This is just a slight glimmer into the mind of Fox Kennedy. A bit dark, not much more than usual. As always, more physiological than horror, and not conventional scary, though I would like to think it belongs in this category.

The thing about addiction, is that when you can't get that thing you need, you can't get by without it. Withdrawals. They're dreadful things, you never really see them coming. Of course, I never really saw addiction coming, either, because I never went long enough without that thing to get the withdrawals. I enjoyed it too much. So when I was caught, and locked away, and couldn't get what I needed, I couldn't handle it. It was too much, slowly, ever so very slowly, it began to break me. Slowly, the fissures bagan to appear, and then they became cracks, and eventually, I just snapped completely.

Some people would say that I had snapped long ago. Of course, they all said it was such a shame that I turned out this way, gave their condolences to my family,who were too ashamed to show their faces in the courtroom. Some said I was just ill, that surely I would get better, while others insisted I was mad, that I should be locked away for ever, that they should give me the death penalty. Of course, we don't have capital punishment here anymore, so at least I was safe from that. But I could hardly tell them about the addiction, and the withdrawals, could I?

The therapist would have loved it if I had. Would have given him someting to report back to his superiors. He spent hours trying to break me, trying to make me tell him just why I had done what I had. Eventually, he succeeded, only in getting me to confess to the enjoyment I got from it. Just how could I explain it? The thrill of the chase, the sheer rush of capturing your prey, the feeling of adreneline as you go in for the kill. My addiction was a little different from other addictions, it wasn't just tobacco or alcohol. It wasn't myself I was hurting, it was others.

It's hard to kill when you're locked in a cell, barely seeing the light of day. That's why they put me there, so I couldn't hurt anybody else. I hadn't wanted to plead insanity, I never considered myself crazy, but the lawyer insisted it was best. I suppose I might consider myself slipping, slowly ebbing away, my sanity sliding away from me ever so slowly. It's hard, not to loose sight of myself, lying here with the familiar longing for blood, for the hunt. Some days it hits so hard I am physically ill, and I have to make excuses not to leave my cell, for if the therapist were to see me like this he would know for sure something was wrong. But what would he do, send me to pshycos anonymous? The NHS stop killing service?

There were other days when everything would be dark, I was caged and trapped, never to be freed, never again to have the thing I desired most. I would stay in the deepest shadows of my mind for what seemed like an eternity, so long that I would almost begin to fear the light of day. It was a darkness that slowly consumed all that I was, it would seep into even the furthers corners of my soul, and I felt at though I would never be rid of the feeling. Then there were times when I would just give up if my pride were to let me. Those brief moments when I seemed to feel nothing at all. I still get them, sometimes, and I wish I could say it hurts, but somehow the numbness gets everywhere, so not even my damn pride gets touched. And there's nothing more I can do but sit and wait for it to pass.

But that was never the worst of it. It was the longing that cut me deepest, the blood-lust, coursing through my veins, never loosing it's grip on me. It wasn't just a desire anymore, it was a need. I was hooked. I didn't just was the thrill, just enjoy the sight of their blood as it slowly left the body. I had always considered it my art, like I was painting a morbid, bloody picture for them. Somewhere along the lines, I realised just what it was, that it wasn't just my art, that it was in fact an addiction.