I really should stop writing this character in first-person; I'm seriously going to damage my mental health. These are Fox's thoughts on what made him the person he is now. This may make more sense if you've read one of the other stories.
I'm sat in my room, bored and somewhat broken-down. I'm not even sure how long of been here; it feels like years but I know it surely can't be that long. The days all seem to merge into one, blending together like a smeared painting, not left to dry long enough. Look at me: I've resorted to getting poetic. I really must be going mad in here, such imagery would never have occurred to my mind before. But it's true all the same, each day mixes into the next in a never-ending blur, my mind caught in this infernal haze.
Sitting alone like this, my mind wanders. There are a great many things I could dwell upon, any incident from my past, but for some reason I choose this one. Perhaps the most important one, but not one I think about often. I think about that one incident that perhaps made me who I am now. One minor, insignificant occurrence to anybody else, but perhaps the most important thing that has ever happened to me.
I'm thinking back to a moment in my childhood, when I was barely twelve years old. Though I have always been a fan of animals, there was one in particular that I couldn't stand: my mother had this dreadful little dog, a Yorkshire terrier, I believe. It would bark constantly, and snap at everybody's ankles as they passed. It was almost enough to drive somebody mad. But what I really detested was the favouritism.
You see, my mother adored that dog, by far more than she did me or my father. If the dog were to rip up the furniture or go to the toilette in the house, she held us to blame for letting it, refusing to put any such ability on the dog or even herself for her lack of ability to train it. And, needless to say, the dog was never particularly fond of me, nor me of it, and so it often took advantage of my mother's love for it in ways which had terrible results for me.
I quickly grew tired of the dog and its antics, and of my mother's favouritism, and decided something must be done about it. As I was pondering what should be done, I came across a stroke of luck. We had a pond, you see, in the grounds surrounding our house. The little dog would often try to get to the koi-carp kept in it, but was always stopped by the net over the top of the water. In this particular instance part of the net had came off one of the hooks that held it down, and there was nothing keeping the stupid beast out of the water.
Even though the dog had not yet discovered this, I was going to take full advantage of it. After looking around to make sure nobody was watching, I lifted a small section of the net up, nudging the dog with my foot towards the hole I had created in the ponds defences. With only the slightest bit of input from me the dog jumped willingly into the pond, leaving me to drop the net back down and abandon the dreadful creature to drown.
Mother was heart-broken, of course. She blamed the gardener for this one, and if it had not been for Father and myself he would not have kept his job. Still to this day I fail to comprehend how one could mourn such an unpleasant animal, one which showed neither companionship or obedience, wasn't useful in any way or even remotely enjoyable to be in the company of. One that, with the aid of some few hundred pounds, Mother quickly replaced.
Unlike Mother and her horrid hounds, something in me changed that day. Some small spark was ignited within me. I had enjoyed killing the dog, so much so it at first concerned me. Though I quickly came to crave the same pleasure again, and each time I found a way to get it, I needed more. I took on bigger and bigger prey, and with it, ever growing risks. From that day I became who I am today. Perhaps that is no great thing, but I am too tired and weary to care, and desperately craving a fix.