Aidan was sitting on his knees and playing with a toy train when I peered into his room. He was so absorbed in his game that he didn't even notice me. I smiled with comfort while I looked at him – Aidan, though he came into the world out of an abomination, was, after all, my son, and as such he deserved all the love I could give him. I managed to repress the trauma of the past, but the more I thought of Aidan's birth, the more the pain resurfaced.
"Lisa, can you come for a minute?" The voice of my 2nd husband, Chris, came from our bedroom.
Without making any noise which will indicate that I was watching him, I left Aidan alone in his playing. I went into our bedroom, where Chris was waiting anxiously for me.
"You called me?"
"Yes, sweetie," Chris replied, sitting down on the bed, "I need to talk to you about Aidan."
"What about him?" I asked, sitting down beside Chris.
"Did you notice anything... unusual in him?"
"Like what?"
"Like what?" Chris asked firmly, outraged by my question, "Don't you think he's acting a little strange?"
I frowned – there was nothing strange about my child! Chris caught the look on my face and quickly explained:
"He speaks in a girly high voice, he mostly draws flowers and butterflies, and he has a pull to pink."
"So what?"
"Honey," Chris brought his face to me in a whisper, "he's acting like a fuckin' fagot!"
I slapped Chris swiftly, his head tipped away from the blow. How dare he talk like that about Aidan?!
"You can try to deny it," Chris said, rubbing his sore cheek, "but it's the truth."
I was too agitated to stay seated beside him. I got up and walked quickly away from the room. I went back to Aidan's room and looked at him in silence. Now instead of playing the train, he was lying on the floor, his legs folded up, and painted what I could recognize as a pink butterfly. My heart dropped – Chris was right after all, and I refused to believe. How didn't I see it? Could I turned a blind eye on my son? Feelings of guilt began to permeate within me, chilling my guts.
"You see now?" I heard Chris whisper behind my ear, like a little devil standing on my shoulder, "He'll grow up and be different, he's going to be boycotted and rejected by the other kids. We must act now."
I quickly turned my head to Chris, stunned that he thought some act must be made – though he didn't say or hint at it, he compared Aidan to a nuisance to be thrown out, a cockroach to be crushed.
"Do not worry, he won't be hurt," he went on whispering, his eyes moving toward Aidan, "I have an idea."
Aidan's Point of View:
I closed the pink marker and put it on the floor – the wings of the butterfly were perfectly drawn and fully colored. I looked proudly at the work I had just finished, a smile stretching across my face. I got up from the long lay and straightened my clothes. Mother and Chris thought I wasn't aware of them standing behind me, watching and talking about me. Even without hearing their whispers, I knew they were there.
Ironic, really – so long ago it was I who was watching from the side.
Not much has changed since then. The feelings of guilt for the actions I had to take had long ago ceased, and they no longer bothered me.
I'd lived secretly through my brother, and until recently I managed to hide it quite well. Chris began to suspect, I could feel it. What a pity that I would have to turn him into a target too, until I learned to live with him, until Lisa and I took him into our ruined family cell. What a pity that Mother would have to pay a price once more. The hardest thing in living as someone else has been responding to another name. I never wanted to be called Aidan, so as a consolation, I named myself Lindsay. My heart pinched every time I was called Aidan, but nevertheless I always played the game, answering innocently. I went to wash my hands off the paint. Chris and Mother were no longer standing at the door of the room, and each of them resumed his business. After a few moments, a call was heard throughout the house:
