Page 676 - A Little Life: A Novel

off his ribs, puncturing his lungs with their talons. By Brother Luke, by Dr.
Traylor. What is life for? he asks himself. What is my life for?
Oh, he thinks, will I never forget? Is this who I am after all, after all these

years?
He can feel his nose start to bleed, and he pushes back from the table.
“I’m leaving,” he tells them, as Julia enters the room with a sandwich. He
sees that she has cut off its crusts and sliced it into triangles, the way you
would for a child, and for a second he wavers and almost begins to bawl,
but then he recalls himself and glares again at Harold.
“No, you’re not,” Harold says, not angrily, but decisively. He stands up

from his chair, points his finger at him. “You’re staying and you’re
finishing.”
“No, I’m not,” he announces. “Call Andy, I don’t care. I’m going to kill
myself, Harold, I’m going to kill myself no matter what you do, and you’re
not going to be able to stop me.”
“Jude,” he hears Julia whisper. “Jude, please.”

Harold walks over to him, taking the plate from Julia as he does, and he
thinks: This is it. He raises his chin, he waits for Harold to hit him in the
face with it, but he doesn’t, just puts the plate before him. “Eat,” Harold
says, his voice tight. “You’re going to eat this now.”
He thinks, unexpectedly, of the day he had his first episode at Harold and
Julia’s. Julia was at the grocery store, and Harold was upstairs printing out a
worrisomely complicated recipe for a soufflé he claimed he was going to

make. There he had lain in the pantry, trying to keep himself from kicking
his legs out in agony, listening to Harold clatter down the stairs and into the
kitchen. “Jude?” he’d called, not seeing him, and as quiet as he had tried to
be, he had made a noise anyway, and Harold had opened the door and found
him. He had known Harold for six years by that point, but he was always
careful around him, dreading but expecting the day when he would be

revealed to him as he really was. “I’m sorry,” he’d tried to tell Harold, but
he was only able to croak.
“Jude,” Harold had said, frightened, “can you hear me?,” and he’d
nodded, and Harold had entered the pantry himself, picking his way around
the stacks of paper towels and jugs of dishwasher detergent, lowering
himself to the floor and gently pulling his head into his lap, and for a
second he had thought that this was the moment he had always half

anticipated, the one in which Harold would unzip his pants and he would