I've made it back to Texas. Everything is wrong. Nothing most people would notice, but my whole world is unfamiliar.
The chupacabras have changed. No less hideous (even moreso, if that's possible), but larger and more abundant. The Mothmen are withering.
My few remaining family members insist I attempted contact not once. My house is still mine, and I've settled back in, but nothing is as I left it.
If a friend were to visit (ha), she wouldn't see anything different. But to me the whole house may as well have been replaced by another.
Everything looks almost as it did before, but the feeling is wrong. My appliances no longer warmly respond to my touch, but silently spurn me. They still work just fine, but they aren't very fond of me.
I go through old poems I wrote in grade school. The words are familiar, but the handwriting is wrong.
Is it?
I write out another poem. My handwriting has changed to match those on my doppelganger's imitation letters.
Lately, I just haven't been myself.
