Back Where it Started.

AN: Yeah, it's a working title… This is the next in the series of Addie and The Doctor stuff. The first three instalments are on my page—It may help to read those if you've just popped in. Thank-you, if you have, by the way. Bordering Insanity is in need of a re-write, it's not the best, but I will get 'round to it at some point.

I'd love to see if anyone has come over from my other stories. Feel free to let me know and tell me what you think of this. Thanks. 3

I sit silent with my legs crossed, much like any other day spent here. My hands rest on my knees and I stare at the wall, where an empty bookshelf hangs, much like any other day spent here. I blink slowly, as if praying that doing so will take up more time and make the day go quicker, much like any other day spent here.

Much like every day, I hate it. Much like every day, I wish for it to end. I need it to end. And end soon.

If I wasn't insane before being dragged back here, then I most certainly am now.

Everything is as I remember it; everything has that empty, cold touch. The air feels thin, difficult to digest, as it were. The floor is the same dirty grey as it has always been, matching the grubby wall superbly. My metal framed bed is in the same position, opposite a small chest of drawers with a mirror above them. There is one thing different, however. A small rug, violet in colour, clashes horribly with the rest of the room. It's near the bookshelf and the tatty wooden seat in the corner. I scoff quietly at the thought of them trying to make the situation more comfortable for me. It is a lost cause, they have failed. I still despise it.

My gaze falls now, toward my lower arm, the one with the letters carved to form one of the most terrifying words I think I've encountered. Master. Just seeing it now, the poorly healed, dark red wound- it makes me shiver. I run my thumb over the final letter, my breath coming quicker.

I fold my arms across my chest, trying desperately to keep my chin high and my gaze locked on his. Lucy has gone, she'd left a few minutes back and, until now, The Master and I had simply sat in silence. I move away from him, backing away toward the other side of the room. I hate being near him. I hate his very presence, his very existence.

"You said," I swallow, for a moment unsure of as to how to continue, "You said that you would kill them all."

I look away, and from the corner of my eye, he sits straight, perking up at my words. I look to the floor and my messy converse.

"Bill?"

He smiles now.

"Everyone."

"Amelie?"

A chuckle leaves his lips and he stands, a wolfish grin plastered on his despicable face. He steps closer.

"Everyone."

My demeanour falls, and I look up, tears in my eyes, only to see that he has gotten closer still. His face is now merely inches from my. My voice wavers—

"Adele?"

He leans in, virtually pinning me to the wall.

"Everyone."

I bring my gaze back up, pulling my sleeve down and gripping it in my hand. The guilt of that moment has been eating me up since that awful day. I can't help but think back to that little village, with its quaint cottages, its farm houses. I remember back to the walks I'd take with Rob in the frosty mornings. There were woods nearby, about a ten minute walk over the fields near the pub, we'd take his dog occasionally. It was peaceful then, quiet, calm, even with the occasional Toclafane drifting about. I liked it. More than my time with the Doctor? No. Of course not.

I scold myself silently. The memories are pointless, Rob isn't there anymore, I won't see him again. Or Amelie, or Adele. I won't see anyone again. I doubt I'll even see the Doctor again—I've been here for some time and nothing has happened. There has been no hint of him finding me, I lost hope a short while back.

The Master seems to be the only subject that my mind wishes to stick to. He is everywhere—the wound on my arm doesn't heal, the writing on my walls never truly came off. God only knows what I wrote it in; something stronger than a permanent marker, surely. But, yes, it's just him—his face, his laugh, his words—only him. And it hurts, it truly, really does. If the drums aren't running through my head, then he is. It just shows my weakness, I can tell that I'm not as strong minded as I used to be. Did he break me during that year? I think he did.

Damn everything.

Damn him.

Damn me.

AN: So, sort of a prologue, I think. But, alas, I am slowly gaining my muse back for writing. Though, I'm afraid my updates may remain slow—first year of A-levels are already ridiculously stressful. I will try though.

Reviews and such are always welcome.

Thank-you very much for reading.

Ciao!