Chapter 1 - A Fleeting Impression

I remember every event that's ever happened in my life. Though just because I remember them, that isn't to say that I understand them all. There is one incident, rooted in my childhood that I can recall with great detail but in the years that have followed, I have never understood how it happened, and I'm likely never to know. Other than that however, my memory and understanding of my memories is nothing short of perfection.

I can tell you with great confidence, that exactly three years, seven months, two weeks and three days ago, right to this very hour, I was sitting in a caf in Paris, enjoying a croissant and a cup of local coffee. I can tell you what I was doing eleven years ago to this very day; fishing, with my father, at the river that ran past our house. That was the last time I ever did anything with him, it was the last time he ever wanted anything to do with me. I can even go so far as to tell you what I was doing this time thirty four years ago- give or take a few minutes; I was being born, or so I believe.

I can't recall my birth, per say. What I do remember however, is a large selection of bright lights shining above and around me. I remember being passed around like some common football by different people, and having various implements pressed against my body as though I were some sort of science experiment. Whether or not these events occurred on the day of my birth, or some time after, is a matter of debate. What I can tell you with some certainty, however, is that this is the earliest point in my life that I can recall with at least some degree of accuracy.

I tell you this not out of some subconscious desire to boast, but because this level of memory helped shape my entire childhood to some degree. It was around the time of my fifth birthday that I began to truly appreciate how powerful my ability to recall past events was. I had just started attending school and was quickly singled out as what the other kids later came to call, a 'freak'. It is truly remarkable how cruel a child can be, especially when the cruelty is born out of nothing but mere jealousy.

Contrary to what you may think while reading this, I'm not one for writing. Unless of course whatever I happen to be writing is a cheque, written to ensure the save arrival of priceless goods to a foreign country, or to provide an incentive for the quick and mess-free end to an individual I deem no longer important. There was a time when my everyday life revolved around these things, a day spent not doing these things was a day wasted, in my opinion.

That being said however, I find that my life in the last few months have become mundane- to say the least. A day spent not doing what I do best is a day wasted. And I have ninety four wasted days behind me. Anyway, I'm getting rather ahead of myself here, its best- so I'm told, to start right at the beginning when writing things like this. So before I go any further into my little thought process here, I think it best to explain to you how I came to be the man I am today. So with that in mind, and with the words of all great story-tellers ringing in my ears, I'll start at the beginning. I will- as society so forcefully demands- bow to public expectation and do things the right way. So, kicking off to a formal start, I believe an introduction is in order. Jim Moriarty, hi...