This story isn't my best, in my opinion. I seem to have misplaced my muse. This is Fox Kennedy thinking about the first time he killed someone, all in his point of view. And sorry it's so short.

Back when I was at school, I used to get into a lot of fights. I wasn't a trouble maker, but I got into a lot of trouble. They sent me to the school counciler - I didn't like her. She asked an aweful lot of pointless questions, annoying ones that I didn't want to answer. She once asked me what I thought the most important day of my life was, and it seemed like an unbelievably stupid question. I suppose the true answer has some significance in my current situation, but at the time I had nothing more interestion to inform her of than my progress with my piano lessons. That's what I told her, that the most important day of my life was the day of my first piano lesson.

If my current doctor were to ask me that question, the answer would be very different, though substantially less truthful. The most important day of my life? Probably the first day I decided I wanted something a little more challenging than shooting birds with air-guns. It was the first day I ever really felt nervous, and it was not a feeling I liked. I almost chickened out, but managed to keep myself together somehow. It's hard to believe, with how effortless it quickly became, that it was so difficult to begin with. I was still young, but my parents were used to me staying out late, and I had everything planned, but I was still overtook with fear. Killing birds was one thing, but a human? That was a potential jail-sentence, and I couldn't handle the idea of such a thing. So I blocked it out.

That's probably what got me where I am now, I forgot that there would be conciquences if I got caught. And I did get caught. So now I have nothing to do but go through in my mind all of those old memories. Perhaps it will do me some good. It will probably do a lot more harm. To remember that first time, the one that put me on my current path... The blood was the main thing, the one I remember best. I hadn't been expecting so much. A simple knife to the throat, that's all it had been, and then stuffed into a dustbin in the shadows of an alley-way behind a chinese take away. I hadn't known her, I was worried if I picked someone I did I would be caught. With any luck it appeared to be a mugging gone wrong. That's what the police took it to be. They had a little look around, but quickly grew bored and moved on to other crimes.

After tht it was simpler. The nerves were replaced with an adreneline rush, an ectasy with which nothing could compare. I started to experiment with my methods, altering my weapons and techniques. I've killed a great many, since then, many in horrific and brutal fashions, or so I'm told. They're all the same, really. Never anything new, special, or important. But that first one I still remember so well, even when all of the others fade into nothing more than a blur in the back of my mind. It sticks around in my thoughts, that one sloppy, messy kill. It outshines even the most unique and artistic of murders. Why? Well, simply because it was my first, and that gives it a place in my dearest memories.