Author's Note: I've been getting all kinds of messages (but surprisingly few reviews) on the Spill Canvas songfic that I wrote, many of them suggesting that I write a fic coming from Fang's point of view. I like the idea, so what the hell, I'm going to try it. I've picked a situation that I think I can write a story around. I've seen this story layout before, not just for MR fics, but for many other stories as well. Now I won't be so bold as to say that every author nails it, but I will say that for the most part, formulaic as it may be, people seem to enjoy this type of paradigm. Enjoy!

I've been working this construction job for about a year now. There's not much that happened before that.

Well, what the hell is before that, many would ask. Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure. I have no memory before 3 years ago. The problem is, I'm somewhere around 20 years old. I woke up on a street corner in Upper East Side Manhattan, early in the morning, propped up next to a stoplight with no memory of who or (as I am beginning to think more and more) what I am. Or was. The first 17 years (or so I'd like to think) of my life apparently never happened. For two years, I lived on the streets of New York, begging, stealing-- trying to eat any way I could. I could still remember the everyday parts of my life, but my long-term memory was apparently gone. Bummer, right?

I fell in with this construction company about a year ago, after someone on the street offered me a card, telling me that if I worked for them, I could have a bed to sleep in and 3 meals a day, guaranteed. Of course I took the job. Physical labor? That wasn't a problem. I had a feeling that before I woke up in New York, physical work was an everyday part of my life.

I don't know what my name was before I woke up, but the few people that I know call me Kevin. The people that call me by this name are mostly the ones that I work with. I don't know if I mentioned it before, but I work as a laborer. I pretty much live out of a trailer, as we do a lot of commercial construction all over the country, half the states of which I still can't even name.

I came home, a generic Friday afternoon, having acted as the lifting boy for everyone on the whole damn site. I don't have any real skills, at least, that I can remember, so I'm pretty much used as a labor mule. I'm ok with this, as I'm in ok physical condition, and to be honest with you, physical work doesn't take too much of a toll on me. For my size and weight, I'm a pretty strong guy. Stronger than most guys my build. Yeah, it's tedious and boring, and I'm not really ever in a good mood at the end of the day, but there are worse things. I don't see much of anyone. I pretty much keep to myself. No harm in being tired and cranky when there's no one to take it out on, right?

I stepped into the bathroom of my trailer, a pitiful 5x6 room with a standing shower, a toilet, and a sink. I was covered in sweat and dust, from having worked 12 hours, and I removed my shirt. I turned around, looking in the mirror and studying the ragged scars tearing down my back, wondering, as I wondered every time I looked at my unclothed body, what the hell am I? I replay the day's events in my head, which pretty much consist of running back and forth, up and down the lift, carrying buckets, wood, tools, and supplies for the guys working their respective jobs. Not too exciting, I know. But it wasn't really my concern to have top-grade entertainment right now. I got paid ok money, I got a bed, I got a shower, I got fed. It was an ok life as far as I was concerned. I didn't need a lot of stuff, or a lot of time to myself. The time I did have to myself was spent wondering. Always wondering… who was I? What did I do? Did I have a family? Who were those important to me?

No satisfaction ever came of thinking about any of this. I mean honestly, what good is asking a question if you're the only point of reference? I mean, I was the only person I could even remotely consider for answers, so it was basically a moot point trying to "get to know" myself.

I turned on the shower, cranking the knob as far to the left as it would go. I always liked the water extremely hot. It feels like it can burn away all that I feel unsure about, all that I ever worry about, all that I ever wonder about, all that I could have, at one point in my life, cared about, and it helps me slap myself in the face and realize, this is your life now, Kev. This is the way it is. What you were before doesn't exist. Only here. Only now. I like to feel its warmth, running over my body, enveloping me like a lover who just wants to cuddle. The water is one of the few comforts I have in this life. I had long since given up on the prospect that I would ever remember anything from my old life.

A few Fridays before Thanksgiving of my almost-fourth year of my "new life", there was a knock at my door. It was most probably my boss, Lou, who only knocked on my door to tell me that he wouldn't be needing me for the next day or two. Which meant down time for me. Sitting around in the silence, with nothing but my curiosity, writing in my journal, keeping myself on the edge with speculations as to whom I could have been.

We had been on an industrial job in Arizona when I heard a light tapping on my door. I heard this from inside the shower, and at first, I thought about letting Lou wait until I was finished, which, knowing him, he would do. Either that, or he would just leave a note, most likely written on a napkin or a ripped piece of paper bag slipped inside the door jamb saying that he wouldn't be needing me the next day. I heard the knocking very clearly, even though I had been inside the bathroom with the shower running. I really don't know why, but my sight, my hearing… all of my senses are really sharp. Better than most people's. I chalk that up to the list of things that I should be concerned about. But enough bullshit. Answer the door, I told myself.

I stepped out of the shower, grabbing the towel hanging from the bar on the wall above the toilet. I pressed my face into it, and then ran it backward over my hair. I didn't get the chance to wash myself yet. I had just been standing under the stream for 10 minutes or so. I patted my body (for the most part) dry, and wrapped the towel around my waist, thinking about what I'm going to say to Lou to bust his balls for interrupting my shower. I walk across what could be called my living room/kitchen, and over to the door, where Lou was knocking again, a little more forcefully this time. I began to think to myself, why is it that I'm pretty much the only laborer that the company keeps on hand, for full-time work, but Lou, every so often, tells me he doesn't need me for work? I mean, I have my own trailer, which is really something, seeing as most of the laborers are guys they find on the street. What's up with that?

I open the door, expecting to see an overweight, unshaven, balding, mid-50's man with kind eyes and a rough voice. This wasn't him.

In fact, I didn't know who this was. She was a young, professional looking woman, older than me by far, with dark hair, skin, and eyes. She looked latina, but I wasn't totally sure. When our eyes met, hers widened, and her mouth dropped open. Then she smiled.

"Fang? Oh my god!" She pushed through the half-opened door, and threw her arms around my neck. I was stunned for a second, that small, secret hope that there was someone who could tell me who I was exploding inside my chest. But then again, what if this bitch was crazy?

"Fang?" I said to myself. What was that? Was that a nickname? If it was, what business did I have with this 30-something woman? I had no idea who she was, and what the hell she was doing in my trailer.

I forgot that I was wearing a towel, and I reached my hands up, quasi-instinctively to hug her back, even though I wasn't quite sure I wanted to know this woman. She pretty much barged into my house, calling me by a pet name, and even though I almost dropped the towel that I was holding, I was starting to feel at ease.

"Who… what is this? Who the hell are you?" I asked, my heart feeling a sudden chill. I could have very well known this woman, but I hadn't really ever (at least, in my three years with my memory) known anyone.

"Fang? It's me… Doctor Martinez," she said, smiling, as if encouraging me to remember something that, for all I knew, wasn't there. I drew a blank. Other than Lou, and a few other guys that I worked with, I didn't know anyone, especially with the name Martinez.

"My name is Kevin," I informed her. Her hands swept down my back, and she gasped. She rapidly drew back from me, a look of stunned horror on her face. I thought, at first, that she had made a huge mistake, and was about to apologize for disturbing me, which would have calmed me down a bit. I mean, this was weird, to say the least.

"What happened to your wings?!" She asked me, looking 100% serious.