Page 468 - A Little Life: A Novel

be responsible for passing these on to someone else.” The doctor had been
stern, and he had never forgotten the shame he had felt, nor the fear that he
might share his filth with another. And so he had written down a speech for

himself and recited it until he had it memorized, but the actual telling had
been much more difficult than he had expected, and he had spoken so
quietly that he’d had to repeat himself, which was somehow even worse. He
had given this talk only once before, to Caleb, who had been silent and then
had said in his low voice, “Jude St. Francis. A slut after all,” and he had
made himself smile and agree. “College,” he had managed to say, and Caleb
had smiled back at him, slightly.

Willem too had been silent, watching him, and had asked, “When did you
get these, Jude?” and then, “I’m so sorry.”
They had been lying next to each other, Willem on his side, facing him,
he on his back. “I had a lost year in D.C.,” he said at last, although that
hadn’t been true, of course. But telling the truth would mean a longer
conversation, and he wasn’t ready to have that conversation, not yet.

“Jude, I’m sorry,” Willem had said, and had reached for him. “Will you
tell me about it?”
“No,” he’d said, stubbornly. “I think we should do it. Now.” He had
already prepared himself. Another day of waiting wasn’t going to change
things, and he would only lose his nerve.
So they had. A large part of him had hoped, expected even, that things
would be different with Willem, that he would, finally, enjoy the process.

But once it had begun, he could feel every bad old sensation returning. He
tried to direct his attention to how this time was clearly better: how Willem
was more gentle than Caleb had been, how he didn’t get impatient with
him, how it was, after all, Willem, someone he loved. But when it was over,
there was the same shame, the same nausea, the same desire to hurt himself,
to scoop out his insides and hurl them against the wall with a bloody

thwack.
“Was it okay?” Willem asked, quietly, and he turned and looked at
Willem’s face, which he loved so much.
“Yes,” he said. Maybe, he thought, it would be better the next time. And
then, the next time, when it had been the same, he thought it might be better
the time after that. Every time, he hoped things would be different. Every
time, he told himself it would be. The sorrow he felt when he realized that