Page 192 - A Little Life: A Novel

“I’m sorry, Andy,” he said.
“I know you are,” said Andy. “But you don’t need to be sorry—not to
me, anyway.”

“To Harold,” he said.
“No,” Andy corrected. “Not to Harold, either. Just to yourself.”
He went home and ate away at a banana until it turned to dirt in his
mouth and then changed and continued washing the living-room windows,
which he had begun the night before. He rubbed at them, inching the sofa
closer so he could stand atop one of its arms, ignoring the twinges in his
back as he climbed up and down, lugging the bucket of dirtied gray water

slowly to the tub. After he’d finished the living room and Willem’s room,
he was in so much pain that he had to crawl to the bathroom, and after
cutting himself, he rested, holding his arm above his head and wrapping the
mat about him. When his phone rang, he sat up, disoriented, before
groaningly moving to his bedroom—where the clock read three a.m.—and
listening to a very cranky (but alert) Andy.

“I called too late,” Andy guessed. He didn’t say anything. “Listen, Jude,”
Andy continued, “you don’t stop this and I really am going to have you
committed. And I’ll call Harold and tell him why. You can count on it.” He
paused. “And besides which,” he added, “aren’t you tired, Jude? You don’t
have to do this to yourself, you know. You don’t need to.”
He didn’t know what it was—maybe it was just the calmness of Andy’s
voice, the steadiness with which he made his promise that made him realize

that he was serious this time in a way he hadn’t been before; or maybe it
was just the realization that yes, he was tired, so tired that he was willing,
finally, to accept someone else’s orders—but over the next week, he did as
he was told. He ate his meals, even as the food transformed itself by some
strange alchemy to mud, to offal: he made himself chew and swallow, chew
and swallow. They weren’t big meals, but they were meals. Andy called

every night at midnight, and Willem called every morning at six (he
couldn’t bring himself to ask, and Willem never volunteered, whether Andy
had contacted him). The hours in between were the most difficult, and
although he couldn’t cease cutting himself entirely, he did limit it: two cuts,
and he stopped. In the absence of cutting, he felt himself being tugged
toward earlier punishments—before he had been taught to cut himself, there
was a period in which he would toss himself against the wall outside the

motel room he shared with Brother Luke again and again until he sagged,