Page 380 - A Little Life: A Novel

heard that voice in his head, and he was reminded that he could, in fact,
stop. He didn’t, in fact, have to keep going.
He had considered killing himself before, of course; when he was in the

home, and in Philadelphia, and after Ana had died. But something had
always stopped him, although now, he couldn’t remember what that thing
had been. Now as he ran from the hyenas, he argued with himself: Why was
he doing this? He was so tired; he so wanted to stop. Knowing that he didn’t
have to keep going was a solace to him, somehow; it reminded him that he
had options, it reminded him that even though his subconscious wouldn’t
obey his conscious, it didn’t mean he wasn’t still in control.

Almost as an experiment, he began thinking of what it would mean for
him to leave: in January, after his most lucrative year at the firm yet, he had
updated his will, so that was in order. He would need to write a letter to
Willem, a letter to Harold, a letter to Julia; he would also want to write
something to Lucien, to Richard, to Malcolm. To Andy. To JB, forgiving
him. Then he could go. Every day, he thought about it, and thinking about it

made things easier. Thinking about it gave him fortitude.
And then, at some point, it was no longer an experiment. He couldn’t
remember how he had decided, but after he had, he felt lighter, freer, less
tormented. The hyenas were still chasing him, but now he could see, very
far in the distance, a house with an open door, and he knew that once he had
reached that house, he would be safe, and everything that pursued him
would fall away. They didn’t like it, of course—they could see the door as

well, they knew he was about to elude them—and every day the hunt got
worse, the army of things chasing him stronger and louder and more
insistent. His brain was vomiting memories, they were flooding everything
else—he thought of people and sensations and incidents he hadn’t thought
of in years. Tastes appeared on his tongue as if by alchemy; he smelled
fragrances he hadn’t smelled in decades. His system was compromised; he

would drown in his memories; he had to do something. He had tried—all
his life, he had tried. He had tried to be someone different, he had tried to
be someone better, he had tried to make himself clean. But it hadn’t
worked. Once he had decided, he was fascinated by his own hopefulness,
by how he could have saved himself years of sorrow by just ending it—he
could have been his own savior. No law said he had to keep on living; his
life was still his own to do with what he pleased. How had he not realized