Aidan 9

By Asa Montreaux 

Left to my lonesome again I sat pleasantly rereading a Passage to India. Good Aziz. I would want to be with you. That came out wrong. So innocent. Though in that moment so foolish. Your displeasure and inattention causing you to err, only placing yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, not actually doing anything wrong. The white man not seeing this, accused you of highly treasonous activities. Yet young miss Quested only hallucinated, it would seem. Perhaps the rest was coerced. Though when it came to the moment of truth in the courtroom, you could not lie. You came to, and told the truth, miss Quested. And Aziz very gaily went free. 

I wondered about Jayden for a moment. There was someone innocent of what he was accused. He as not even a gay man. He was not a homo at all, if that would be what one would call him. And the forces or even just the people who slew him down gave him no due process, there was no court of law, there was no justice. There was nothing right in the wrongness, and perverseness, and twisted irony of what had happened. I would always remember Jayden, and I would always live my life remembering how his life ended, and I will probably always be trying to correct it.

I did love Jayden. Though he was a friend. Sometimes I was half in love, no, fully in love with him. The vicissitudes of being deeply in love with him, and then being only his friend, strangely did not add up to half in love but I won’t change what I have already said. It is not as a lover that I honor him, but that is how I remember him. 

In truth I wanted more than friendship, though he wasn’t someone that liked me in that way. He wasn’t even interested in guys. And that is okay. I wondered if he had known sometimes. Oh, he had known I was gay. Though if he knew I had a crush on him, and much more than that, he never would have said. He was nice and he was thoughtful and maybe those are some of the main reasons I liked him. I did ask him to do this, this saying he wrote the book, as a friend. Though maybe I desired a closeness through doing that it was not fair of me to ask. Though now I am just beating myself up.

I lazily watched things and answered strange emails I was receiving, from fans all over the United States, occasionally from other parts of the world. No, I was not a serial killer. That was a strange email to receive and this seemed to be all the response that was dignified. Others were nice and more flowing. Aidan, I love your work. Your imagery was beautiful and you totally captured the experience of what you went through. I know you were writing about how you like men but I was wondering if that is still the case. Actually I wanted to ask if you’d want to sleep with me?

Ahah a sexual offer for a female. Alas, I am still the shiniest fruit in every room and though you seem charming, I am still into guys. Sorry. – Aidan. Aidan I liked your book. But I don’t get the part where you’re the main character, could you write me in. I wrote back that unfortunately the book had already been published but that if I had known of you then then perhaps I could have wrote you in. Perhaps you can find a character to like, even in another book, and feel that you are them. – Aidan. 

They went on like this. Some of them were strange, more than a few were quite nice. Though there was a few more I will kill you’s in the mixed of all of that. One person wrote me simply, I will you kill you dead. They hadn’t signed off in any way. But there name was in the email address. Haha.

I suppose that it could have even been the person that was trying to kill me. But right this was a gang so it could have been any number of people. Maybe this was one of the members. Though maybe this wasn’t actually his name. That would be too easy. But I quickly made a police report about it and then went on with the rest of my day. Actually it was getting very late and it was well past dinner time. Though I would go in and eat something and after that I was going to go bed. It was 11pm.

In the night I dreamed that something was happening as I was laying there. It was a strange dream. I was right where I was in the dream, but I was dreaming. It was a strange dream. I swore someone was trying to make me feel movement. There were these swishing movements, all about around my head. And before this, I could have sworn someone, or something walked into the room.

I’m going to kill you, someone said. It was a man’s voice. 

Then lying in bed in my dream I tried open my eyes and it was my Dad. He had a large blunt instrument, I won’t say what. And he lifted it up and started to thrust down. And for a moment I felt so actually awake. I had to stay alive. I grabbed his forearms and thrust back, holding him off. He fought me, then gave up and move his hands to the side, perhaps to try a different angle of attack. Then I thrust of the bed, and I after. I can’t remember any more of the dream. Perhaps I blacked out, perhaps the dream had reached a natural conclusion. Though it seemed he was still in the room.

It must have been a few hours later, and everything had been black. I’d just been asleep, I guess. But as I awoke, I found myself alone in my room, alive, certainly. I felt that way. And there was no one there.

I went out to the kitchen after I had thrown a shirt on with my pajama bottoms and my Mom was out there. So she was still here. The two of us, I guess.
I decided I might as well ask. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Is Dad here?’

‘What? No, of course not. I haven’t seen him anyways.’

‘Is he supposed to be?

‘No, he is not supposed to be. He definitely is not supposed to be.’


‘I guess I Just had this dream.’

‘I gather this. I assume you saw your Dad.’

‘Yes, I’d seen him for sure.’

‘What did he say to you?’

‘Not much of anything. No, he didn’t say anything.’

‘That so.’ She seemed to lose track of the conversation in a private thought.

I let it go. I found myself wondering about something else. Where I might go after being at home, and when. I felt odd after my dream.



‘Do tell me if you see him. And if he says anything to you. He’s not supposed to be around.’

‘I would tell you. He’s not deranged, though, obviously.’

She looked at me a little concernedly. Rather concerned, really. ‘No, I don’t think so. But you stay away from anyone that wants something from you. From anyone, deranged.’

‘I’m famous now.’

‘Hardly. And that’s what is so concerning.’

‘People always want something.’

She looked stricken.

‘I mean I’m getting used to it. Maybe we just hadn’t noticed it before.’

She seemed relieved. ‘That there are bad people in the world.’

‘Hmm. Well I’ll just be out in the garden. Call if you need anything. I suppose they’ll be no ghost around during the day. I hear they are afraid of the light.’

‘Hah, no. They will be cowering in the shadows. Perhaps in basements.’

‘Most certainly. Chow. Or I’ll be around.’

‘Chow.’ She wandered off towards the shed, on her eventual route to the garden to water and weed and plant.

All of a sudden I had the prescience that something terrible was about to happen. That things were going to stop being so perfect, to be sure. But I couldn’t grasp onto what it was, and I let it go. I went on with the rest of my day after breakfast. I had a shower and combed my hair and shaved. 

I was reposing in bed, perusing Brideshead Revisited when I was struck with the uncanny remembrance of that feeling from just hence at breakfast. There was something approaching the home. No – it was not a car.

But it approached none the less. Almost inaudible, but highly detectable. It seemed like whole minutes the thing was making it was closer, closer, slouching towards the house. 

Despite the stress of the situation I closed my eyes. Actually I tried to calm myself with my eyes close, lessening my sensory stimuli, focusing on my perception, trying to block out the hearing. Though it was not something I could ignore, the definite sound, and the feeling, of someone approaching the house.

Now someone was climbing the stairs. Despite my closed eyes, my heart began to flutter wildly as he began ascending the steps. As he climbed, climbed, my heartbeat increasingly became more rapid, and I begged myself to calm down. And after a while it did. Though when I heard someone open the door…

I nearly fainted. But in the door he came, I was still awaken, conscious, and now my eyers were open. He came in and took his shoes off, then very slowly made his way into the living room from the entry hall. 

I decided my anxiety was wrong and I’d better go see. I got up gingerly, found I had my feet, and quietly turned my bedroom door handle. I tiptoed, almost, into the hallway, and walked further all the way into the living room. There, before my eyes, was not anyone I was expecting. Nor was it any kind of service person, a mail person, a television satellite technician, nor even a lost homeless person. It was my Dad.

And that was the most horrific thing of all. Think of the awkwardness! The dangerous interludes, of dirty glances, covert threats. For a moment he looked at me, though only from the side, as we were walking back and forth near the entry way, though in the living room certainly. As if waiting for my Mother to hear him, as if waiting for her blessing. Despite his acting sort of like she already knew he was coming. 

‘I don’t think she knows you’re here.’

‘No. She’d not. Let her know.’

‘Ah. Alright.’

I walked back and through the hallway to the back, through the laundry room and out to the backyard.

I stopped only a few feet from the door, it was behind me, and I said to her, ‘He’s here, Dad.’

She looked at me confusedly, maybe something huh, and what, and had I not known?

‘Ah alright, tell him to wait.’

‘Okay. You’ll come in and deal with him?’

‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

She continued what she was doing for a moment, but really that was all. Then almost confusedly, she stopped, sort of staring at the plant she had been working on. She seemed reluctant to get up, she seemed to be thinking less of what she was going to say, and more of things that she had said, they had said, how it was they were here, what had happened in the first place, as well,

I went back to the living room as soon as I walked through the doorway, more or less, I said to him, ‘She’ll be in in just a minute.’

‘Alright. Tell her hurry,’ he said.

I could have sworn he’d say sorry about something. Sorry for saying those things I’d said. I thought maybe he’d say that. For a minute I was convinced him saying those words had happened. Though it really had not. Perhaps he had no regrets. And his reasons for returning had nothing to do with me, and nothing to do with a consideration of my feelings.

I stood there stupidly for a moment, but he just continued walking back and forth, not looking at me. So I gave up any attempts to be welcoming, I’d done enough. And I went back to my room, knowing I’d be able to hear the whole conversation from there.

Eventually my Mom made her way into the house and into the living room where my Dad was. 

‘Bill. What is it? I didn’t expect you… here.’

‘Ah. Yes, well I am here now. Make room.’

‘There is always room. Though I thought you move out.’

‘It’s over now. I need my house back.’

‘I thought we… alright.’

‘Yes. Well. Hello Aidan. Leave my things here for now.’


‘He went upstairs into the bedroom and did not open the door for a long time. It was even the rest of the day.’

Later that day, my Mom was almost finishing up in the garden. I hesitated before approached here. No, I was standing a little ways off, half way between here and the door. ‘Is there any reason Bill is here?’

‘No. I don’t know why he’s here.’ She hadn’t stopped what she was doing but she was looking sort of up now, off into the distance. Or the dirt a few meters away.

‘But for how long?’

‘Even indefinitely, I would think. I didn’t know how to tell him I don’t want him here.’

‘So that’s that, I suppose. What is it we can do about it? Do I tip toe around him?’

‘That does not sound like a bad idea.’ Though your father never killed anyone.’

‘And are you sure.’

‘Yes, of course. He’s only scary. I don’t know why that is. It’s his personality. How he has always behaved.’

‘I do trust you. But…’

‘It’ll be alright. There’s no talking to him anyways. At least not right now.’


So that was that. The man himself, the reluctant father of the late and great writer, or perhaps just the newest genre’d young gay writer. I’m sure now he had not meant to kill me.

I of course obligingly sat for dinner with him as if we were a guest or a person we were happy to see after long absence.  

We talked of nothing, we sat there in silence. Though I swear we talked of something. I shared a glance with my mother a few times, and she had been worried. I could see it in her eyes, obviously. Not anywhere else. Though it was there as well when she glanced at him eating, slowly, his head bowed down, seemingly unaware of one or several elements of the situation.

‘Going to speak about your novel, Aidan?’ He asked me.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Because the tour has ended. There’s really no speaking left.’

‘That’s so.’ He twirled his fork over some brussels sprouts. ‘Too bad.’

It seemed an ominous comment. Though perhaps allowable, given the circumstances between us.

‘Yes, too bad,’ I said. Any reason you’d like that’

‘I thought you’d want to speak about it.’

‘I have quite a lot already.’

‘That so. I wasn’t paying attention.’

‘That’s so. To what?’

‘To you.’

A coldness went through suddenly, from his peremptory remark. Perhaps he didn’t even mean to play nice.

‘I’m sorry.’

He didn’t respond.

Yes I’m quite working on another novel already.

‘That’s nice. Not about yourself?’


‘Is it about a gay boy?’

‘It isn’t. I’m not sure yet.’

‘Better it be about something else.’

‘I see. Alright.’

‘What do you mean, about something else?’ my Mom asked.

‘Why…’ He started out.

‘I quite knew what he meant May,’ I quickly said.

‘I felt that,’ she said.

She had felt that he said do not write about a gay boy, and do not write about yourself.


Later that night I was typing away, sitting on the edge of my bed, when I heard someone wander into the kitchen for a glass of water. My Dad had been upstairs in the spare bedroom. He’d been lying down, but had not been asleep, I sensed. It’d only been about nine when he went in there. 

He’d not been talking to himself, but I swear I heard him murmur something. It was not inaudible, it was quite loud, even. But he said it quickly. He said, ‘I must kill him.’

And it wasn’t right after. It was after he’d taken a nice long drink of water, drained the glass, then he set it down hard. He slammed it. Quickly. Then the sound was gone. He stood there with his hands on the counter, both hands. Thinking, perhaps. Then he turned around and went back up the stairs. He stopped in the bathroom, and peed. Perhaps he relieved himself of all the water he’d just drank.

I had completely stopped typing. That was a frightening experience. Though I feared it would only get scarier. With him around. Living here.


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