Considering this is one of the shortest Fox Kennedy stories I've written - probably the shortest, actually - it was one of the hardest. It's been a while since I've written about Fox, which didn't help, but his thoughts are becoming harder and harder for me to understand. This was made up of hacked up pieces of an old draft, from about six months ago, and new material, so it may seem a little bit disjointed.

I don't have time to think, anymore. I'm always running, always being chased. It's a new experience, one that I really don't like. When I do get to think, there's so much to think about, all at once. Sometimes I think about the police that chase me, others the hospital and the doctors, and right now I'm thinking about Jake. I'm wondering if he's alright, whether or not he survived, what he's doing now, if he hates me for not letting him die. It's an odd experience, thinking about somebody else like this, one I'm not really accustomed to. Sometimes it bothers me, that it almost feels like I care about him. Sometimes it bothers me that it bothers me.

There's so much for me to think about right now. I wonder if he's angry, that I'm out here, free, while he's still in the hospital. Of course, I'm hardly free, the police are chasing me all over the place. But at least I'm not trapped now, and at least I'm out of that place. I've rather be chased out here than trapped in there. It's because of this that I can't help but wonder if Jake hates me, for dragging him to the nearest hospital before he could bleed to death, knowing he would be sent straight back to the other hospital. Perhaps he's wondering why I, the great Fox Kennedy, would be so bothered by his death that I'd risk being captured again myself to ovoid it.

The answer's not quite as complicated as people would expect. Simply, I like him. For all his faults, his stupidity, his pettiness and his childishness, he'd helped me get out of there, he'd given me hope when I'd been ready to give up, and he'd kept me sane while I'd been trapped. I'd come to think of him as a friend, and I'm pretty sure friends don't leave each other to die. I'm not great expert on the concept of friends, I'll admit that now, but even I know that a friend who left you for dead wouldn't be a very good one. That's why I don't bother with friends.

I wonder, did he think we were friends? He often acted like it, though I told him again and again that I have no use for friends. What good are they? What do they do beside seriously wound themselves, so that you have to drag their sorry selves all the way to the nearest hospital. They're useless, really. So how did I end up with one? And what's worse, how did I end up counting an idiotic, insane, and plain childish person like him a friend? Perhaps I'll have more time to think about it when the police finally give up and stop chasing me, when I don't need to run away as much.

Funny, how I no longer seem to understand myself. So many people have claimed to understand me in the past: my family, when I was younger, the doctors in the hospital, all those criminal psychologists, Jake. I wonder if he still thinks he knows me, that he understands me. A little arrogant, really, that he thinks he could do a better job of understanding me than a trained professional. But then, having seen both the idiocy and arrogance of the trained professionals, I should think even a monkey should have the right to claim they know more. And since I don't even understand myself anymore, perhaps Jake really did understand me better than I realised.

It makes me wonder, spending so much time on thinking about somebody else, just how much can I have changed? Of course, none of those pathetic excuses for doctors could ever have had that much of an effect on me, and for them to think they could would be rather vain. But surely one idiot teenager couldn't have had any impact on me? Well, I'm thinking about said idiot, so he must have influenced me somehow. He really shouldn't take it as a complement, I was beginning to loose my mind in that place, and I suppose I would have responded in the same way to anybody who offered me a way out. It just happened to be him. At least, that's what I'm sure it must be, that and not actual concern, for I couldn't possibly like him for anything more than helping me escape. So why on earth is it becoming so difficult for me to convince myself that?