Now I'm waking up in our bed in the morning. Talk about role reversal.

After a night of eating takeaways and deducting puzzles before the TV detectives get a clue, she's left me in control.

I can't believe she's willingly left me in control.

The sun hasn't risen yet, with only a few stray slivers peeking out from behind the curtains.

Time to take another look at those files. The important information is probably on the second page or something seeing as I didn't have time to read them before. This morning, my other self has actually put a scrap of faith in me.

Cool.

The prospect of school is proving to be a bit of a nuisance, not to mention a set-back in the relationship. School? Seriously?

Number one: we're practically too old.

Number two: the summer semester has nearly finished and it's gonna look pretty weird if we show up with one month to go. Finals will be commencing. Need I go on?

We're three years behind anyway, we'll never catch up. I'm not being a pessimist, I'm being realistic.

One of us has to be.

There's no point wishing for things you can't have, wishing to be able to do what you can't achieve.

Besides, I don't remember the education system being a walk in the park before the coma, never mind after. It was all labels, labels, labels. Not a scrap of human decency to be found – what a surprise!

Slinking across the room, I want to slip into the black body suit Mum bought us, but I can't. Not yet. If this Doctor is coming, the suit might be a bit of a giveaway. But did my other self really have to choose pastel pink?

As slowly as I can possibly be without morphing into a sloth, I put on the shirt and dungarees. Help me. Why, oh why, did Mum have to take her shopping? Socks next – bumblebee yellow to be precise. Wonderful. This day is getting better and better.

Rummaging around our headspace, I can sense she's still asleep.

The trip must have taken a toll, not to mention the Dr. Light scare. Well, I wasn't going to kill him in broad daylight. I'm not stupid. Still, I'm getting desperate.

Soon, I won't be able to hold back.

It was that look – another of one of his melancholy stares. There was something different about it. It was as if he knew. Knew about me. Or perhaps that's just my raging paranoia. One of the two. Never mind. I have other things to worry about this morning.

Tiptoeing to the beat of my heart, I head down the stairs to the basement. The new muscles in my legs and arms from my constant workouts and dumbbells make it easy for me to break the lock of the basement door. They might notice. They might not. It's not as if Doc' sneaks around at night to check the locks.

No one is my warden or my jailer. No one ever will be.

Leaving the lock hanging like a broken neck off the door handle, I enter. The basement is just as dust ridden as last time, but there's something different now. Something in the air, the odd shoe print. Not one of mine, or Mum's.

Brilliant.

Picking up the pace, I rush to the couch, shove it to one side, revealing the hole in the wall. I half to crawl on my hands and knees, shovelling dirt away from my face. Eventually, the mud opens up into a cavern of interlocking woodwork and earth. The layout of the house has acted as a mould for my evil little lair. All I need is swivel chair and a huge supercomputer with lots of red buttons. Oh, and a white cat to sit on my lap.

That would totally brighten up my day.

'Have you got the files?'

My other self. Awake at last. She is really starting to bug me.

'Since when I am your personal librarian for all things creepy?' Still, I don't hesitate for much longer. I left the files at the far end of the cave, hidden behind a stolen black jacket. Moving the jacket aside, I dig around in the cavernous dirt until my nail are charred.

'Where are they?' she asks steadily. The empty space below us seems to laugh. I don't answer. I don't need to. The truth sits clearly in front of us, in the form of nothing.

The files are gone. 

Someone stole the files.

I don't who and I don't know how, but I will find them.

They can't evade me. They can't do anything. I am here.

After digging up half the house, I decide to wash the mud from under my fingernails. The sink is covered in a soporific brown, while my skin has taken on a pink hue from being scrubbed to death. The water steams as angrily as I feel. We now have no proof of the Foundation's misdeeds. We have nothing. Now I'm back to square one, pretending to be the good little girl.

Gritting my teeth, I nearly tear a nail.

'Stop,' she shouts, clearing the fog from my mind. It's a red fog, like blood rising in a shower.

'You won't be able to fool Dr. Light if you're angry'. She may have a point.

'Try breathing exercises. They work for me'. It's pathetic suggestion. Even a brainwashed child could do better. Moments later, I try them.

In. I'm going to kill whoever stole those files. Out. I'm going to kill them. In. Who would steal them? Out. How could anyone know about my hiding place? In. Oh. Out. In. Out.

I know.

I know who did it.

Sharply, a knock at the door breaks into my thoughts, each knuckle a piercing shriek.

Holding my head, I shut off the water.

"Breakfast is ready if you want to come down". It's Mum.

Using our throat to imitate my other self, I answer,

"Thank you, I'll be down in a minute". Silence follows, with only the sparse dripping of water from my hands to fill it.

'Being nice suits you,' she remarks. Images of us running around a museum, hiding from the models of dinosaurs enter my mind. Images of a life that I could never have enjoyed. Yet I did.

'Shut up'. She doesn't say anything after that and neither do I. I have a thief to confront.

The old familiar interior of the house – dark wood and bookcases – fly past. I lunge for the door to the dining room, shoving past an egg blue vase.

As the door slams back, I see him. Sitting there without a care in the world. Hello dear thief.

Dr. Light. That means, he must know. Know about me, about us, about everything.

Pure scorching rage dares to empty my lungs, but I remain neutral. I can't give the game away, especially not while Mum is in the house.

If she's here, she is in danger.

Sitting at the breakfast table becomes an impossible task. My mouth struggles through two large helpings of bacon and eggs, lathered with maple syrup until my plate becomes a pool.

Dr. Light barely touches his food and often stares at me from across the table, a mixture of confusion and understanding printed on his face.

I resist the urge to throw the plate at him.

He knows. He must know. I have to kill him. I have to. Sooner or later. Sooner; it must be sooner. I need to protect her, protect us. I must protect our Mother.

The awkward symphony of chewing haunts us until our plates are clear. While Mum begins picking them up, Dr. Light and I stare at each other. My eyes burning craters into his. He looks to tired now, always tired. Groggily rubbing his temples from morning till night.

'You can't kill him. Please, you can't,' my other self screams inside my head. But I can. And I don't have to listen to her. To me.

It isn't like I want to kill him. I mean, I'll enjoy it certainly, but I don't want to shed blood if I don't have to. But I do.

I have to.

As Mum's hand brushes my cheek, she says,

"Don't forget, your Evaluation is today. The Doctor should be here in an hour or so". I had forgotten and the moment the words cross her lips my feet are falling through space. The Evaluation. Because some other selfish part of my mind wants to go back to school.

'It isn't just about that,' my other self hisses. 'It's about wanting to be normal'.

'You think I don't want that too?'

'No'. Inside our head, her voice falls to a whisper. 'No, I don't think you do'.

I'm not sure whether she's right. I'm sure if she's wrong either.

Since waking up, this is all I've known. Apart from a few carefree memories here and there – heading to cafes with a beaming smile, making the daddies in their tweed jackets scream in horror – nothing ties me to what might have been a normal life.

How can I want something I've never had?

How can she miss something neither of us can remember?

"Do you think they'll clear me?" I ask Mum as she finishes clearing the table. Dr. Light says nothing but continues to stare. Mum pats my cheek and rubs my shoulders soothingly. Her touch is that of a tea leaf, calming my bones.

"Everything will be fine. It's probably just a formality. You can do this, my big brave girl".

"You have to say that. You're my Mother," I laugh, and she chuckles and kisses my cheek.

"Being your Mother is a privilege, not an excuse".

She slips off to the kitchen, while I'm left with a burning in my chest. I came here to fix everything, and yet I feel as if I'm making things worse. Worse for my Mum.

Even though my memories are fractal, there is one thing I know for sure: I'm not the one our Mother loves.

I never spent much time with her. Sometimes, she braided my hair before school or let me loose with the hoover when it was my turn to clean on a sloppy Sunday afternoon. She made me pancakes. For me. Not for her, not for us. For me. Other than that, I barely saw her.

Instead, I resorted to staring through the window of my own mind.

'You don't have to look through the window anymore. You can open the door,' my other self whispers. I shake her away. Her metaphor is redundant, and I don't have time for her pity.

I have a plan.

For a minute or two, I force my body to linger at the table. To watch the Doc' as he watches me. Watches us.

I wonder, for a brief moment, if he realises that I'm the one in charge right now. Not her. Not the girl he's been fawning over like a stag for the past two weeks.

'He hasn't been fawning over me, as you so crudely put it,' my other self grumbles. I silence her voice in seconds. Instead, I choose to raise my own voice up from the ashes.

"It was hot last night," I began. "I found it hard to sleep. What about you?" Dr. Light shrugged.

"I slept fine". I fight the smile which dares to bloom. Liar, liar. We'd get along so well if I wasn't planning to kill him.

"Did you dream?" I ask. The Doc' stops for a moment, as if my question is much more than a question. I mean, it is, but I wasn't expecting him to sense my intention.

"No," he says. Truth. But not quite.

"What about you?" Now the psychiatrist spectacles are on. His posture stiffens, while his mouth slides into a neutral expression. All he's missing is a notebook and a pen.

"I dream of fragments sometimes. Bits and pieces. Interesting things". He leans forward, eyes brimming with hope. He thinks he's on the verge of a breakthrough. I stifle my smile like I'm dousing a match. Not this time, good ol' Doc.

"One time," I say in my other self's voice. "I dreamt I went back to school, and I forgot to wear any clothes. It was awful. Everyone laughed at me. When I woke up, I had to laugh at myself. Does that mean anything? My dream". Dr. Light's shoulders loosen, and he tries a smile. It doesn't suit him.

"I'm not Freud". Aren't you though? I wonder. Freud was a fraud too.

"No. Of course not. It was a silly dream, really. Anyway. I should probably freshen up before the Doctor arrives". Sliding from the table, I ask Light to check on my Mother. To see if she needs any help. He frowns a little at my request but complies. Wow. I smile to myself. He must like my other self much more than I first thought.

I bite my lip, slowly. Killing him will complicate things, I know that.

But no plan comes without risk.

'Please,' my other self begs. She begs and begs and begs, her voice so piercing I'm tempted to bash my head against the bannister as I climb the stairs. To freshen up. By freshen up, of course I mean I'm going to leave the house via one of the upstairs windows. Mum's window is unlocked, but I can't use it without her noticing. My eyes dart to his room. Good ol' Doc. I bet he would be careless enough to leave a window open.

Quietly, ever so quietly, I pad across the landing. My bare feet scrape the floorboards.

The Doc's room is carelessly unlocked. I grin as I step inside.

Oh, Doc.

You should have locked your door.

You never know what kind of low lives might creep in.

My face falls as I enter his room. It's scruffy, as if he's rushed to hide something.

Shaking my head, I remind myself I can't worry about anything like that now.

I have a job to do.

His window, as I suspected, is unlocked. The number lock, however, isn't disabled. My gut scrunches when I see it.

It's broken. Not just broken, in fact, but torn from the window frame. The wooden oak is splintered, while the lock lies in charcoal fragments on the floor. I frown. This doesn't make sense. Dr. Light is certainly no stick insect, but he's no wrestler either.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

I shrug. Perhaps, like me, he doesn't enjoy being locked up.

I'm about to risk a glance behind me when the rumbling of a car entering the drive rocks my heels. A beeping resounds. The car is reversing. Of course. With the Doc's ride in the drive, there's no space for anything larger than a Mini Cooper.

The car slips away a little – all the better for me.

In a few succinct movements, I push open the window and climb out onto the roof. Climbing down the brickwork is simple, not to mention the presence of the drainpipe, which clings to the building like ivy, making the journey all the easier. I step onto the grass at the side of the house with a smile.

A breath.

Like I said, I have a plan.

Keeping low, hiding in the rosebushes, I run down the side of the house. Chasing the rattle of the car engine as its driver parks.

A low chuckle escapes me. The Doctor has parked near the van, which still sits in the bushes, with two dead men inside.

Tut, tut. Talk about Amateur hour.

My bare feet collect a cadre of browning leaves coveted by a crown of twigs, but I'm too excited to notice.

New blood. New people. Somebody, pinch me!

Ducking into the bushes, I part the branches to reveal a small white Kia, balancing precariously on the pavement. The driver is a small, dark skinned woman with a shock of black hair clipped in a bun. She's shuffling through a briefcase which lies on the passenger seat. At this angle, I can't see what she's reading.

Brilliant.

The twittering of the birds, along with the caress of the breeze, ruffles my nerves. What if Dr. Light gave the files back to the Foundation? What if this Doctor isn't here to evaluate us? What if she's here to bring us back?

My breath cracks. I can't go back, not there. Please, don't make me. Please.

I want my Mum.

'Hurry'. My other self, that meagre voice, somehow snaps me back to reality. To the car and the Doctor who smiles as she locks her briefcase tight. Exits the driver's seat and slithers into the late morning sun.

Before she can round the corner, to stand in full view of the house, I lunge from the bushes.

She doesn't even have time to react as I clamp my hand over her mouth.

The Doctor doesn't make a sound, not even when I drag her into the bushes where the van of the dead sits in silence. The Doctor, Dr. Renee as I read from her nametag, doesn't squirm. Not until I release her and press a finger to my lips. Eyes wide, she turns. Tries to run.

I lash out, grasping her arm in a vice. For a moment, she struggles. Only for a moment. Twisting and turning every which way to release herself from my grip. She sags, breathing hard.

"Are you done?" I ask. Dr. Renee shivers in my hand, her skin like the feathers of a hummingbird. A heart beating too fast.

"I don't understand," she hisses. "This isn't right. You can't be here. They told me you were dormant".

I frown.

"Dormant? I'm not a bear in hibernation. What kind of Doctor are you?"

Dr. Renee whimpers. I smile. Now I understand.

"You're not a Doctor at all are you".

"They paid me. Wired the money. I'm just an intern. They gave me questions. Questions I'm supposed to ask you." I cut her off.

"Can I see them?" Dr. Renee jitters, the flesh beneath her chin waving in a veiny flag. I try again.

"Those questions are not for me. They are for the girl who won't break each of your ribs and use them as chopsticks to lift your heart from your body. I am not that girl". My chest stills, my body coiling into a cobra. Serpentine and sleek. Ready to devour.

Dr. Renee stands tall, as if holding her ground. I meet her stare. It barely takes half a second for her mask to fall away. Her shoulders slump, while a sheen of sweat peppers her forehead.

"Please. Don't. I have a brother. An Uncle in Vancouver. Please".

"If I wanted your Family Tree, I'd ask for it". Even as the words cross my tongue, I can't help but think of an Uncle standing by the swings, pushing a little girl no older than three. I can't help but think of long, hot, summer afternoons, pulsing with laughter as a brother and sister sizzle like hotdogs through the grass.

"Please. Here". Dr. Renee scrambles to unlock her briefcase. Within seconds, the questions lie within my hands.

I almost drop the papers.

Questions. All those questions. I realise it now. They don't want my other self. They want me.

I'm the target. These questions are for me.

1. Have you been experiencing any blackouts or memory loss?

Check. A tick in the box.

2. Have you experienced any discomfort during sleep?

Check, check.

3. How many therapy sessions do you make it through per week?

The questions, somehow, get worse.

7. What do you remember about your Mother?

8. Do the initials T. C. mean anything to you?

9. Do you know who we are trying to talk to?

Question thirteen hits home.

13. What did you do to Nurse Sarah Greenwood?

The Nurse. They know. They know.

I stare at Dr. Renee, who is clenching her eyes shut. Pressing them as tight as they will go without popping into her sockets. Little pinballs of hazelnut. Rolling, rolling into her brain.

Brain. My brain. They want access to my mind, my brain. It's me they're after.

"I know why they sent you," I tell the Doctor. She glances up, wincing as my grip on her forearm tightens. Torques and squeezes.

I grin half-heartedly.

"You're a peace offering".

A sacrifice.

The Foundation think I'm going to kill her.

They chose these questions on purpose, to provoke me. Us. To get at me. To find me. Awaken me.

I take a step toward Dr. Renee, who realises the implications of my words. She scrambles to get away and begins to scream. Before she can do so, my hand coils around her mouth.

"Listen to me," I say, dragging her closer.

"You will ask these questions without supervision. My other self will answer them, and you will be satisfied by her answers. Every. Single. One. After that, you will clear us. Then you will get into your sad excuse for a car and drive away as fast as you can. Is that understood?" Dr. Renee garbles a few words, so I remove my hand. She gasps.

"I can't," she whispers. "They'll kill me". The Janus Foundation. Strangely enough, interning for a company with 'Janus' in its name was not a good idea after all. Who knew?

Roughly, I yank on the Doctor's wrist. She winces. If anything, I might have sprained it.

"Yes," I snap. "They will kill you. I won't. I believe in prolonging pain, don't you? Making it last, like a good holiday. Do you like pain? Do you like the idea of being a sacrificial lamb? You know the Foundation won't care if I kill you. They want me to. And the last thing I want to do is play into their hands. Oh no, when I'm done, you will crawl to your little bosses and you will beg them to end your life."

I hope my voice is threatening. I hope a lot of things in those few moments. I hope this silly girl, this Intern, doesn't try to be clever. Doesn't try to be the loyal employee. Because, the more people I hurt, the more I realise I can't do this for much longer. I can't. Each lifeless expression – the Nurse, the men in the van – devours me. Swallows every part of me which might have been good or just or kind.

Dr. Renee blinks and I wrap my arm around her throat. Pull her close. Put pressure on her carotid artery. Soon blood flow to the brain will stop. Thankfully, within a millisecond she is nodding her head – as much as she can – and struggling in my arms. Eventually, I let her drop to the floor. Toss the questions at her feet.

"Do we have a deal?" I ask. Hold out my hand. Looking down, I try to stop my palm from shaking.

Dr. Renee, if that is her real name, crawls to her feet, picks up the papers, and nods.

As she walks away, I let my outstretched hand curl into a fist.