Chapter 1

At the age of sixteen, James Fletcher rode a dirt bike into the hills of Hollister, California. At some point during that ride he lost control of his vehicle. Several hikers later found the bloodied teen lying facedown in the soil, and immediately summoned an ambulance. He had no recollection of what had occurred, and was later diagnosed as suffering from a nasty concussion which led to temporary loss of long term memory. For two days James lay in a hospital bed. His face had been severely slashed by detritus and he required a thorough deep cleansing of his wounds followed by numerous stitches. His teeth were saved by the braces that he was wearing at the time, although they had inflicted similar wounds on the inside of his mouth. During his stay in the hospital, he occasionally would mumble various phrases, which was perfectly normal for someone with a severe concussion. His family would speak to him, but he would seem surprised every time they arrived. After that time, he recovered his memory somewhat, although the doctors were forced to explain that he had lost two days of his life that he would never get back. Altogether he had been extremely lucky, and despite some superficial bruises on the rest of his body, relatively unharmed.

Two months later, James went off to college. The University of Idaho had accepted the young wunderkid on the basis of his grades alone. Having graduated high school at fifteen due to high intelligence and poor socialization, he was thrust into the world of a four year college at the tender age of sixteen. Despite being a legacy, he was of course denied any chance to become a fraternity member and as a result migrated to the dorms. The next year was extremely unsuccessful for him both academically and socially, since he was not welcome at any social activities due to his youth. This isolation impacted upon his ability to study. James spent most of the year hiding in his dorm room, and avoiding the company of others as well as his professors. During one of his rare attempts at making friends, he lost his virginity, being raped at a party by another male student taking advantage of his inebriated state. After that James drank considerably more, in his dorm room, with the door locked. He flunked out at the end of the second semester.

Returning home, James joined the Navy in a vain attempt to gain some meaning in his life. Consigned to a role as an intrinsic loser, his naval career was just as brief as his college experience, lasting only a year. During that time he spent most of his leisure avoiding reality, retreating into the computers that he worked on. He chalked it up as another example of his failures.

Now eighteen, the young man returned to college at a local community. He occasionally studied, more to keep the parents he lived with off his back, than out of any desire to actually succeed. It was during this period that James tried to lose himself in music, playing the guitar. His professors all agreed that he had real talent, if he would just apply himself. James did, more out of the love of music than the desire to succeed, and learned the great composers, their works, and his own talents and limitations. Somewhat more mature at this point, he applied to a conservatory in Los Angeles which accepted him upon audition.

Music became everything to James. He played his guitar constantly, working diligently to improve his craft. His skills improved along with his people skills. Despite his successes, he discovered, over the course of two years in the city, that there was nothing that he had that a hundred others wouldn't do for less money. He wasn't the right gender to sleep his way to the top, and his family was not the type to hand him a record contract on a silver platter. The initial eagerness now abated, James began working at minimum wage jobs in attempt to make ends meet. He truly believed that his chance was just over the next rise.

Despite these things, James fell in love with a woman over the internet, which had become a bit of a haven for him. Their relationship was passionate but brief. She became homesick after moving to Los Angles from her home in Texas. Agreeing to return with her at her promise of marriage, James drove her to her home. Her parents loathed the "cracker from LA" from the beginning, and banned him from their home only a few weeks after their arrival. With no money, and no hopes left, James accepted defeat and returned home to his parents.

At the age of 23, James left home one last time. He accepted a small clerical position at a local newspaper and found a small dingy apartment in a bedroom community near his home. It was there, after a long night of playing the guitar loudly and drinking heavily that he wrote his suicide note and prepared to write off the rest of his life as just one more mistake.

James swirled the last few drops of the sake around in the small plastic cup. The liquid ran around the lower rim of the cheap cup, collecting briefly on the small raised surfaces inherent in the plastic, before coalescing into a small pool. He inhaled deeply, then tasted the liquid again. His thoughts turned back to communion, remembering the first taste of wine. This was similar, but with an aftertaste of slightly burned rice. He thought about how he would probably like sake more if they added a butter flavor to it. Overall, as a new experience, he considered the sake just another waste of time.

He sat on the mattress that lined one side of the room he resided in. It wasn't a home. He knew that this was the place he was going to die in when he rented it. A television, a toilet, a microwave and a bed were the only furnishings in the place. It was a place that maintained the basics, but nothing else. He had no yard, and his ancient Plymouth needed to be parked on the street, necessitating that he not spend any time in the house before six, lest the parking police come and take it away. Weekends were the only exception.

He tossed the plastic cup into a corner, and pulled his guitar into his lap. It was a nice instrument, not expensive, but not cheap either. His back rested against the wall as he closed his eyes and began picking out a slow piece. There were no chords in the song, just notes rising and falling with his breath. As he played, his eyes opened and lighted on the note he had finished writing. It had been spat out perfectly from the bowels of his computers printer. He had considered creating a more immersive experience for the note, by burning it onto a CD along with some samples of his better work, but immediately reconsidered when he remembered how computer illiterate most of his soon to be audience was. Better that the police have no ambiguities about his motives.

Near the note lay a bottle of pills. James didn't know what was in them, and he frankly didn't care. He just knew that they would do the job if he took enough of them with alcohol. An acquaintance from school who had sold them to him, had warned him that although they would help him calm down, they could be extremely dangerous. Noting the now empty bottle of rice wine at his feet, he ironically reflected that step one of his was done.

Breathing deeply, James finished the last note on the guitar, then placed it reverently on a nearby stand. His vision moved to the mirror that graced the wall nearby. His gaze swept across his face, tired and defeated. He was an average man, with a high forehead that gave the false impression that he was prematurely losing the dark blonde hairs on his head. Normally his hair was parted on the left, the bangs occasionally crossing over his right eye, but to say that he was now unkempt was an understatement. The small clumps of his bangs hung down over his grey eyes that had never developed laugh lines, partially shielding the view that he had long considered not only unattractive but downright homely. The overall shape of his hair framed the rounded face beneath. He took in his own visage, with the high cheekbones that his sister had always joked about wanting to borrow. There was three days stubble along the line of his curved jaw, but even that did not amount to much, considering how little he had ever had to shave.

"You look like shit." He mumbled to the reflection in the mirror. The athletically built man in the glass did not reply, eliciting a non-committal grunt from James. Jeans and a shirt had been his standard dress for years, and he thought it was only fitting that that particular garment be the one he was found in.

He stumbled to his feet, and moved to the bottle that squatted menacingly on the table. He closed his eyes one last time, trying to get up the courage to finish what he started.

"Don't fuck this one up too." He murmured as he reached forward. The bottle was light in his hand, as all such bottles were. The cap wasn't childproof, and came off easily in his grasp. He looked in at the small white shapes within, trying in vain to quell the fear of the unknown that was rising in him. He nodded softly with deep regrets, and began to tilt the bottle. The lethal chemicals began to roll within the bottle, closing towards its lip, when a familiar sound floated across his mind.

The sound was not the sound of the ocean, even though the ocean was near to his abode. The words that reached his ears sounded far off, like a sound that was not so much real as imagined.

"Giving up on your life so easily." The words were hauntingly familiar. Something grasped at his soul, and he felt compelled to listen. His hands dropped limply as the bottle dropped from them and fell, scattered its contents across the deep orange and brown rug. Eyes wide, he turned, looking in the direction of the sound.

Near the large sliding door that was the only entrance to the room, there was a figure. It was indistinct, the shapes seeming more of a dream than a true vision. They melded into one another, reflecting images that could not be reflected. James felt a strange attraction and a familiarity that he did not understand.

"You have found me once. This time I find you. I am the spirit that would guide your life." James had no words to respond. The vision in front of him had not moved, but the words were clear in his mind.

"What are you?" The question came out hesitantly. Uncertainty clouded his mind again. Was he hallucinating? He had seen this sight before, but he could not recall where, or when.

"I am the vision you saw in your pain." The words were true. He was unable to comprehend how he knew that, but the words forming in his mind were nothing but truth. "You sought guidance from yourself, but were only a child who knew nothing of your life."

Visions flitted through the mind of James. Visions of his youth, his childhood. And then a day that was forever blocked from his mind came to the fore.

"I remember you..." The vision, the pain, the blood. It had been buried in a dark, black place in his mind for so long, and yet it was there again, burning in his mind like it had happened five minutes previously. He remembered that brief moment of flying, and the pain afterward.

"You were not ready. A child cannot learn from himself when he knows nothing." James sighed, his vision taking in the creature that seemed nothing more than the vestiges of a drunken nightmare. Perhaps that is what this truly was, and not a memory at all, but a drunken figment.

"You're not real." James denied the creature. He turned, and dropping to his knees, began to collect the widely scattered pills. He had gathered a few when he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

He turned, and saw a hideous face of a laughing dog. No, not a dog, a coyote. The face itself shifted into indistinct shapes once again, and James thought he could see the figures of a bird, several men, and a snake come and go through the swirling mass.

"You have learned much." The voice in his head was nearly deafening. He wondered if he was going insane. Visions were not a good thing. In history they tended to get people killed or committed. Learned much, he mused, yeah if you count seven years of being buried in shit as learning.

"Fat lot of good it does me." James' reply was sharp. He had had a plan tonight, and it didn't involve mystic fucking spirits getting in the way of his suicide. Anger, an anger he had thought long buried crashed into his mind. How dare this thing interfere with what he needed and wanted to do?

The face of the coyote appeared again in the clashing swirls that clouded his vision. The creature laughed. It laughed loudly and heartily. The sound was not frightening. James felt an urge to join the mirth that was inspired by the joyous sound. The rage left him suddenly to be replaced by a sense of wonder, and hope ran across his mind as he looked on the laughing face.

"Would you like to benefit from your newfound wisdom?" The face changed into the bird that James recognized as a raven. The bird's voice was grating, but carried the same weight that the laughing coyote had. The black glossy feathers that gave the impression of deep mystery were the most prominent feature in the creature's wizened face.

"I can't." James realized as the question was posed to him. Could have, would have, should have were the hallmarks of his life. To benefit from his wisdom required that he go forward, and he couldn't. There was too much pain in the past. There was no reason. The hope was dashed as he felt the welling of the regret that had brought him to this point.

"You can." The face became that of a monkey with a crown upon its head. A broad smile crossed its face as it too faded into the swirling morass. James realized that he was on his knees before the vision that permeated his very being. He could do nothing but listen and respond. In a small corner of his mind he wondered if he was already dead.

"That day that you first met me was the beginning of the end for you." The face of man with pinched features came into view. The smile on his face was not as pleasant as those from the earlier faces, but it was earnest. "From that day on, every day has been a step to this point."

"Yeah, well if I knew then..." James shouted at the creature as the face faded into the vague shapes that had been present before. He had never been ready for anything in his life, he realized sadly. Too many mistakes by a child not ready to make the decisions.

"Do you want that time again?" The face that appeared this time was also doglike, but faded too quickly from the vision to be distinct in his sight.

"No point. I'd just fuck it up again." He spat out. Even if he could do it all over again, there was no way that he could change anything. He'd still be a kid of sixteen with a hard-on for anything that moved with a wiggle. Better to just end it now than to live through that hell again. Better to suffer for his choices as he always had.

"A challenge." The face became that of an old wizened man. It lingered longer on James' face, a soft smile crossing its lips. "Become that child-man, and change it for the better." The face was instantly replaced by the laughing face of the coyote once again, which continued, "But it isn't fair."

"What?" To go back, to do it all again, and to know the errors. That had been a dream for so long.

"Not fair at all, to let you have all the knowledge you do now. It's only fair if everything isn't exactly the same." The coyote smiled, its teeth becoming visible as its lips curled back from its teeth. "If you take the chance, one thing will change. One thing that will give your life a different cast."

"What?" James gasped. This had to be a hallucination. Only a hallucination would offer him the chance to do what he had always dreamed. That time had held so much promise, and he had squandered it in the pursuit of nothing. For that had been what his younger self had sought. Nothing.

"One letter." The face of the Raven returned, the words quiet and precise. "One letter will be changed, over time."

"One letter." It was delightfully cryptic. Perhaps the creature would change his name to something embarrassing. A grade in a required course changed. Something that would throw everything else off, and set the tone differently.

"Only one." The pastiche had returned. It seemed that the entire cosmology present had come to a consensus. Laughter sprung forth, with a humor that escaped James. They seemed to be all sharing some private joke. But that wasn't right either, since the creature before him was not a many, but a one with many aspects. It had made its decision, and now waited patiently for him to make his.

"For that chance, I'd do almost anything." James sighed, tears running down his cheeks. The hope that radiated from his heart was overwhelming. He could do it again. He could do it right. So what if one little thing changed? The mere chance to would far outweigh any minor effect. "Let me go back."

There was no other sound than the laughter that rang in his ears. The vision became brighter swallowing his entire vision with a light that engulfed the room. There was a taste in his mouth of dirt, and of copper. A warmth permeated the back of his hands, and his whole body began to ache. The light turned to darkness, and James closed his eyes, hoping. The emotion filled his soul, as he slipped into the black.

The first thing that James noticed was the stiffness in the right side of his face. As he opened his eyes, the pull of the skin along his cheek caused slight pain when the scabs upon it tugged. Judging from the amount of hardness along his face, he realized he must have torn the flesh from at least half of it. He began to open his mouth, feeling the small scrapes of metal on the inside of his lips. Braces, twisted and protruding, which cut slightly into him. The pain was mild, but it served to sharpen his awareness. Gingerly, he brought a hand up to his face, and ran it along the healing wounds. The slight contact did not hurt much, but it brought home the amount of injury he truly had. He noted with some distraction the small IV that was inserted into the back of his hand.

Turning his attention away from himself, he looked about the room where he was. Across from the steel bed where he lay, a television mounted on the wall blared out some inane sitcom. About him, there were numerous tables, all with closed drawers. The walls were slightly off color, and rough from what he could see. The floor too was a white color, but speckled with numerous flecks of some other material. Set against one wall, a doorway lay wide open, with a hallway beyond.

It wasn't the nicest hospital James had ever been in, but it would pass muster. James turned his thoughts back to the last memories he had. He recalled drinking. Actually he remembered drinking quite a bit. He hadn't driven or anything, had he?

It took a moment before James remembered writing his suicide note. He sighed inwardly, realizing he must have fucked that up too. Can't he do anything right? It was obvious what had happened. He must have taken the drugs and they didn't do what he had hoped. He must have had his stomach pumped, and now here he was.

He reflected a moment more. But that didn't make sense, his still slightly exhausted mind interjected. If he had tried to commit suicide he wouldn't be alone here. There would be a suicide watch. Heck, they probably would have chained him to the bed. And why the facial injuries? It didn't feel like burns, so the only way he could have got them is if someone had dragged him to the hospital on his face. James chuckled slightly at the thought of his overweight landlord trying to manhandle him to a car by dragging his legs. Not very likely.

"Oh, you're up." The voice was his mother, Anne. Oh god. The last thing he needed after an unsuccessful suicide was his mother. He waited for the recriminations, as he turned towards the door.

"How are you feeling?" the young looking woman at the door asked him. Young? James stared at his mother; at least she looked and sounded like her. The woman in her late thirties who looked back at him had an expression of concern on her face. There was no anger; just an affection and what seemed a sense of worry. His mother?

James never remembered her looking that way. The woman he remembered was older, almost fifty. It was a rare moment when she didn't criticize him, and the concern that this woman was showing was totally the antithesis of that scorn. An instant or two went by before James finally realized that she was his mother, but she had gone through some radical transformation. She must have had one of those makeover shows do a number on her. That would probably explain her changed attitude as well.

"I'm okay, I guess." James mumbled. The drugs he had taken must have done a number on his vocal chords, or his hearing, because he could have sworn that the voice that he answered her with was several notes higher than it should have been.

Smiling at him, Anne moved into the room from the doorway. As she did so, James glanced over her form. She had obviously lost some weight, falling from the hefty woman size to the full-figured woman size. Her curly hair was worn a bit longer than she used to wear it, but the dark blonde coloration was the same. He noted with some distraction the lack of grey in her hair. She continued on, pulling up a metal chair with a plastic seat, and sitting on it, next to the bed.

"That's nice hon." Anne commented, her gaze moving up to the television that blared in the room. "What are you watching?"

"I wasn't watching it. It was just on." James commented, unable to believe how good his mother was looking. It was like ten years had been peeled off in an instant.

"Good. Rots your brain." Anne replied, picking up the remote control and switching the set off. The silence in the room was a bit disconcerting, but he didn't comment. How much longer was she going to keep this up before she lowered the boom?

"You look nice, mom." James tried, a bit unsure of what to say. He knew there must be something wrong with his ears, because his voice still didn't sound right.

There was a pause as Anne looked at James. He waited for the lecture, mentally bracing himself for the load of crap she was about to dump on him. She took a deep breath, then spoke some words that shocked him.

"I don't think you should go riding with Randall anymore." The comment was brief, and said in such an offhand manner that James was momentarily dumbstruck. Randall? Her second husband and he had never gotten along, even when they had gone out riding together. But they hadn't been riding together in years, ever since that one time.

A flood of memories raced through James' mind. Images, neither real nor unreal, flashed before his eyes. A laughter; a savage burning laughter that he would never forget. He glanced down at his hands again, past the IV, to truly look at them. The small scar on the back of his wrist that had been there from childhood was larger, no longer almost completely melded with the rest of the skin. The hair on his arm no longer was the deeper blond that he remembered, but a thin light brown that covered considerably less. He was back in that hospital, two days after nearly killing himself on a motorcycle.

His eyes widened, and a broad smile crossed his face. It hurt to smile like that, pulling hard on the scabs that coated his face, but he knew they would heal. He was back! He hadn't forgotten anything. He remembered it all: His life, Los Angeles, the Navy, College. Everything was there. What year was it? He had to remember. There was so much to do. He began to chuckle, and while it pained his body to do so, he had to laugh.

"James, are you alright?" Anne's voice cut through his inner monologue, and she stared at him with a severe expression on her face.

"I'm fine, mom." He replied, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the smile off his face. He wasn't fine. He was better than fine. He had been given his life back and he had no way to explain that to the woman in front of him. In fact, he reflected, I better not tell her. First thing that will get me is slapped right in to the nearest mental institution.

His mind whirled, trying to remember what he had said to her earlier question back in... God, he couldn't remember the year! He remembered that he hadn't gone out with Randall ever again, so he must have agreed with her.

"You're probably right about that, mom. I don't know what I saw in motorcycles anyway." You got that right, he thought to himself. The last time you sat your ass on a motorcycle was at sixteen and it left you right where you are now.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't ride, but I think that dirt bikes are a little too dangerous, honey." Anne continued. Her face smiled at him softly. James looked into her hazel eyes, and nodded.

"Yeah." He agreed, leaning his head back into the pillow fully, and noting the long hair that pressed into the back of his head. Oh lord, he mused, this must have been the year I wore my hair long. He swore a silent oath to get a haircut as soon as he got home.

"Maybe in a year or two, you can get your license and try again, but I just don't think..." She was reading a speech, James realized, shutting off his attention. He remembered how she would go on and on for the better part of forever. He nodded, not knowing what he had agreed to, but not really caring. His mind was occupied with his memories, trying to recall everything possible about what was going on. The year, dammit, let's see... counting back...

Nineteen ninety three. It had to be. The year he went off to college was the ninety three, ninety four school year. SHIT! Idaho! What the fuck was he going to do in Idaho? All they had up there was blue skies and cow shit! Hang on, it wasn't that bad. This was college, remember.

"... good news is that the doctor says you're healing a lot faster than normal for..."

College! He could do it right this time. No more trying to bang everything that moved. Hell, he hadn't been successful the first time, since Nineteen year old girls wanted nothing to do with a kid. Two months from now. Hmm, better write off Rush week, even though he recalled that it had probably been planned already. Well, he'd just have to cancel now, wouldn't he. No frat would be stupid enough to let a sixteen year old in.

"... although they're a bit concerned about some things that showed up in your CAT scan..."

At the thought of college girls, he found himself becoming slightly excited, a mild bulge beginning to form in his sheets. Shit. James had forgotten how easily aroused he had been at sixteen. He'd have to work doubly hard to not make the same mistakes he had before. Remember, buddy, he told himself, you didn't get laid the first time. Well, not willingly at any rate. Oh shit. Mental note: do not go to Delta Tau Delta party! Underline that one twice! He had no intention of losing his virginity to a guy the second time around.

"... so we're going have to have you stay here until they finish the..."

Do the military again this time around? Why not? If he finished college at eighteen he could be an officer at nineteen. Heck, he could probably get into the academy this time through, with what he remembered! Retirement at thirty-nine, with a nice fat severance package. So many potentials lost! Not an instant to waste. Two months seemed like an eternity.

"... love you. James, I know that you're in a lot..."

Tests? The last few sentences that Anne had spoke reverberated in his mind. He didn't remember staying for tests. Not after two days.

"... so, I guess I'll let you rest. Call me if you need anything." Anne finished her statement, and headed towards the door, pushing the small chair back into position. She closed the door behind her, leaving James alone in the silent room.

Tests. Something about his CAT-scan. Dear lord, that spirit didn't give me cancer or something did it? James remembered those final burning words along with that laugh. One letter would be changed. Arrgh. Why did he have to be so stupid? It would be something debilitating, wouldn't it. It had to be. Something that destroyed his life without giving him the chance to live it right. Didn't he have a canker sore on his mouth earlier? Oh god, canker to cancer! No, he touched his lips, he didn't have any of those. What else, could it be though? He ran through the various combinations of his name, trying to find an embarrassing nickname made by changing one letter. Nothing jumped out at him. Well, whatever it was, he'd find out soon enough.

James reached for the remote with his left hand and flipped the television on. On the screen four people sat around trying to figure out a way to get into some girls pants. Oh yes, James thought. Some things, like prime time television, would never change.

The next morning, James awoke to find a large portion of a scab on his pillow. Sometime during the night, it had just fallen off. With some disgust he flipped the vile sloughed skin away with a gesture of his left hand.

Ambidexterity had always been one of his few talents, not that it ever came in useful in this day and age. He touched his face, amazed to feel the new skin under his fingers. It was smooth, as all new skin is. Now he knew that something was wrong.

James distinctly recalled spending weeks indoors, embarrassed by his injuries. What had taken weeks to heal, had been reduced to a few hours. Not only that, but the few teeth in his mouth that he remembered being loosened were solidly set. There was a deep, overriding fear welling up inside James.