Page 407 - A Little Life: A Novel

had run a very long race and then had vomited, and he had been able to
return to the room.
Eventually, however, Brother Luke realized what he was doing, and there

had been another talk. “I understand you get frustrated,” Brother Luke said,
“but Jude, what you’re doing isn’t good for you. I’m worried about you.
And the clients don’t like seeing you all bruised.” They were silent. A
month ago, after a very bad night—there had been a group of men, and after
they had left, he had sobbed, wailed, coming as close to a tantrum as he had
in years, while Luke sat next to him and rubbed his sore stomach and held a
pillow over his mouth to muffle the sound—he had begged Luke to let him

stop. And the brother had cried and said he would, that there was nothing
more he’d like than for it to be just the two of them, but he had long ago
spent all his money taking care of him. “I don’t regret it for an instant,
Jude,” said the brother, “but we don’t have any money now. You’re all I’ve
got. I’m so sorry. But I’m really saving now; eventually, you’ll be able to
stop, I promise.”

“When?” he had sobbed.
“Soon,” said Luke, “soon. A year. I promise,” and he had nodded,
although he had long since learned that the brother’s promises were
meaningless.
But then the brother said that he would teach him a secret, something that
would help him relieve his frustrations, and the next day he had taught him
to cut himself, and had given him a bag already packed with razors and

alcohol wipes and cotton and bandages. “You’ll have to experiment to see
what feels best,” the brother had said, and had shown him how to clean and
bandage the cut once he had finished. “So this is yours,” he said, giving him
the bag. “You let me know when you need more supplies, and I’ll get them
for you.” He had at first missed the theatrics, the force and weight, of his
falls and his slams, but he soon grew to appreciate the secrecy, the control

of the cuts. Brother Luke was right: the cutting was better. When he did it, it
was as if he was draining away the poison, the filth, the rage inside him. It
was as if his old dream of leeches had come to life and had the same effect,
the effect he had always hoped it would. He wished he was made of metal,
of plastic: something that could be hosed down and scrubbed clean. He had
a vision of himself being pumped full of water and detergent and bleach and
then blasted dry, everything inside him made hygienic again. Now, after the

final client of the night had left, he took Brother Luke’s place in the