor's office, but for now I can think. Thinking isn't something I really want to do of late. I find it's becoming more and more depressing. The only thing I have left to dwell on is my present situation, and that is a most unwanted train of thought.

I let them force me into the doctor's office, leaving me alone with him. I lower myself cautiously into the chair, while he watches me from behind his desk. "How are you feeling today, Fox?" he asks me, still watching me closely. I look down and mumble inaudibly, still too stubborn and proud to fully cooperate. He asks me again, "how are you feeling? A little more clearly this time, please." I fix him with my best evil glare – oh I can't half glare when I want to! And, stubbornly, I mumble "all the same" and watch as he tries to figure out what I said.

It is getting harder and harder to persist. I can almost feel my will, slowly ebbing away. I feel I am beginning to lose sight of my goal. I'm giving them more and more each time. It is something I will have to work on. For now I will just have to try and hold up for the rest of this session without breaking. It may be somewhat challenging, but I'm sure I'll find a way to manage.

The doctor pulls something from a drawer in his desk, telling me, "there is an exercise I want to try; you may recognise this from a few films." I watch as he reveals the first of several pieces of card to me, an ink splodge in the centre. How clichéd. He asks me, "just what does this remind you of?" and I have no choice but to answer. So I tell him "it looks like the rabbit we ran over on the way to the airport when we holidayed in France." In case you're wondering, we is my family and I. As he looks at me curiously I am overcome with a sudden and unorthodox return of the old Fox wit. "You would look a state too if you were smeared halfway across the M4." I tell him.

It continues like such for a little while longer, him showing me the ink blots and I stating what they resemble. It is a pointless exercise. Eventually he puts them away and turns back to face me. He watches me closely for a moment or so, and then asks, "Fox, why is it you chose to kill those people in the manner that you did?" Ah, the big why, nothing new there. I look back down to my feet and shrug. "Answer me, Fox," he says sternly, "I know there is a reason. You know why you did it, so why won't you tell me? This will be a lot easier for you if you cooperate."

Flinching as though in pain, I sigh heavily, keeping my head down. "Because it was more fun that way" I answer, almost disgusted at my own weakness. I cannot believe I am letting them win. It is almost pathetic, that I – I, the great Fox Kennedy – am being brought to such a level. Confessing my sins to this man as though one would a priest, looking for any sort of forgiveness that he has no right to give me. Yet as the first words leave my lips, the rest soon follow, and I can but sit in horror with no way to stop them.

I leap out of my seat and throw my hands down on the desk, startling the man in front of me. "I did it because I wanted to, okay? If I didn't want to I wouldn't. Is it that hard to understand?" Lord, I sounded so helpless, pathetic, like a child throwing a tantrum. This can't possibly be right; but it is. And the man behind the desk watches me in almost shock, but still with a small hint of smugness gleaming in his eyes. He has won.

I sink back into my seat, trembling. The doctor enjoys his victory for a few moment, and then continues with the questions. "Just what is it that you liked about it?" He asks, and I look back down at my shoes. I won't answer this one. He may have won that battle, but this isn't end of the war. I couldn't possibly lose to them, I just couldn't. Such a thing would destroy me. So I keep my head down, as before, and try to ignore every word they say. I pretend I don't hear, like I always did. I don't let them know anything else. I most certainly don't let them know I'd been broken.