Oh, it is good to be back. 

I'm standing on the stairs, right where the other me just stopped. Hopefully, I can control our neural pathways enough to make sure she doesn't figure out what's happening. I'll keep the memories in clusters, the ones that build up in the brain. I'll divert the neurons which connect experiences and memories. That way I won't be interrupted. A man said that to me, another man dressed in white. I smile. That's what happens when you say a villain is dead: they rise again feeling even more fabulous. Which I do. Obviously. Flexing my fingers and toes, I stride up the stairs towards the bathroom where the dodgy floorboard is. As I lift it up, I find the same note I left three years ago, pinned to the underside of the wood:

The Ceiling of The Beast Has Many Secrets

It's of course referring mostly to my Mother's room, but also mine. In fact, it's probably referring to everywhere else in this house when I think about it. I wasn't exactly in the greatest state of mind when I wrote this. Ceiling could mean cupboard as well as floorboards. I think I know where the important stuff is anyway. Knife, money, letters, notes. A gun maybe? Pretty please? Before replacing the floorboard, I rummage around behind the bowl refill tube in the top of the toilet until I find the pile of nails my past-self had left for me to use in case everything went pear-shaped. Taking out the nails, I replace the board, and, with a grunt, I shove them one by one into their perfect places until the board becomes immovable. It takes a lot out of me, that's for sure. My strength really isn't what it used to be. But it'll get better. Heading back into my room, (I can't even begin to wonder why the other me hated the décor), I head over to the wardrobe. Ah, there it is. Exactly where I left it, in a hole next to the hanging rail. My Mp3 player. It's a pretty old thing and I honestly have no clue why it still works. It's the one bit of my life that I own. It's paused at 'Wake Me Up Before You Go Go' and the song feels like audio ambrosia as I slide my earphones in. There's movement downstairs, so I can't risk fishing around too much tonight, but I can do something. Last time, they figured out my hidey hole and destroyed it. All my resources, my evidence. My life. Their mistake of course was thinking I didn't have a second bolthole. My mistake however, was that I don't have another bolthole. Guess I'll just have to improvise. The prospect of a psychiatrist living here dogging my every step certainly isn't going to help. If I kill him I'll blow my cover and more importantly, I won't get to manipulate him when he psycho-analyses me. Emphasis on the 'psycho' part. That's what everyone thinks I am, why prove them wrong? Why not just prove them right? I rip out my earphones, shove them in my bedside drawer. 

Looks like it's game on.