4 comments/ 6196 views/ 1 favorites From Cambodia with Love By: Samuelx If I knew then what I know now....blah, or so the old adage goes. Personally, had I known back then what I now know, I would have done everything exactly the same way. Fate is a powerful thing, for good and for ill, and I've learned not to oppose it. My name is Adam Crowley Dieudonne, and I was born in the City of Belfast, Ireland, to a Haiti immigrant father and Irish mother. Growing up mixed-race in Ireland wasn't the easiest thing in the world, take it from me. My mother, Amanda Crowley, tried her best to shield me from the everyday racism that came my way, but there was only so much she could do. I'm six-foot-four, with light brown skin, curly black hair and lime-green eyes. My features are a blend of African and Caucasian. In lily-white, uptight Belfast, I stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. The Emerald Isle is a beautiful place but there's quite a bit of xenophobia in it. Since the last decade of the twentieth century, scores of Asian and West African immigrants have moved to Ireland, along with significant amount of Middle-Easterners, forever changing the nation's demographics. My father, Christopher Dieudonne, divorced my mother and went back to his hometown of Jacmel, Haiti, in the eleventh year of my life. He works for the Haitian government's Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We've reconnected via Facebook, you see. Mom doesn't like to talk about the divorce but I'm sure it still pains her. Her proud Irish Catholic family never accepted her marriage to an African immigrant. Never mind that my parents met as students at the University of Westminster in England in the 1980s, and were madly in love. Racism drove my parents apart, and Ireland wasn't much kinder to me in my time. Sorry to sound cynical but outside of major cities like London, Versailles and Paris, Western Europe is no place for African immigrants or their descendants. That much I understood early on. I graduated from Dublin City University in the summer of 2010 with a bachelor's degree in computer science at the age of twenty one, and left Ireland for good. I worked for a couple of companies in England, tried to write a novel, failed and lived in London and Uxbridge for a while. I fell in love with the City of London, and its sheer diversity and culture. London is a magical city, full of people from pretty much everywhere. On the streets of London I saw Somalis, Arabs, Bangladeshis, Chinese folks and some ethnicities I can't even identify. I had a wonderful time there, but after two years, I had grown tired of it. I wanted to experience other things, live someplace else and meet other kinds of people. Like many people around the world, I felt the pull of North America. What can I say? The continent is a magical place, the number one destination for immigrants of all shades and faiths, and I was no exception. I made up my mind after much soul searching, and boarded a plane for Canada from Europe. In the summer 2012, I moved to the City of Montreal, Quebec, and enrolled at McGill University. I had my transcripts sent in from Belfast, and got accepted in the MBA program. It wasn't easy, adjusting to life in Canada after living in Europe my whole life. Canada has a lot of rules and restrictions. I had to apply for a study permit and a work permit along with a social insurance card in order to function in Canadian society. Without these things, I couldn't work, study, or do anything. I'd be a non-person, essentially. Luckily for me, my educational credentials from D.C.U. were accepted at McGill University. I learned from many of my fellow students, especially the ones from Third World countries, that I should really count my blessings. Many of them with degrees from established colleges and universities in nations such as Ghana, Nigeria, Brazil, Colombia, China, and even tiny European nations like Lithuania and Estonia are told by Canadian academic institutions that their credentials aren't valid on this continent. That's a damn shame if you ask me. There are plenty of talented and smart people in so-called Third World nations and western institutions should respect their credentials. I was determined to make the most of my time in Montreal. Quebec is a beautiful place but it's in the grip of a serious identity crisis. For over half a century, immigrants of Haitian, Lebanese, Syrian, Chinese and Indian ancestry have changed the face of Montreal. For the most part, the immigrants get along with the French Canadian population, but lately there's been some tension between the two groups. A lot of Muslims live in Quebec, and there's been some clashes between them and the predominantly Catholic-leaning European population. Some politicians such as Pauline Marois, the Premier of Quebec, has seized upon the malaise of the French Canadian people and revved up the eternally divisive issues of identity politics. Language and religious rights are at the forefront of Quebec politics nowadays. While walking through the streets of Montreal, I met someone I would never forget. Sikha "Spike" Youtevong, a young Cambodian woman who tried to pick my pocket. I was on my way to my car, and someone bumped me. Now, anybody else might have thought nothing of it not I. We've got a real problem with pickpockets on the streets of London, Dublin, Belfast and other major European cities. I immediately doubled back, and caught up with the fleet-footed thief. Before he disappeared around a street corner, I caught him by the arm. Gotcha, I said, and my eyes went wide when I realized that the slim young man in the baseball cap who'd bumped me was in fact, a short-haired lass dressed like a chap. Let go of me you creep, she said, struggling against me to no avail. I'm quite strong, you see. You took my wallet, I said, looking her in the eye. I wanted my stuff back and wouldn't leave without it. The thief was actually quite pretty, Asian, with light bronze skin, short spiky black hair, and a lot of tattoos. Clad in a sleeveless black leather jacket, red tank top and blue jeans, I guess her style was tomboy chic. Whatever, the gal said, and pulled my wallet from her pocket. I took it back and pocketed. Just as I was about to let her go, a police car pulled up. A burly white cop came out of it, hands on his gun holster. Let the lady go pal, he said, in heavily accented English. Great, I grunted, and the thief grinned. Looks like you're in trouble now, she whispered into my ear. I shook my head. The witch had me. Officer this isn't what it looks like, I said feebly, knowing perfectly well that I looked guilty as hell. A big and tall black guy has a short Asian woman up against a wall in a back alley. The cop stepped closer. I won't tell you again, he said. I had been in Montreal for a few months and although I kept out of trouble, I knew of the local police's reputation for racism and heavy-handed tactics. This wasn't going to turn out well. Yeah, just as I was ready to throw in the towel, something unexpected happened. The thief threw her arms around me and kissed me. Trust me, she said, flashing me a mischievous grin. Je suis avec mom chum officier pas de problemes, she said, in accented French. Translation? I'm with my boyfriend, officer, no worries. With her arms still around me, I looked at the cop and flashed him an embarrassed grin. Sorry about that, I said. The cop grunted, mumbled something under his breath and told us to get a room. Don't make me come back out here, he grumbled, then walked away. He got back in his police car and drove away. I looked at the thief, my unexpected savior. I saved your ass big man, she grinned. I nodded, still blown away by the whole thing. Next thing I knew, she made a run for it. I watched her run away, and shook my head. Damn, I thought. I went back to my apartment in Montreal-Nord, a neighborhood filled with Haitians along with a few Chinese and Africans. As I lay on my bed that night, I thanked God for letting me get home in one piece. North America isn't like England or Ireland. Cops are notoriously trigger-happy here, especially when dealing with minority men. Even in Europe we've heard about the shootings of Sammy Yatim in Toronto, Amadou Diallo in New York City and Trayvon Martin in Florida. North America is a dangerous place. The next day, I went to class, and afterwards, I took a walk around Montreal. I went to Griyo, a really classy Haitian restaurant in Greater Montreal. I love Haitian food, and I've tried to reconnect with Haitian culture ever since I moved to Montreal. These are my father's people, after all. I don't speak French or Haitian Creole as of yet but I'm learning. Picking up French while living in Montreal isn't hard. It's a mostly French town after all. The French culture is in every corner, every street, every damn brick of the old town. So there I was, eating a delicious plate of rice and beans with Sirik ( Haitian for crabs ) and goat meat when a certain familiar silhouette walked into the restaurant. A short, slim young Asian woman walked in with a plump, light-skinned black woman. The two of them seemed like regulars at the restaurant, and were warmly greeted by the waitress. Curious by nature, I looked at the young Asian lady, and noticed something familiar about her. The leather jacket, the tattoos...I'd seen this gal before. Calmly, I rose from my seat and went over to her table. Hello again, I said, and smiled at her. You should have seen the look on her face. Oh shit, she said, and turned pale. I had her dead to rights and could have busted her, but I didn't. Instead, I bought her and her friend dinner. Thus I met Sikha Youtevong, formerly of Ta Khmao, Cambodia, and presently of Montreal, Quebec. And her good friend Nadine Duchene, her Haitian-Canadian girlfriend, lifelong best pal and frequent partner-in-crime. I sat down with the two of them, and found them utterly charming. Two lovely girls from the wrong side of the tracks. Sikha and Nadine, confidence women, talented tricksters and women-about-town. Sikha interested me, strange as it may seem. I had never met anyone quite like her. I grew up strictly by-the-book and have always followed the letter of the law. Sikha intrigued me. I found her mysterious and alluring, especially after she explained her life philosophy to me. I take from the haves because I'm a lifelong have not, Sikha said, shrugging coolly. I've made it a habit to call my parents once a week since I've moved to Montreal. My way of keeping in touch with them and keep them updated of my progress in Canada. In a few months I've have my MBA from McGill University, and I've already applied for permanent resident status in Canada. I have an immigration attorney and she assures me that we've got reasons to be optimistic. I've been thinking about my identity, my nationality and my family a lot lately. I've reached my mid-twenties without any serious relationships, though I've had plenty of sexual encounters with random women, whether in London, Belfast or Montreal. I guess since I seldom felt truly rooted anywhere, I didn't believe in letting myself get attached to the ladies I met. With highly educated and successful parents, I had chances that many people didn't have. Yes, I endured racism as a mixed-race man in Europe and I still feel the sting of it from time to time, even in racially diverse Montreal, but I haven't let it stop me. When I met Sikha Youtevong, a woman so different from me, yet shockingly similar in some aspects, I didn't know what to do. I've been meeting her lately, just to grab coffee and talk, and hear of her exploits. I told her I'm doing research for a crime novel with a female hero, and that seemed to satisfy her. What I learned about Sikha amazed me. Only twenty one years old, she'd lived quite a life. Born in provincial Kandal, Cambodia, Sikha moved to Quebec with her parents, Chanlina and Phirum Youtevong about ten years ago. As I pressed her for details about her family, Sikha grew moody and would only tell me that her parents got divorced and she had to grow up fast. Sorry if it's a sore subject, I said apologetically. Sikha took a cigarette from her pocket, and lit it up, even though Sammy's Pub, the neighborhood café we were in, had a strict non-smoking policy. It's my body and I'll smoke if I want to, Sikha said, and I smiled. Okay, I said, and pressed her to continue. Sikha regaled me with tales of her adventures across Canada's big cities. From pick-pocketing in the streets of Montreal, to credit card fraud online, and, sadly, occasionally selling her body in fancy hotels in Toronto, Sikha had done it all. I do what I got to do to get by, she said, shrugging. I shook my head. What's your ultimate goal? I asked, wondering about her game plan. Surely this lass didn't think she could go on grifting for the rest of her days? Sikha looked me in the eye and told me I wouldn't believe her if she told me. Try me, I said. Chuckling, Sikha took a card out of her wallet and tossed it at me. My student card, she said. I looked at it and it read University of Quebec at Montreal, along with a picture of Sikha sporting even shorter hair than she did today. Expected date of graduation two years from now. Wow. You're in school? I asked, incredulous. Sikha grinned. I didn't qualify for them government loans so I do what I got to do to pay for school, she said, and licked her lips. I looked at Sikha with newfound respect, and a bit of awe. I was impressed. I bet I surprised the hell out of you, Sikha said, eyeing me coolly. I nodded at that. A smart gal like you has better options than thieving, I said, crossing my arms. Sikha got up, and stood there, hands on her hips. Who are you to judge my actions? Sikha snapped, then bolted out of the restaurant with speed that amazed even me. Damn, I said, and sat there, stunned by her move. I didn't see that one coming. That night, as I lay on my bed, I thought about Sikha, and her hard yet fascinating life. I found myself wondering how I might have turned out if my father wasn't a wealthy member of Haitian society who studied internationally and my mother, a middle-class Irishwoman whose family owned a lot of land in the environs of Belfast and the Irish countryside. I studied at one of Ireland's top universities, now I'm at McGill University, the best school in Canada. I live in Montreal-Nord, one of the "edgier" parts of Montreal, not because I have to, but because I want to. A few months ago, out of the blue, my mother wired me one hundred thousand Euros from her account with the Allied Irish Banks, one of Ireland's top banks, and sent it to my account with BMO, the Bank of Montreal. That's roughly one hundred and fifty thousand dollars Canadian. More than enough to last me a while. I'm a fortunate son. Last December, I spent a holiday with my father in Paris, France, we stayed at a four-star hotel, and the Haitian government picked up the cheque. I've led a pretty comfortable life. Perhaps Sikha was right. Who was I to judge her actions? The next day, I called Sikha and apologized. Let's catch a movie, I said, in what I hoped was a conciliatory manner. Much to my amazement, Sikha agreed. I figured she'd tell me to get lost. Instead, Sikha met me at the Cinema Banque Scotia Montreal and we watched Skyfall. Clad in a black T-shirt featuring Jay-Z, blue jeans and boots, Sikha looked fantastic. The movie was her choice, of course. I've always been a James Bond fan and while not overly fond of Daniel Craig, I liked Javier Bardem's performance as the sexually ambiguous and stylish villain. Sikha couldn't get enough of Daniel Craig, apparently overly buff white guys are her thing. Whatever, I said, as she went on and on about Craig's muscles. You're totally jealous, Sikha chided me, nudging me with her elbow. We exited the theater, then walked around town a bit. I've developed a fondness for Montreal's streets. It is a mix of both old and new. You get a feel that you're in Europe, when you look at the old gothic cathedrals and cobblestones, and then you see a steel tower and realize that you're in North America. With Sikha by my side, I found myself rediscovering this town I loved so much. Arm in arm, we walked through Old Montreal. Once upon a time, what we call Quebec was known as New France. J'adore Montreal, Sikha whispered, as we stood on McGill Street, a beatific look on her pretty face. I looked at her, and for a moment, I was awestruck by how beautiful she looked, fierce-looking with all her tattoos, punk hairstyle and attitude. Impulsively, I grabbed Sikha's face, and kissed her. That's right, the shy and world-weary pseudo-intellectual kissed the fearless street woman/part-time university student. Sikha smiled up at me, a puzzled look on her face. What was that for? Sikha asked slyly. I just felt like it because you're a cutie, I replied, and put my arm around her. Grinning, we continued with our little stroll. I was falling for Sikha, and she seemed to be really into me, and all was right with the world. My novel, tentatively titled The Rogue Woman, was progressing nicely. I was on the two hundred and tenth page. The heroine, an Asian woman from Cambodia, was living a helluva life as a globe-trotting thief and adventuress, doggedly pursued by an African-American reporter seeking to expose her. Oh, and there's a mutual attraction between them. Of course, the two of them bear zero resemblance to Sikha and I. I remember the first time Sikha and I made love, one stormy night at her place in Laval. We were coming back from the movies, and Sikha invited me over for a night cap. There we were, on her couch in her modest bachelor pad near the University of Quebec campus, cuddling. I hadn't had sex in over six months but could care less. Embracing Sikha, the woman who was an injection of energy into my life, fulfilled me in so many ways. Was I attracted to her? Sikha, the five-foot-six, 120-pound Cambodian-Canadian firecracker totally gets me going. Resting her head against my chest, Sikha and I were having a moment while watching a rerun of Highlander, a classic television series I love. In this episode, a disgruntled widow threatens to expose both the Immortals and the Watchers, forcing heroes and villains to get over themselves in the name of survival. I guess we all live in a grey area, Sikha said, when I expressed disappointment over the hero Duncan McLeod's actions in the episode. I raked my hand through her short, spiky dark hair. Right as usual, I said, and kissed her forehead. Sikha looked up at me, and grinned. In the dark all cats are grey, she said, and gently patted my groin. Oh my, I said, and smiled. I pulled her closer and kissed her, and next thing I knew, we were undressing each other hastily. Been a while I can tell, Sikha grinned, as I feasted my eyes on her sexy body. Her breasts were bigger than I thought they'd be, and she had far more tattoos than I previously thought. I'm thirsty, I laughed, using the popular idiom. Sikha laughed, and was still laughing as I gently grabbed her left breast and began sucking on it. Go easy big guy, Sikha laughed while I sucked on her tits and slid my hand between her thighs. I kissed her all over, and made my way to her pelvic area. I spread Sikha's thighs, and went for the gold, as it were. Have at it, Sikha said, as if I needed any encouragement. Hungrily I ate Sikha's pussy, tasting the woman I loved in her raw and primal beauty, exploring her most intimate regions with my mouth and fingers. I slid my middle inside her and teased her clit with my tongue. Oh fuck, Sikha cried out, grabbing the back of my neck and grinding my face against her pussy. Man, her grip was stronger than I thought, I guess that's what I get for unleashing the passions of my favorite wild woman. Like a man who hadn't eaten in days, I munched on Sikha's delicious pussy like my life depended on it. From Cambodia with Love As I licked and pleasured Sikha, I noticed a change in intensity as she continued moaning and crying out. Her sexy body shuddered, trembling as if a storm were coursing through her. Oh my Gosh I'm about to cum, Sikha cried out, and I watched as she shuddered one final time, her mouth agape, her eyes wide open. That's when I knew she'd reached the magic moment. It's all about the big O. I wormed my tongue deep inside her womanhood, using it as a spear and tickling her insides with it. I had her crying out my name in Khmer, French, English and profane. Holy hell you're good, Sikha said, staring at me with surprise-filled eyes. I shrugged. A day at a time I suppose, I said, then pulled her close and placed her on my lap. Sikha felt my hard manhood underneath her and smiled wickedly. I want to ride, Sikha said suggestively, licking my ear. That can be arranged, I said, and eased my aching manhood out of my boxers. Sikha took it in her hands. You're not circumcised, she noted with surprise. I shrugged. So what? I asked nonchalantly. Sikha smiled, and kissed me. I like guys with hoods, she said, then slid down and took my dick into her mouth. Sikha is one talkative lady at times but finally, I silenced her in a most pleasurable way. Am I wrong to think she looked real good with my dick in her mouth? Sikha licked the underside of my shaft and tickled my balls with her tongue, driving me absolutely wild. Hell, Sikha surprised the bejesus out of me by sliding her finger into my asshole while sucking my dick. Later, I would discover exactly how kinky my Cambodian goddess truly was. When I finally came, Sikha tasted my cum and licked it all up. I wasn't expecting that, but then again, I would later learn that with Sikha, I should always expect the unexpected. Rolling a condom on my dick, Sikha climbed right back on top of me a few moments later. Fuck me, she said, locking eyes with me. I smiled and put my hands on her hips. Let's dance, I said, and thrust my dick into her cunt. Sikha wrapped her arms around me, and began riding me energetically as I pumped my dick into her pussy. I hadn't had sex in almost a year and desperately wanted to make up for lost time. Lucky for me, Sikha and I were on the same page. We made love all over Sikha's apartment that night, going from the couch to the living room carpet, and somehow ending up in the kitchen. I took her on all fours, face down and ass up, as they say in North American urban vernacular. Smack my ass you bastard, Sikha screamed, clearly more into the rough stuff than I thought. Who am I to disagree with the lady's wishes? I smacked Sikha's pert little ass and slammed my dick into her cunt, taking her roughly, just the way she liked it. Sikha wanted me to pull her hair but had to settle for having me grab the back of her neck because her hair was too damn short. We'd been at it for a good hour before Sikha switched tempo. Ever fucked a woman in the ass? she asked, winking at me. I grinned and shook my head. Nope but I'm always up for a challenge, I said. Sikha smiled at me. That's the spirit, she laughed, and then we got down to some real fun. Now, in the porno movies you watch online and on DVD, anal sex is easy, and clean, and happens with almost magical smoothness. Doesn't work that way in real life. Sikha and I had to do certain things before getting to the actual ass fucking. For starters, we want to the shower, and cleaned ourselves up with soap and water. Then we did the do. Go slow, Sikha said, as I bent her over the bathroom sink, and finished lubricating her asshole with Aloe cream. No worries, I said, and rolled a condom on my hard dick, the sight of Sikha's gorgeous ass thrilling me beyond measure. Gently I eased my dick against Sikha's asshole, bracing myself. Now, Sikha whispered, and I pushed. Slowly, gently, I eased my dick into her asshole. Even with the condom on, my dick felt snug inside the warmth and tightness of her hole. I guess I was too timid for her for Sikha chastised me. I'm not asking you I'm telling you to fuck my ass, she snapped, and her vehemence surprised me. Alright milady, I said, smacking her ass for good measure as I pushed my dick harder into it. A sharp groan escaped Sikha's lips as I slammed my dick up her asshole with all the force I could muster. Oh shit, she cried out, buckling slightly. I caught Sikha right before she could fall, and pressed my hand on her back, steadying her against the washroom counter. Loving the feel of Sikha's tight asshole around my dick, I totally gave in, fucking her like there was no tomorrow. My hands gripped her hips like steel, holding her into place as I fucked her, hard. We went at it for who knows how long, and in the end, I made the tough, tattooed tomboyish slut I love so much tap out. That was so much fun, Sikha said breathlessly, tears in her eyes, as I eased my dick out of her shapely butt. I winked at her. I guess I had it in me all along, I said, smiling at her. Sikha glared at me, but instead of the coyness I usually saw in her eyes, I saw newfound respect, even awe. You're a naughty man, Sikha said, then she kissed me. I kissed Sikha passionately, then picked her up in my arms and carried her back to bed. Over the coming weeks, a world of passion and sexual exploration opened up to me as Sikha decided to show me ALL she could do. We were inseparable. We hung out at McGill University and the University of Quebec, checked out each other's classes, and dined in local restaurants. We checked out museums, and danced at top notch night clubs. We were madly in love, and I couldn't imagine my life without Sikha Youtevong in it. I told my Mom and Dad about her, and even introduced her to them via Skype. What can I say? The lady matters to me. Sikha was changing my life, and at the same time, I was changing hers. I got a job working for the campus library at McGill. The job pays sixteen bucks an hour, it's alright, I don't really need the money but I desperately wanted to integrate myself into Canadian society. Also, my attorney assured that working a steady job while attending university would look good on me when the Canadian government decided whether or not to grant me permanent resident status. If a spoiled rich brat like myself could get a job and keep it, why couldn't Sikha? I wanted to entice Sikha away from the grifting lifestyle. That's why I tried to get her a job, but she assured me that she didn't need one. Whenever I tried to talk to Sikha about something along those lines, she would change the subject. I'm quite weak when it comes to her persuasive sensuality. What can I say? Sikha has that effect on me. I mean, she could talk me into almost anything. How else would you explain how I let her do, ahem, certain things to me? Let me explain. I've never been with anyone like Sikha, that's for sure. This vibrant young woman believed in living life to the fullness, a far cry from the overly cautious approach an analytical sort like myself preferred. Sexually, she was leagues ahead of me, and I desperately wanted to catch up. I want to dominate you, Sikha said, and I made the mistake of daring her to do it. That's how I ended up tied up and spread-eagled on her bed, getting my ass whipped by her. I'm going to make you my bitch, Sikha said, before fetching yet another implement of sexual torture. After smacking me around, berating me and whipping me, Sikha brought out a strap-on dildo. Oh shit, I said, my eyes going wide as I watched her stalk toward me, swaying her hips suggestively while stroking her artificial cock. Grinning, Sikha leapt on the bed and told me to get ready for her. Your ass belongs to me, Sikha cooed, and grabbed my dick. Gently Sikha sucked my cock, and fingered my asshole with her gloved fingers. Then she applied Aloe cream all over my anus, and pushed me down on the bed. Raising my legs in the air with a strength that surprised me, Sikha pressed her dildo against my asshole. Don't be such a pussy, Sikha said, smacking me hard across the face. Then she plunged her dildo into my ass. Go easy on me, I pleaded, squirming as Sikha held me into my place while fucking me. Where's the fun in that? Sikha laughed, gently biting my neck as she thrust her strap-on dildo deep into my ass. I told myself I wouldn't scream. I gritted my teeth against the exquisite pain and vile pleasure I felt as Sikha invaded me. When she slammed into me with all the force she could muster, I cried out like a madman. Getting dominated by Sikha and having my ass relentlessly pounded by her strap-on dildo was quite an experience. The odd thing is that I enjoyed some of it. It was so much fun, Sikha said, laughing merrily. I shook my head. Um I'm kind of sore, I said, and Sikha kissed me, her way of making the point moot. I love you babe, Sikha said, hugging me tightly. I smiled at her, and told myself that the next time Sikha told me to try something kinky, I'd say no. Did I enjoy letting Sikha fuck my ass with her strap-on dildo? Um, sure. I just wish she'd been gentler. That's all. A few days later, Sikha and I had our worlds rattled when her girlfriend Nadine Duchene, who was apparently still doing the pickpocket/hustler/escort thing in Greater Montreal, nearly died after being attacked by a creep she'd had sex with in a motel. Sikha was summoned to the Hotel Dieu-De-Montreal Hospital, since Nadine had no next of kin. As we sat in the hospital room, watching Nadine fight for her life, I sat next to Sikha, holding her hand as she wept. I'm going to kill whoever did this to her, Sikha said, eyes filled with tears. Sitting next to Sikha, watching her weep as her oldest friend fought for her life, I felt so helpless. I wanted desperately to help, do something, but there was nothing I could do. At the same time, I led a life so far removed from Sikha's and Nadine's that I couldn't relate to what made them who and what they are, nor could I understand why they do what they do. I grew up pampered and sheltered, first in Belfast, Ireland, then in London, England, and finally, I came to Montreal, Quebec. A rich guy with rich parents, forever sheltering me from much of the world's evil, though as a mixed-race man, albeit a university-educated, connected and well-traveled individual, there are certain things I can't escape. I'm here for you and I'm sorry for what happened to Nadine, I said, looking at Sikha while holding her hand. Gently I squeezed it. Sikha glared at me, her eyes filled with a rage and anger I had never seen before. You sorry rich bastard you don't understand people like Nadine or me, Sikha snapped. I looked at her, frozen in shock by her sudden anger. I love you Sikha, I said, pleading with her. I wanted to let her know that I just wanted to help her. I wanted her to know that I love her and would never judge her or Nadine. Life puts all of us in different paths, and only God can judge any of us. Sikha was growing increasingly agitated, and the hospital staff noticed. A burly orderly asked her to calm down. Sikha shot him a murderous look. I want him out of here, she snapped. I looked at the orderly, then at Sikha. I'm so sorry my love, I said, then walked out. I left the hospital, and took the bus back to Montreal-Nord. I went to my apartment, fell on my bed, and slept. At the risk of sounding un-masculine, I actually cried myself to sleep. I wept for Sikha, for Nadine, for my sheltered yet empty life. God, why did You let it come to this? The next day, I called Sikha, and got no answer. I went by her apartment, and she wasn't there. I walked through the University of Quebec campus for two hours, stalking from building to building, looking for her. Whenever someone asked me where I was going, I simply flashed my McGill University student identification card and told them I was visiting the campus while considering a transfer. U of Q is the most French-centric school in all of Canada, and hearing a McGill University student praising their school ingratiated me to several Quebecers I spoke to on campus. Ah, the wonders of academic politics. I swung by the Griyo restaurant, and asked the staff if they'd seen Sikha, but they hadn't seen her. I called her cell phone three times a day for over a week, and eventually was notified that her phone was no longer in service. Oh, and she pulled me from her Facebook and Twitter, and then deleted those accounts as well. I had some friends look for her online and they confirmed my suspicions. Sikha pulled a disappearing act worthy of James Bond himself, or perhaps Cat Woman. In the months that followed, I missed Sikha Youtevong sorely. When someone you love leaves your life, either taken away from you by death or the caprices of fate, you can't help missing them. I thought of the wonderful times we shared, and the wicked ones as well. I missed her fearlessness, her charm and wit. A part of me will always remember her fondly. Eventually, though, I moved on with my life. I finished the novel, and shopped around for a publisher. An American publisher looking to branch out into the Canadian market, Golden Castle Publishing, showed some interest. I sent them the manuscript, got a literary agent, and they said they're going to run an initial printing of fifty thousand and see how it fares. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. My novel features a black man and an Asian woman, along with elements of intrigue, international settings, violent adventurism and erotic themes that some might not stomach. We'll see how the Canadian and American markets digest it. I do have some good news. The Canadian government accepted my claim and granted me permanent resident status. I'll be receiving my PR Card in the mail any day now. I can't tell you how excited I am to become a permanent resident of Canada. Especially considering I'll be graduating from McGill University's MBA program in a few months. I guess the future looks bright, I just wish I had someone to share it with. Perhaps the right lady will come along. Keep your fingers crossed and say a prayer for me, will you?