Before I start I want to thank everyone who has gone before and inspired me to set my fingers to my keyboard. I doubt that I can match your efforts with identical quality, but I shall attempt it. There are far too many to list by name, so I'll leave everybody out and slight everyone equally.

This story is very slow. If you don't like long setups and lots of emotional detail and distress, this one probably isn't for you. It's also not finished, but don't worry, it will be soon, since my SO cuts me off when I don't write a chapter..... ;)

Stuart

  

Remix

by Brevdravis

 

Prologue:

Pain. There was nothing but pain. Fire behind his eyes, leaping forth and cruising down the right side of his face. His eyes could not focus, seeing nothing but light and shadow. Shapes eluded him. A taste of bitter copper and earth swelled in his mouth. Heat, and a light wind that played across the exposed skin on his hands, bringing a cooling evaporation of sweat, or ragged pain to the insides of new wounds.

"Help me....." The words were barely a whisper in James' mouth. The pain seemed to crawl into his lungs, robbing him of the ability to breathe. The fire that had swelled in his head leapt to his voice. Attempting to swallow and clear the disturbance brought a raw, gritty sensation. What's going on, his stunned mind queried. What happening to me?

A voice, clear and unambiguous formed in his eardrums. Unlike the rush of blood and rapid heartbeats that were the only sound that he could comprehend, his mind could hear these words. They cut through the mist obscuring his thoughts, bringing consciousness to that one aspect of his fractured psyche.

"Are you just going to lie there?"

The question was crazy, nonsensical. He couldn't move. The slightest motion brought nothing but pain to every aspect of his senses. Willing his voice to come forth, James tried, desperately, to say some word in response.

It came out as a sob of agony, followed by a whimper.

"Ugh. Pathetic." The voice took on an aspect of reproach, tinged with a faint patina of amusement. "The least that you could do is acknowledge my presence."

James could not reply. The dust he inhaled into his nose forbade any action save a desperate racking cough. That too brought his pain to the fore. He lay there, pressed against the earth as he sprawled. How had he come to this, such pain. He couldn't remember, couldn't remember anything but pain.

He rotated his eyes in the direction he thought the voice had spoken from. The shapes still swam in his sight, seeming the shapes of a dog, of a man, a bird. They were all one and nothing, clouds and starlight points of ether. No sense, and no meaning ascribed to any of them. Willing the straining muscles of his arm, he reached, trying to touch. The dirt shifted under his fingers as his hand inched forward. He contacted something, but in his condition he could not tell if it was stone, man, or nothing at all save the raw earth.

"I guess that will have to do." The voice seemed deep, as that one conscious portion of James' mind tried to make a pattern of it. No recognition came, but it seemed familiar, like many voices he had heard in his life and yet like none of them. With the sounds of his own body rushing in his ears it seemed as if the cry of a bird became intertwined with the mournful howls heard late at night; all reflected in the intonations of the words that came to his senses.

"You look to be alone, and to seek yourself, and what do you do?" The voice became light hearted, with a smile more heard than seen. "You find yourself, and the spirit that could guide you. Happy?"

James cried out again, his lips grinding the soil upon them further into his injuries. A twisted shard of metal from the braces he wore curled into his gum as he did so. Tears welled and spilled across his face, unnoticed by the skin that was already soaked with his sweat. The words this voice spoke made no sense. He hurt. Was this voice going to help him? What quest, what seeking? The final question welled up from somewhere dark inside. Was he dying?

The agony too much for him, James let loose a cry from somewhere deep in his soul. Trying to find comfort in something. In the inner recesses of his mind, a child's cry lurched forward to the center of his throat and poured forth in a desperate aching wail.

"Mom......"

The voice said nothing for a long time. James lay where he was, feeling his blood on his lips, the deep gashes in his face and hands. The aches and pains in every corner of his body took every bit of his thought. The patterns before his eyes swirled and grew darker.

"You are not a man. You are a child. A child should not seek out that which he is not ready to confront." The voice was stern. In a few pain-wracked breaths, James heard the final words of the voice in his mind, clear and precise. "One day, you will be ready to return to this place. When you do, know that I will await you." The words left no impression on his mind. He knew them, but the became locked away in the blackness that engulfed him.

***

 

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 detrius 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 suprised 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 arriveal. 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 a 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 aquaintance 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-commital 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 begand 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 afterword.

"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 recognised as a raven. The birds 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 creatures 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 wellings of the regret that had brought him to this point.

"You can." The face became that of a monkey with a crown upon it's head. A broad smile crossed it's 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 it's 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, it's teeth becoming visible as it's lips curled back from it's 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 speckeled 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 unsuccesful 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 unsuccesfully 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. Something like changing him to HIV. 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.

"What the fuck?" he asked aloud, his hands touching his face where his injuries were mysteriously absent. "Nobody heals that fast. Nobody."

"Oh, you're awake?" A tall blonde woman in a nurse's smock looked in the door at the sound of his voice. "I'll tell the doctor." She rapidly disappeared from view.

James sighed, running his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes. Get a fricking haircut, he reminded himself. He remembered wearing his hair long, but not to the middle of his back. He must have gotten a haircut soon after the accident.

His contemplation was cut short by the arrival of the slight man in scrubs entering the room. He was tall, wearing a closely cropped beard under a pair of what James had referred to as "Birth Control Glasses" in the Navy. There was a calm expression on his face as he walked towards the bed.

"Good morning, James." The doctor commented, looking not at James' face, but at his throat. There was a puzzled expression on the doctor's face, but he spoke calmly and quietly. "I hope you slept well."

"Well enough." James replied, waiting for the shoe to drop. Doctors only spoke calmly and quietly when they wanted their patients to stay calm and quiet. From the expression on the doctor's face, he wanted James to stay calmer than a corpse.

"That's good, Jim. I'm Doctor Hubbard." The doctor paused a moment, "You do like Jim, right?"

"No, I hate Jim." James stated flatly, "Jim is redneck with a shotgun and a case of beer."

A hint of a smile crossed Hubbard's face, before he resumed his calm expression. "Alright, James, do you mind if I sit down?"

"It's a free country." James replied, trying to remember that this man thought of him as sixteen. A little patronization was to be expected.

The doctor pulled over the same chair that James' mother had occupied the night before, and leaned back. He pulled up a clipboard, that James had not noticed him carrying earlier.

"I've already spoken with your mother, and she felt it was best if I filled you in on your condition." His voice was deathly calm, as if he was about to announce a funeral.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense." James stated sarcastically. He knew that the man was trying to spare his feelings, but James would be damned if he would wait any longer to find out what was wrong.

"Alright James, first off, the good news. You're healing at a rate that is unbelievable. It seems to be slowing down a bit, but if it stays at the current rate, you should be in perfect health fairly soon. Your face has almost completely healed, with no scar tissue, which is very lucky indeed considering the depth of the abrasions. Your teeth have already become set in their positions, and you will be seeing your orthodontist to have your braces removed tomorrow. You're already ready to move, but we've kept you here because of some other problems."

So, healing rapidly. Great! No more braces! Better! If the bad news wasn't too bad, James couldn't imagine a better life. One of the major problems of his social life, his damned braces, would be forever removed. James nodded at Hubbard with a smile on his face.

Hubbard breathed heavily, but maintained his beatific expression.

"Now the bad news. For some reason, you seem to have had a genetic, well, for lack of a better term, switch flipped. Your body is behaving, on a cellular level, as if you were a fetus."

What? That had to be wrong? That would explain the healing though. However, he must have had his metabolism speeded up to incredible levels. He glanced at the nearly empty IV near him, and realized how many of them he had gone through in the last day. He recalled the nurse coming in at least seven times to replace empty bags.

"So what, I'm going to die? " James asked, recalling that horrid disease, Hutchison-something. The disease that made kids die of old age at ten. It had something to do with metabolism.

"No, James, and that's the interesting part. Everywhere the cells in your body have been replaced, like your face, the cells are behaving normally. It's strange, but our best guess is that when you've had every cell in your body replaced by new ones, you should return to your standard metabolism."

"So, I guess I'll lose scar tissue," James stated, looking down at his hand. Indeed, the scar there seemed a bit less puffy, and closer to the look it had had when he was older.

"I'm afraid that's not all," Hubbard explained, leaning a bit closer to James' reclining form. "I'm sorry, but there is an abnormality, well, not really an abnormality, but a variation, in the new cells."

"Please cut to the chase, doc." James groaned, looking at the doctor with a sharp expression. "I don't need the long version."

"Yes, you do. Now calm down, James. This is going to be very hard to explain."

James merely nodded, his gaze fixed upon the doctor.

"The new cells are identical to yours in all ways, with the exception of the twenty-third chromosome pair. Have you taken much genetics in school?"

"I'm not an illiterate, doc." James replied, a bit peeved. "The twenty-third chromosome pair is the only chromosome pair to vary in size and shape depending upon the person's sex. In males it is a ecks-why, and in females an ecks-ecks."

"Well, good, I'm glad you can save me some time." Doctor Hubbard's voice showed no sarcasm, just that same, infuriating calm. "So, I guess you can understand the implications when I tell you that every new cell in your body carries an ecks-ecks chromosome pair."

How the fuck did that happen, James wondered. Ecks-ecks? That's the genetic marker for a female. Female? Oh my god.

"Now James, I want you not to panic. I want you to realize that normally this would be a self correcting failure of the genetic code. However, the problem is that your body is seeing your current cells as the error, and is replacing them, and not the variants."

"Replacing them, with these, uh, female cells?" James tried to keep the fear out of his voice, but failed rather miserably.

"Yes, James. At the rate you're currently, uh, healing, our best estimate is that every cell in your body will be replaced in about one month."

"But that won't change anything!" James smiled. The vast majority of the human body's development was in the womb. Since he was already fully formed, he supposed the worst that could happen would be that he would only be able to father girls, since his testicles would be working from ecks-ecks cells. Fucking coyote tried to fuck with the wrong fucking person in the wrong fucking way! James felt like crowing in triumph. He was back and it would work! One letter changed indeed. Such a pity that spirits didn't know about human development.

"I wish it was that simple." Doctor Hubbards voice was calm. "Normally you'd be correct and it wouldn't change anything save a few minor characteristics, since your body is almost fully developed. However, as I said earlier, your body seems to have had another "switch" flipped. The one that tells cells to form organs, bones, etc. Combined with your speeded-up metabolism, I'm afraid that I have bad news."

"Bad news?" James hadn't really been listening to the last statement, he was too busy congratulating himself for winning his "Bet" with an ancient spirit.

"Yes James, I'm afraid that, well, look. Feel your throat."

Smirking, James reached his left hand up to feel at his neck. It felt the same as always, a smooth line from his chin to his collar bones. Smooth. James felt up and down several times, noting no bump in the middle where he knew there should be one. No adam's apple.

"What the fuck?" James breathed rapidly, checking his throat again. It was gone! When he swallowed his throat went through the motion, but there was no rising lump that he had always felt before when swallowing.

"I'm afraid that that is the most obvious symptom that we have so far observed. We estimate as more and more of your original form is replaced there will be other, much more noticable changes."

"WHAT THE FUCK?" James shouted, his hand still on his throat. "WHAT SYMPTOMS! WHAT?"

"Please calm down, James, your mother is right outside and I don't thing she wants to hear that kind of language. I know I don't."

"I DON'T GIVE A RAT'S ASS!" James shouted looking at the doctor with pure rage in his eyes. "WHAT SYMPTOMS?"

"To be honest, we're not sure. We assume that your bone structure will be the first and most subtle change. After that we expect the standard development of primary and secondary sexual characteristics for your gender."

"For my gender? You mean my sex?" James' voice took on a more calm tone, but the intonations were more icy, with a viscious comment. "Primary sex characteristics? A fucking pussy? Is that what you're saying?"

"Calm down, James. To put it into vulgar terms, yes. You are correct." Hubbards voice matched James' icy tone with one of his own. "Genetically, you are currently female, and you will, thanks to this condition, take on all of the characteristics associated with that."

Female? James breathed heavily, his eyes threatening to tear. Talk about a change! One thing, oh god. He had sworn he would do anything. It looked like he would have to do exactly that. He looked away from the Doctor, trying desperately not to sob.

"No, please no." He looked at his hands, thinking that he could already see them shrinking, losing the strength that would in later years allow him to play the guitar for hours on end.

"I know this is a lot to accept." Hubbard spoke to James' back, continuing the conversation in that same unemotional tone. "I've already spoken to your mother. She'd like to see you as soon as we finish talking here."

"Can't, I mean isn't there something you can do?" James turned back towards the man in the chair. His eyes took on a desperate cast.

"James, I can only do what I've already done. Your mother has already arranged for you to visit with a local gyn.... I mean doctor. She'll take over your case when you get home."

"Home?" James asked, his eyes wide. "You're not going to keep me here?"

"James, believe it or not, all doctors are not glory hounds looking for a new disease to publish on. Your mother practically begged me not to make this into a research circus, and I agree with her. What you need right now is family and time to adjust, not a bunch of us lab coats poking at anatomy you aren't even used to. "

He stood up to leave.

"I'll send your mother in." He spoke quietly, and turned towards the door. He was halfway there when James addressed him.

"I'm sorry. I'm just really, really scared." James' apology seemed to brighten the mood of the doctor, who turned and smiled at him.

"Hey, I, well, I don't understand, but I've helped lots of people with terrible conditions. Yours is frightening, but it's an experience that many people would kill for." The smile on his face brightened. "Like me."

With that said, he left the room, leaving James alone with his thoughts.

 

Hubbard hadn't been gone more than five minutes, when James saw familiar shape of his mother in the hospital room's doorway. She stared at him with a sad look in her hazel eyes, before moving into the room without a greeting. Anne walked to the side of James' bed, and reached down to take his hand. She held it in both of hers, her eyes closing slightly. She took a deep breath, before she spoke, with the air of one who is about to announce a death.

"James, I'm so sorry." The words were hollow to James. There was no apology that she could give that would eliminate the "problem", as he had begun to name it in his internal monologue.

Anne stood there for several minutes, just holding his hand. In a way, James was comforted by the touch, and the affection that his mother was showing him. She hadn't shown that affection in years. His multiple trips home and constant fighting with her husband had taken their toll on the relationship. All of that was gone now, the years melting back to a time when he was, first and foremost, her son.

"I don't know what to say, honey." Anne commented again, looking down at James. "I mean, this isn't something in my field."

"It's not in mine either mom, but I think I'm going to be an expert on it." James replied, trying to make light of the situation. Anne had had longer than he to come to grips with the situation; dealing with it since this morning.

"I know you're scared honey." she stated, seeming to not hear his words. "I think the most important thing for all of us is to keep you safe during this, uhm......." She broke off, unsure of how to continue.

"Mom. Can we just put this out in the open?" James said, unwilling to continue with the euphemisms. "I'm going to change. I'm going to turn into a woman."

"Well, yes." Anne shook her head, seeming about to burst into tears. "I'm so sorry."

James looked into the face of his mother. He hadn't felt so badly for her in years. Perhaps it was the depth of emotion that she was showing him, but he felt the need to comfort her.

"I think you deal with it ok, mom." James tried to put on a brave face, to say the words that she needed to hear. Inside, his mind was still racing with the urge to scream. A maelstrom of thoughts was engulfing his soul, unwilling to accept the rational answers that his mind was trying desperately to reach.

"Oh honey, it's not that. I'm just so worried about you." She pulled a chair over next to the bed and sat on it, still clasping his hand. "I can't, I mean, I dont....." She paused for an instant before continuing, "I want you to know that you can ask me anything. I mean that."

James wanted to spit out a sarcastic remark. His bitterness towards his parents was still an automatic reflex that wanted to go off. Conciously he yanked back the thought, along with his denial, trying instead to focus on what she was saying.

"Thanks, mom." the only words that came from his mouth were the ones that he would indeed have spoken at sixteen. It was all that he could say. He spoke them with a calm cadence, trying to keep the panic he still felt out of his voice.

"I don't hurt or anything." He went on, trying to convince himself as much as her. "I mean, I itch all over sometimes, but it seems to go away just as fast as it starts." That was true. It felt sometimes like a section of his skin would burst into flames, but as he moved to scratch the skin, the burning sensation would vanish.

"That's good. Doctor Hubbard says that it should only take about a month till you're back to normal."

"Yeah, he told me."

"Have you thought about how you feel about this?" Anne's question was piercing. James suddenly realized that this was one of his mother's probing questions. He recalled as a younger man being thrown into therapy numerous times after just such a question. The last time had been right before he moved out. Oh, and a fat lot of good that did him, James thought, remembering how close he had been to ending his life.

"I'm scared." That answer seemed non-committal. At least it might stall her for a while.

"Anything else honey? I mean, this is a really big change." Anne said it like they were talking about getting his hair cut. The detachment was obvious in her voice.

"I'm glad. Glad I'm not going to die." That was the truth. Even if he had to deal with a few curves.... Ugh, James grimaced at the unfortunate unintential joke that his mind had produced.

"I heard what you said to the doctor." Anne said, her voice taking on a frosty tone. "I need to know that you're going to be okay with this."

James' free hand came up to pick at a loose wire on his braces that had been bothering him. The wire bent away from his gums, relieving some slight pain.

"I'm not sure, mom. I mean, this is still kinda weird to me." An understatement if he had ever made one, of course. Visions of mental institutions were dancing in his head, and he knew that he could not give the slightest hint of what the truth really was.

"Would it help if I said that half of the people in the world are women?" Anne said, her voice lightening slightly. James knew he had passed the danger zone. She was concerned, but the look in her eyes told him that she was moving past the psychotherapist reflex.

"More than that. I remember the Keezer saying something about women making up fifty-two percent of the world." The Keezer had been Mr. Kezarian, one of the instructors at the high school that he had graduated two months previously. James remembered that he had hated the Keezer, and making a joke of his name would help to show that everything was fine.

"How did that come up?" Anne questioned, her curiosity peaked.

"I don't remember."

"Speaking of which, have you thought about how this is going to affect your schoolwork?"

"I didn't really. I haven't given it much thought, I mean."

"I think we might want to consider you taking some time off."

"Time off?"

"Well, you're going to need time to adjust to everything."

James groaned, trying to think fast. Dear god, the last thing that he needed was to spend a year puttering around his home town of Monterey. There was even less to do there than in Idaho! The last thing he wanted to do was to spend another year drifting along, doing some menial job while he wasted his free time with the Alvarado Street crowd. Remembering how his aquaintances had treated the women in his little circle, the prospect was even less palatable.

"I think I should still go to Moscow." The words were plain, unadorned.

"Honey, I know you want to, but there's still next year."

Another year, hanging around his home on the hill. Waiting for college to start while his step-father Randall and his bitch of a sister Elaine mocked him. That wasn't going to happen.

"Mom. I know you want me at home right now." James chose his words carefully. "But look at it from my point of view. I've got my diploma. Sitting around this town waiting to adjust isn't going to do me any good."

"But there's so much you don't know about....." Anne broke off her comment, trying to find the right words.

"Being a girl? Mom, I may be turning into a, uh, female, but that doesn't make me a girl."

"James. Are you listening to yourself? Being a female doesn't make you a girl?

"I'm not! I'm always going to be me. James. I may not have the same body, but it's going to be me." And I'll be the biggest fucking dyke on campus, he added silently.

"But it's dangerous. You could get yourself killed, or robbed or....." Anne said, looking into her son's eyes again. There was a real fear present in them. James knew the last word that she had left out without her even saying it. Raped. That's what she thought. Too late Mom, he silently cursed. It happened to me as a guy. This time I'm ready for anything they throw at me and I don't care if I do have to get along with a pussy.

"I think I can take care of myself mom."

"Are you sure? I think you should take some time to think it over."

"I don't need to. I know right now. " He glanced at the door, and the IV still in his hand. "Can we get out of here soon? I'm starving."

"They were just waiting for us to talk." She stood and walked to the door, returning with a small bag that James recognized as a bookbag he had used for years before it had finally split it's seams. "I brought some clothes for you from home."

"Thanks. Uhm I guess I'll meet you outside." He said, opening the bag that his mother had just handed to him.

"Alright. You'll be ok?" Anne asked, standing.

"Yeah."

Anne nodded, turning to leave the room. As she did so, a nurse in scrubs came in. The nurse barely looked at James, merely removing the IV with a brief tug and covering the slight wound with a bandage. She made a note on her clipboard, and left as suddenly as she had arrived, closing the door behind her.

Unsteadily, James swung his feet to the right, and lowered them to the chill surface of the floor. He stood, and pulled the hospital gown up and over his head, not bothering to undo the laces. He looked down at the youthful body that greeted his gaze. He ran his view over the chest, that was so smooth compared to the hairy one that he had had only a few days before. It was true that time did make it's impact upon men, but he was amazed at how, well, for lack of a better term, slim his body seemed to be. Shucking the thought he rapidly dressed in the jockey shorts, followed by a white t-shirt underneath a red polo shirt. The blue jeans were next, rising up, and coming to rest. He zipped up, noting a slight tightness about the hips. White socks and tennis shoes were the next item, and he rapidly tied each shoe after pulling them on. Then, at the bottom of the bookbag, James spotted his old leather jacket.

He pulled it out, noting with amusement the cut-off left sleeve. When he had been younger, The Road Warrior had been his favorite movie. As a result he had snipped and tied the left arm of his leather jacket in order to be more like his hero. Of course, doing that with a bomber jacket just made the effect look silly. He slid the jacket on, pulling his hair out of the way. Smiling, he unzipped one of the top pockets and removed a light tan rubber band. Pulling his hair back, he deftly wrapped the band about the strands, forming a quick ponytail. Zipping up the bookbag, he slung it over his left shoulder and marched to the door.

He paused at the door, looking back into the hospital room. It was not perfect, but it would have to do. The same as the rest of his life. Smiling at his pathetic bit of philosophy, he opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. He noted the nurses station, and his mother standing at it. He waved with one hand as he pulled the door shut behind him. He walked briskly up to Anne, who was signing a piece of paperwork. She nodded at the nurses, and turned to James.

"Ready?" She inquired, gesturing in the direction of the exit. James merely nodded in reply, and followed her as she began to walk. They passed several corridors, all with the blank and isolated look of a standard, boring hospital. They soon arrived at the main entrance, and pushed open the double doors into the warm California sunlight.

James looked out over the small rolling hills, that were visible here. The hospital was on the edge of a small town, and the waving blond color of the grass reminded him of his own hair. He continued on, following his mother towards a large white station wagon with wooden runners on each side. Well, not wooden, but plastic painted to look wooden. He smirked, as he got in to the plastic coated front seat. You had to love the cars of the eighties.

The car started immediately, and Anne shifted the car into reverse, backing it out of the parking spot. She changed gears again, and drove forward. The car left the parking lot, and began to roll down a long, two lane highway.

James merely stared at the window, watching the fields and hills roll by. It had been so long since he had really looked at anything. There was a beauty here that he had failed to appreciate before. Not now. This time he would live his life to the fullest, and not waste his time. It took a moment longer for him to realize that Anne was speaking to him as she drove.

"I'm sorry, what?" James asked, turning his attention back to her.

"I said, I think that Randall might want to hear about your condition from you, rather than me." Anne commented, concentrating on making the left turn.

"I don't think I'd be ok with that." James replied, turning to look out the window.

"Look, James. Randall and Elaine are part of this family too. Just because you don't get along with them doesn't mean that you can cut them out of your life. They need to be in on this situation too."

"Oh great! Maybe I can share outfits with Elaine." The sarcastic remark was out of James' mouth before he realized that he had said it. It had been common in his later years to reply to anything regarding his sister with contempt.

"Excuse ME!" Anne said, turning to shoot James a harsh glare. "That was uncalled for, young man!"

"Sorry." James mumbled, cursing himself for not paying full attention to what he was saying.

"I think we need a family meeting when we get home."

"Alright."

"Now, do you want to tell them, or should I?"

"Would, I mean, could you please?" James didn't like Randall. In his mind's eye he pictured the harsh laughter that would probably result if he just came out and said, "I'm gonna be a girl!"

"Yes. But I need you to be there." Anne said. "It's important that we get things straight around the house so, uh, nobody's uncomfortable."

Like being stood up in front of his bitchy sister and his psychotic step-father wasn't uncomfortable enough, oh thanks mom. Unable to say the true words on his mind, James merely nodded.

The rest of the trip was quiet, as the car drove along the rolling hills of the Salinas valley towards Monterey. The oak trees that dotted the road left shadows that drew James's attention. There was something to look at, at least. The small patches of poison oak along the road, the fences that separated the golfers from the plebians. There was an instant of recognition as they passed his old high school, up on a hill overlooking the valley. On and on the road stretched, passing the local airport, and the fairgrounds. The highway turned into a full three lane overpass, and the car continued on for a while, before taking an exit into the heart of the city of Monterey. They passed a small park, with fountains that sprayed water into the air, surrounding the local cemetary, before moving on to the main thoroughfare. Hotels and gas stations were the main view here, but the car turned and began rapidly ascending a hill. Several streets up, and his mother turned right, and he could see his home, a small two story building that looked out towards the ocean. The car pulled into the small driveway, next to the huge tan truck that Randall used to do his Mobile Mechanic business. Another truck sat on the street, and James recognized it as the one that had taken him to Hollister, along with his motorcycle.

His motorcycle sat in the front yard, with a "For Sale" sign on it. James shrugged his shoulders, and stepped out of the car. At least that was one thing that hadn't changed.

 

***

The family meeting was called to order later by the Tribunal. Family meetings were supposed to be a calm, nonchalant affair, but what almost always occurred was James sitting in a chair on one side of the room, and his mother, his step-father, and his sister on the couch on the other. Over time, James had begun to think of this arrangement as The Tribunal. Seeing as how the other members of his family always seemed to agree on every subject, he had learned that the fastest way to get through a meeting was to shut up and not offer his opinion on any subject. Tonight however, the Tribunal was not going to be satisfied with James taking the fifth.

Anne began by summarizing the news. She informed Randall that James had decided not to go riding with him anymore. Randall responded with a shrug. Next, the entire group was informed of James' diagnosis. The terms that were laid out were almost identical to the clinical language that Dr. Hubbard had used when describing the condition to James.

"Huh? Does that mean he's going to turn into a girl?" Elaine's question was delivered with a slightly confused tone that was unusual from the fourteen year old. With her dark hair and short height, she was almost James' opposite in every concievable way.

In response, Randall snickered before standing and heading into the kitchen. "Hey Anne? You want one?" He asked, most likely pouring himself a drink

"Sure." Anne replied, before addressing Elaine's question. "Yes, honey. That's exactly what it means."

"Gross!" Elaine's response was quick and pointed. "He's not, like, going to be going out on dates and stuff with boys?" The look of disgust on the girl's face was impossible to miss, but James tried to ignore it.

"Better lock up your boyfriend!" Randall commented, returning to the room with two small glasses filled with a clear liquid and lemon slices. He handed one to Anne, before returning to his seat.

James reflected that he had always loathed Randall. His humor was offensive. His mustache, (which James had NEVER seen him without in 10 years, counting his previous experience) was the most noteworthy feature on his chiseled face. Obviously Anne saw something in him, but James had never figured it out. He knew that Randall never hit his mother, and since his James' father had, she probably saw some safety in him. Of course, that didn't mean James liked him, just that he didn't hate him as much as he could have.

Anne didn't do James any favors, also ignoring the comments by the other two members of the Tribunal. She merely stared at James, with a puzzled look on her face.

"James, you're awfully quiet tonight." She looked at him, waiting for his input.

James wasn't sure what to do. At this time in his life, he recalled that he had had a pretty poor rein on his temper. The fact that he wasn't responding to the digs by either Randall or Elaine was downright out of character for him.

"I guess I just don't have anything to say, Mom. I'm kinda hungry right now." James tried, standing up from the chair where he had slumped. "You mind if I grab something?"

"No, go ahead." Anne responed, watching as James moved to the kitchen.

Entering the small area, James immediately opened the refrigerator, and spying a leftover piece of chicken,. snatched the plate it was lying on. Acting quickly, he slapped the item into the microwave, set the timer and started the oven. As the item heated, he could hear conversation from the living room as his family talked. He couldn't make out exact words, but his sister's voice and his mother's seemed to be the most common, with an occasional grunt or comment being made by Randall.

With a ding the microwave finished, and James wasted no time wolfing down the meat. He quickly ran his hands under the tap, drying them on his pants. As he did so, he noticed how tight in the hips his pants seemed to be getting. He groaned inwardly, knowing exactly what it meant.

When he returned to the living room, it appeared that the other three were wrapping up their conversation. James quickly returned to his seat near the unlighted fireplace.

"James, honey, I think we really need to talk about college." Anne stated.

"I still want to go." James' response was short and to the point. Internally, he was ready to explode. The very concept of remaining in Monterey was abhorrent.

"I know you do, but it's different now that uhm....."

"Mom, using a euphemism isn't going to negate my apprehension."

"Whoa, somebody swallow a thesaurus?" Randall's comment brought another inward groan to James. Yes, he did tend to use large words on occasion. It was a habit he had picked up to grab people's attention in LA. He desperately wanted to reply to Randal's jibe with "go flagellate yourself, you myoptic troglodyte", but he didn't think that would go over too well.

As usual, Anne just ignored the comment and continued with the conversation.

"Alright, James, now that you're going to be a girl, I think I'm being reasonable when I say I have concerns." Anne's voice had taken on the legalistic tone that she often used when dealing with school officials. Her statement, despite it's formal tone, brought another snicker from Elaine, who looked at James with a smug expression.

"It's not like I chose this, mom." That wasn't exactly true. He had chosen to allow the whatever-it-was to make one change. "I made plans before this, and I don't want to put my life on hold."

"Even with the fact that you'll be going through some changes?"

"Absolutely."

"And you realize that we have to leave to take you up there in five weeks?"

"Five? I thought classes didn't start for two months." James' mind whirled. He recalled that they had taken three days for the drive to Idaho, but three extra weeks?

"Randall and I both agree that you still need to do Rush week if you go." Anne's expression did not waver.

"That makes six weeks, mom, not five." No problem, he quickly adjusted. He would still have to deal with those moronic fratboys, but this time he wouldn't get his hopes up.

"No, honey, Sorority Rush is two weeks before classes, not one."

"Wait, you want me to pledge a sorority?" James asked, dumbfounded.

"Like the frats are gonna take you." Elaine commented, leaning backwards with her arms folded.

Another sting that James had to ignore. A sorority had not been in the plans he had been trying to make.

"I guess." The only response that he could make.

"So, let's make some plans." Anne pulled a small notebook from the purse near her feet. She flipped through the notes, before settling on the calender. She removed a pen and began to write.

"Tomorrow, that's Thursday, you have that appointment to get your braces removed. That actually is some good news because it saves us a lot of money." Anne continued, looking at James meaningfully. "The rest of the week is pretty free up until next wednsday, when you have an appointment with Doctor Lindel."

"Wait, who's that?" James racked his memory trying to remember that name. It sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.

"She's our oh-bee-gee-why-enn, duh." Elaine explained.
"WAIT." James interjected, "A gynocologist? Now?"

"James, she's going to be making sure that you're developing properly. This is not something...." Anne paused to shoot a poisonous look at Randall, who had begun chuckling fairly loudly. "I hate to be cliche, but this is something you're going to have to get used to."

"I.... It's just....." James stopped, collecting his thoughts. "I didn't think I'd have to go until it was over."

"Well, you do." Anne stated, finishing the debate with the pronouncement. "The next three weeks after that you'll have an appointment with her once a week. Now, I know we still have to get you packed for the trip."

"Yeah, I guess." James reflected on the fact that his mother must have been very busy in the time since she'd learned of his change.

"Alright, now I'm not going shopping for you two or three times, so we're going to wait until your final sizes before we go."

"Uh, shopping?"

"Cool! Mom, can I come?" Elaine perked up. Her attitude had been one of dejection and derision, but now that seemed to be giving way to enthusiasm.

"James, you're going to need a lot of things. I mean, right off the bat, you don't even own a bra."

The comment brought an outright laugh from Randall, who covered his face with his hand as he chortled. Anne ignored him again, concentrating on James.

"A BRA?" James couldn't hold his temper in check much longer, and he realized that the conversation needed to end soon, before he lost control. The statement came out as a half question, half shout.

"I thought you could deal with this, James. You have to face certain realities." Anne's voice was a calm counterpoint to his anger. The guffawing Randall in the background didn't help much. James tried to calm himself, thinking of chords. For some reason, the thought of playing chords on his guitar seemed to work. He took a deep breath, before responding.

"I can deal with it mom. I just need a little more time." He tried to insert every ounce of sincerety into the words.

With that final statement, the conversation effectively ended, save a snide comment from Randall that James ignored. He was allowed to leave, and immediately proceeded to his room, which was at the top of the stairs a short ways down the hall from the kitchen. He opened the door, and peered in.

It hadn't changed a whit from his memory. Everything was there, from the magazine basket filled with Mad and Air and Space Magazine, to the bookshelf crammed with far too many cheap science fiction novels. The carpet was still the deep rust red color, and the walls the white plaster. He briefly noted the small hole in the wall where he had put his fist through it in a fit of rage. It was covered over with plaster, but the indentation was still there. There was no guitar. He hadn't taken it up until after the Navy. The small window that looked out over the driveway was closed, but James could still see the ocean as he looked out over the bay. The house was higher than the rest of the city, since the city itself was laid out in a slope towards the ocean. The curve of the beach was visible, and it faded from sight as it turned north, curving up towards Santa Cruz.

Unable to sustain interest in the sight, James moved over to a small chair that sat next to a wooden desk. It was old, his parents having found it at a garage sale somewhere, but it was a place to do schoolwork. He slumped in the chair, and looked down at his hands. They were still the same slim hands he remembered from his childhood, but there was something wrong. It took him a moment to realize it, but the scar on the back of his right wrist was completely gone. In it's place was new, hairless skin.

 

 

Getting his braces removed didn't hurt as much as he remembered. Of course, the last time that he had the procedure, his mouth had been a ravaged chunk of beef, with metal sticking into it at odd angles. The metal was still there, but the lack of injuries greatly lessened the inevitable discomfort. James ran his tongue over the teeth that sat solidly in their sockets. Apart from one tooth that jutted slightly on the lower left side of his mouth, his smile was nearly perfect.

"It looks nice." Anne commented as they left the orthodontist's office.

"Yeah, it feels a lot better without the piano wire in there."

"You're just so lucky. We thought you'd have to be in braces for at least the rest of college."

He had been. James recalled that the only way he had gotten them off was to enlist. The Navy had not been too keen on a sailor wearing braces to basic.

James spent the drive home thinking. The morning had already held some unpleasant surprises, not the least of which had been trying to find a pair of pants that fit. Almost every pair that he owned was now extremely tight in the upper portions. Although his height had not changed, the proportions of his lower extremities had. He had eventually given up and selected a pair of sweatpants, much to his mother's chagrin.

The changes were indeed subtle. Looking in the mirror, James could still easily recognize his own face. It was the little ways that he had changed that were starting to bother him. His eyes, for example. It wasn't anything major, but the way they seemed to draw his gaze bothered him. He recalled an old class that he had taken in sculpture where they had attempted to recreate the eye of the statue of David. The depth of the eyes had been exaggerated in order to enhance the masculinity of the figure. Now, James realized that the structure of his eye sockets was changing in precisely the opposite direction. Where before he could press the heels of his hands into his eye sockets without applying pressure on the eyeballs themselves, now the slightest force brought the feeling of impact to them.

His nose too had lost a slight amount of definition. Where before it had been a precise line from his forehad to slightly above his lips, it now was more of a curve. Combined with the forward progress of his eyes, it gave him a softer look to his rounded face. If anything, he was starting to look like the stereotype of a gay man.

When they returned to the house, James' first thought was of food. Although he had already eaten this morning, a ravenous desire was sweeping through him. He began to fantasize about steaks. No, not steaks, fajitas. Large ones. Bell peppers and onions. Maybe a side of refried beans, with some guacamole covered nachos to boot.

He contented himself with a meatloaf sandwich, which was the fastest thing he could slap together in the kitchen.

"You're eating like a pregnant woman," Anne noted when she saw James digging in the bottom of pickle jar after downing his sandwich.

"It's not my fault. I'm just hungry."

"Uhm, James, have you lost weight?" Anne's question took shape as she stared at her son, her eyes roaming over his form.

"I don't think so. My jeans don't fit anymore." James replied through bites of a pickle slice.

"I don't think that has much to do with your weight, honey." Anne smiled at his response. Her face had a knowing look on them. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." James rinsed the empty jar in the sink, peeling the label off. He placed the now clean jar in to the diswasher, along with the plate that he had made the sandwich on.

"Have you noticed any major changes yet?" Anne looked directly into James' face.

"No, not really." James lied. He rooted in the refrigerator, looking for something to fill the tiny empty spot that still remained in his stomach. He settled on a small strawberry yogurt.

"Well, I have. " Her response to his omission did not give any hint of anger. She was treating him like the child that she thought he was. "I think that you're going to be very beautiful, James."

"Huh?" James ceased his search for a untensil as his mothers words made their impact. "I don't really care about that, mom. Right now I just want to get through this, and is there a fricking spoon in this house?"

"Try the dishwasher. I think you should think about it, James. It's not a bad thing to be pretty."

"Mom! Look, the last thing I want to worry about is my looks." Opening the diswasher, James found a spoon that didn't look too repulsive. He washed it off in the sink, using a small bit of dish soap. "I've got enough problems with classes, and now this rush thing, and oh by the way, have we figured out how we're going to be explaining that I'm a girl to the college?"

"Yes. We're treating the forms they sent us as a mistake. I put the corrected ones in the mail this morning. Since you're already accepted, I just said that there was a typo on your original paperwork." Anne answered, leaning against a nearby counter.

"Typo? How the hell did you pass me off as a girl with a typo?"

"Watch your language. I just went with your middle inital. I said that it should be M. James Fletcher instead of James M. Fletcher."

"Oh. Wait." James paused, halfway through the small carton. "What does the M stand for?" In his own name, it stood for Michael, which was not exactly a girls name.

"Margaret." Anne replied, rather blase. "It would have been your name if you'd been a girl."

"Margaret? You were actually going to name me Margaret?" James groaned. Of all the names he could have been stuck with Margaret was one of his least favorites.

"Don't talk with your mouth full. You can go with Emmjay if that makes you more comfortable." Anne offered, trying to come to some compromise.

"Oh, Great. A little Scottish chick with the name of a professional basketball player. That'll go over real well." The sarcasm dripped from his voice.

"James. I'm trying to help you here. You can't go by your other name."

"And why not?"

"Because no sorority is going to accept a woman named James. That's why not. I am not happy with you going off in this state as it is. I am not going to have you throw away your safety for your vanity!"

"But mom...." James checked his voice. He was actually starting to sound like he was sixteen again, right down to the speech pattern. He guessed it was true that you end up reflecting the expectations of others.

"No buts. You can either do what I say on this, or you can spend a year at MPC." That was a threat. James loathed the local community college, since the vast majority of the students there were nothing but slackers who had been attending classes since the early eighties. He had actually had to take several classes there during one of the periods when he was home. The thought of dealing with that again was hideous.

"Yes, mom." James sighed in defeat. He finished the yogurt, and tossed the empty carton into the trash. He started towards the front of the house.

"Where are you going?" Anne asked, stopping him in his tracks.

"For a walk." He replied, beginning to move again.

"Be careful. I expect you home in two hours, young lady."

"What did you call me?" James asked, whipping his attention back to his mother.

"I'm sorry, James. It's just that from behind....." Anne explained, somewhat embarrassed.

James ran his hand through his long hair and shrugged. He figured he might as well get used to it. He turned and walked to the front of the house. He left through the front door, started down the driveway. He noticed his mother's husband loading several items into the large tan truck in the front of the property. At James' approach, Randall turned and tossed off a slightly sarcastic greeting.

"Hey, Margaret!" The voice of Randall brought a surge of anger to James. He moved past the working man, flipping him the finger as he did so. Not waiting for the response, James walked down the sidewalk in front of the house. The sidewalk was even, since the street he lived on was a cross street. He continued on for about a block, before turning to his left and crossing the street along the main boulevard. There were not as many cars on this road as there were deeper in town, but the road saw a fair amount of traffic. As he walked, James saw the city hall on his left, and the city police department across from it on the right. The local fire department and library completed the rest of the block, setting the perfect small town atmosphere. About a block after that was the main thoroughfare of Alvarado street. James hurried on, until he stood at the corner of the street.

Alvarado street was about three blocks of stores on a one way avenue. Most of the shops catered to tourists, but occasionally there was something that a younger person could be interested in. Apart from that and a coffee and donut store, unless you were interested in knick nacks, there wasn't much. He strolled along the sidewalks, noting the tourists snapping pictures of everyone and everything. Occasionally words in a foreign language would reach his ears, but for the most part the conversations were recognizably American.

Before he knew it, James had reached the end of the street. The convention center at the end of the street was not very interesting, and unless he really felt like smelling dead fish there was no reason to walk down to the wharf. Besides, there was a very good chance that if he continued on, he might run into one of the Rats. The Alvarado Rats were just bored kids, like he himself had been. This particular summer he recalled that he had gotten into trouble by shoplifting along with the rest of them. That incident hadn't yet occured, and if he had his way, James would not let it occur this time through. He turned and began to walk back up Alvarado street.

About halfway up, James spied the awning of Abinante's music. The store had gone through many changes over the years, eventually selling out to a chain called Music Unlimited. For now though, there it was. Looking through the large shop windows, he could see instruments of various types. Along one wall, set across from the counter was a wall of guitars. James felt an almost overwhelming urge to go in.

"I'm just looking." He told himself as he pushed the door open. A small bell on the opposite side of the door clanged softly as he pushed it open.

"Can I help you, miss?" The stocky man on the other side of the counter asked. James brushed the hair out of his face and shot the clerk a withering look.

"Sorry. Can I help you, sir?" the man asked again.

"Yah, I'm in the market for a guitar."

"Oh, alright. Well, tell me if anything interests you." The clerk stated, staring at James. James knew that he was a suspected shoplifter already.

Turning his attention to the wall, his eyes flitted over the wall of guitars. The vast majority of the instruments were marked up to ridiculously high prices. Even the japanese Fenders had prices over two hundred dollars. Well, If you're going to look, might as well look at the best.

"Can I take a look at that Les Paul?" James addressed the clerk, who had been boring holes into James' back with his gaze.

"That's a very expensive guitar." The clerk said, making no move towards the wall.

"I just want to hear how it sounds."

"I'll need to see some ID." The clerk demanded, looking at James imperiously. Normally, James would have been insulted by the clerks manner, but the urge to play a few notes was rapidly becoming overwhelming. He fished in his back pocket, and produced a well worn student ID, which he handed to the clerk.

"Do you have anything else? Driver's license? Credit Card?" The man asked, looking at the ID like he had been offered a diseased rat.

"Give me a break man, I'm not going to smash it." James sighed, trying to think of a solution. "Here, take my wallet." He flipped the entire package to the man, who accepted it with the same trepidation that he had show to the ID alone.

"All right." He replied after a few moments thought. "This is the only time though. Next time come back with your parents."

"Deal." James nodded eagerly. He just needed to play a little. The itch in his fingertips had been growing since the previous night.

Using a long rod that had been secreted behind the counter, the burly clerk lifted the instrument from the wall. He lowered it down and gingerly handed it to James, as if expecting the youth to bolt the instant he let go of it. When his expectations were not met, he grudgingly pointed to a small stool next to an amplifier. James moved, and sat down, whereupon the clerk handed him an output jack. James looked at the amp as it was turned on, snickering slightly at the "ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY, NO STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN" sign above it.

A slight moment of feedback, and the he was ready to play. James momentarily considered playing the long version of Stairway, just to piss off the clerk, but thought better of it. With a smile he began slowly, picking out a few notes, before finishing it off with a powerful A chord. The sound was clear and precise, and he closed his eyes as he began to run through a punk riff.

He changed tempo and riffs rapidly, noting with some distress the pain in his fingertips as he played. At sixteen, James had never picked up a guitar, and while he might have the memory of how to play, his hands were not used to the abuse that the pressure of strings brought. He finished up with three quick chords in succession before shaking his hand, trying to get some blood flow back into the tips of his fingers. It would take a lot more practice.

He looked up, noting that there were several other people in the store, some obviously listening to him, and others doing the same thing, but surrepticiously. He smiled, then unplugged the Les Paul, handing it to the clerk.

"Nice tone, but you gotta work on that amp. It was a little tinny." He commented, holding his hand out for his wallet.

Not saying anything, the clerk handed James his wallet, before replacing the instrument on the wall with the pole. James shrugged, recalling that nobody likes a wiseass, and exited the store with the slight clanging of the bell in his ears. He looked down at his hand, noticing the imprints that the strings had made on the tips of his fingers. He shook his hand again, trying to get the residual pain out of them as he walked.

The return walk home was dull as the walk down. He arrived home before his mother's deadline, appeasing her enought that she didn't feel the need to address him. After a quick snack, James returned to his room. For some reason, he had begun to get tired very easily. He lay down on his bed, only meaning to rest his eyes for a moment, since it was only six in the afternoon.

Over the next twelve hours, which was how long James slept, small changes continued to occur. Bone structures that had been in place since his birth began to rearrange themselves in accordance with their new plan. As a minor effect, the snore that had been part of James' sleep pattern since he hit twelve slackened, and disappeared entirely. Silence filled the room, except for a groan or two as James tossed and turned from the nightmares that he was having.

The nightmares were brief images, flashing back and forth as nightmares often do. He had a powerful image at one point of being shoved face down in a bed, and being unable to do anything about it. Then pain. Powerful pain as he felt himself being opened; taken. A flash, and the memory gave way to another, of a face of a laughing creature. Then a vision of his fingers, bleeding as they tried to touch something that meant so much. The image was weak, indistinct. What was it that he wanted? Finally, the last image that left an impression on his mind, was himself. He saw himself lying back on a floor, eyes wide open and staring blankly. He saw what could have been.

 

***

 

When James awoke, the first thing he did was brush the hair out of his face. With some dismay, he noticed that his hair had grown during the night, and now reached to his tailbone. He immediately resolved to ask his mother for a haircut. The second thing that James noticed was that he was once again ravenous. He rolled off of his bed, and immediately headed down the stairs towards the kitchen. The smell of eggs cooking greeted his nostrils.

"Morning, sleepy." Anne's back was towards him, as she stirred something on the stove. "You want eggs this morning?"

"Please." James replied, moving next to his mother. "I'm starving."

"That's great," Anne replied, turning to face him. "I was thi........" The spatula dropped from her hand as her mouth opened in shock. Her hand came up and she swallowed briefly. "James?"

"What? I got something on my face? What are you looking at?" He asked, his mind still in a bit of a sleep fog.

"Have you looked in the mirror this morning?" Anne asked, picking up the spatula again. Her view roamed over James's form.

"Uh, no." James said, "But I know I need a haircut."

"I think you had better go take a look."

Shrugging, James tromped to the bathroom. He opened the door, and moved to the sink. He focused his eyes on the reflection in the mirror. As the image took form, he screamed.

The face that screamed back at him was his own, but it had changed overnight. Panic tried to overwhelm him as his gaze swept over the eyes that he could recognise as his own. They had not changed, but combined with the new shape of his nose and eyebrows, brought a softer, more feminine look to his features. His jaw too had changed, losing some of the solid mass and becoming slimmer. He brought his hand up to run along his cheek, noting no stubble at all. At sixteen he had not had to shave much because the hair that had grown on his face was light colored, and did not show up easily. Now there was no need to do even that, as his hand ran along the smooth cheek.

"JAMES! Are you alright?" His mother asked from the doorway. She must have ran here as soon as she heard his voice.

"I'm..... I'm......." James stared at the face in the mirror, unable to comprehend how fast the changes had happened. "I thought I had a month..."

His mother came up behind him, and rested her hands on his shoulder. For a moment he felt like retreating from the touch, but the comforting feeling was welcome. He closed his eyes, feeling tears welling in them.

"Margaret, you're beautiful." Anne's voice was calm, as her hands kneaded at the tension in his back. "Open your eyes, honey."

"I can't." James replied, his eyes tightly closed. "I'm not Margaret. I'm James....."

"James. Open your eyes." The voice was insistent.

Unable to resist any longer, James opened his eyes, looking again into his reflection. His tears streamed down the face of the woman in the glass. His face. The long dirty blonde hair framed his face, the part on the left revealing the high forehead that no longer looked prematurely balding. His eyes, that was what hurt the most to look at. They had not changed, save for their prominence. They were now the main feature of his face, the sky grey color setting the tone for the remainder of his features.

"You're beautiful, honey." Anne's voice was quiet, reassuring. James' quivering chin quieted as he listened to his mothers voice.

"I...... oh, my god." He stared into the mirror again, ignoring the growling from his stomach.

"James, you knew this was going to happen."

"But not so soon!" His eyes strayed downwards, to the rest of his body. He saw no other major changes, but his face.......

"You're alright. Come on, let's go have breakfast."

"I look...... I can't...."James was unable to complete the sentence, staring into the face that he knew was his. The fear reflected in the eyes was obvious.

Relenting, he allowed his mother to guide him to the kitchen table, where he sat, staring at his hands. They had lost a great deal of their mass, becoming slim with delicate digits. His arms too had lost much of their mass. He was still reflecting upon them when a plate of eggs and english muffins was set before him.

"You must be starving, with what you went through last night." Anne stated, returning to the stove. Mechanically, James began eating. He found no joy in it despite his hunger, but he knew that his body demanded the food.

"Don't stare at him." His mother's voice was a distant echo in the maelstrom of his thoughts. She had addressed his sister, who had just come into the kitchen. Elaine looked over at James, before replying to Anne.

"He looks like a girl." Elaine's comment was a deathgrip on the obvious.

"Yes, he does. Now let your sister eat her breakfast." Anne's change of pronoun affected James deeply. His mother had changed her thoughts of him totally. To her, he was now a daughter. It didn't matter that he still had the male equipment. He looked like a girl, and that was enough.

"Hi Margaret!" Elaine's voice was cheery, as she stared at James. "I like what you've done with your eyes!"

"Leave me alone." James replied, smearing strawberry jam on an english muffin. James, my name is JAMES, he wanted to scream.

"Do you want to come with me and Julie over to the mall today? It's Saturday, you know." Elaine asked, her voice still taking that cheerful tone.

"I would rather waltz naked through the fiery gates of hell." James replied sharply, before taking a huge bite of the muffin.

"Elaine! I told you to stop bothering your sister!" Anne shouted over her shoulder. She finished preparing her own plate and sat down at the table.

"Mom, you said to be nice, and I thought...." Elaine whined, trying to ingratiate herself.

"Yes, I did. Now eat." Anne interrupted, doing exactly that herself.

The rest of the meal went quickly, James scarfing down his food, making several trips back to the stove to fry himself a second, then a third helping. The hunger that had run through his nerves seemed to be lessening slightly, which was a good thing.

"Margaret, what are you planning to do today?" Asked Anne after she had finished rinsing several plates.

"Mom, can you not call me that, please?" James asked, trying desperately to distract her attention.

"Fine, what do you want to be called? Emmjay?"

James sighed. She knew exactly what he wanted to be called, and yet he knew that she would not do it. He was Margaret to her now. He had to make the best of it.

"...How.....how about......Maggie?" He offered tentatively. It was better than Margaret at least.

"All right. Maggie. What are your plans today."

"I hadn't thought about it much, mom." He replied after a few moments of thought.

"Well, I was thinking that you should probably get a lot of rest today. I think that Doctor Hubbard was a little off in his estimate."

"I think I'll take a walk, if you don't mind." James tried. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the entire day cooped up inside the house.

"Alright, we can do that. Did you want to go see the Theaterfest today?"

Theaterfest? Dear lord. That was a fixture of the summer in Monterey. Down at the Custom House plaza, a local theater put on shoddy productions for the tourists. The plays ran the gamut from childrens fare to Shakespeare. It was something he had always looked forward to, despite the cliched and trite jokes that were always tossed in.

"That, uh..... that sounds like fun." James tried unsuccessfully to show some enthusiasm.

"Great! It starts at noon, so we have time to get you a haircut if you'd like."

Feeling the weight of the mass on his head, James nodded enthusiastically at that idea. At least it would ensure that washing his hair in the morning wouldn't take an hour. Perhaps he would look like a boy with a short enough haircut, like the Shakespearian heroines who did drag.

James stood from his place at the table, and took his dishes over to the sink. He rinsed them quickly, and placed them in the dishwasher. With a final nod to Anne, he walked to the bathroom. Closing the door behind himself, he locked it, and then turned on the shower. The steam that rose quickly warmed him, a nice contrast to the normally chill air in the mornings of Monterey. He rapidly pulled the sweatshirt over his head, and followed it with the white t-shirt he wore underneath. As he pulled it up, he noticed a slight chill run through his spine as the cotton slid over his chest. Shaking his head to clear the feeling, he removed his sweatpants and underwear, before getting under the warm spray of water. He inhaled softly, feeling the warm water splashing across his skin.

Taking a moment, James, ran the water over his face, wiping the last vestiges of tears out of his eyes, along with the sleep remnants that had collected there. He momentarily wondered if the water pressure had been increased, since he felt the impacts of the droplets of water more firmly than he was used to. After another moment, he thought of the scar on his wrist, and wondered what other marks might have vanished. He turned his attention first to his left elbow, where a sister of one of his friends had scratched him, leaving a deep slash. Apparently the slash had never occured, because the skin was new as the skin on his wrist. Shrugging, he looked down to his right thigh, where a bike accident at ten had left a deep gash. That too was gone, but it was what was next to his thigh that caused the feelings of dread.

He stared down at the juncture of his legs. His penis was still there, but it had shrunk. He swallowed, trying to calm himself, as he looked again. The item in question looked as though it had been immersed in frigid water for at least an hour. However, it had none of the traits that were normally associated with cold. He was merely flaccid, and smaller. At least an inch of his normal length was gone. It struck him less firmly than had the face in the mirror earlier. After that shock, the loss of this seemed merely an afterthought. He ran his hand down his stomach to grasp the member, feeling the same pleasure that always accompanied the touch. However, his phallus remained in it's quiescent state. He stroked it softly, feeling some slight warmth, but no build up towards orgasm. His body remained dormant, no longer responding.

"Shit." He murmured. Shaking his head, he grasped a bar of soap from a nearby dish, and began the process of cleaning himself. His mind was elsewhere as he worked, occasionally noting a place where the touch felt different then normal.

When he was done, he turned the shower off, and stepped out of the tub. He quickly dried himself off with a towel, followed by squeezing the moisture from his hair over the tub. He shook the towel through his hair, leaving himself looking a bit like a wet dog. Grumbling, he reached for a comb, and spent the next half an hour attempting unsuccessfully to remove all of the tangles from his hair. Eventually he gave up, and traded the comb for a brush. Using that, he managed to quickly put his appearance into some semblance of order. He quickly dressed in the sweats, before taking a deep breath, and opening the bathroom door.

"I will never bitch about a woman taking too long in the bathroom again," he said quietly as he headed up the stairs towards his room.

  

  

  

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