Free The Smaller Evil by Stephanie Kuehn Page A

like watching the tide roll out from the beach to expose the glittering life below, but it was what
didn’t
come into view that made Arman’s heart stutter. He didn’t see any of the other groups. There were no bobbing lights in the distance. No Kira. No Dale. Worse, he didn’t even recognize where he was, didn’t remember passing through this grove of eucalyptus trees or walking along the edge of this fog-filled ravine.
    Arman wiped his nose with his sleeve. Glanced back at the people surrounding him. Their wall of watchful eyes and flickering candles felt less like protection and more like he was about to be burned at the stake.
    â€œFine,” he said flatly. “I made myself bleed. Is that what you want to know? It’s something I do when I get stressed. I can’t help it.”
    â€œWhy are you stressed?” Beau asked.
    â€œBecause of
this
 . . . what we’re doing right now. I don’t want to bare my soul to strangers. That’s a shitty thing to have to do. For me, at least. That’s not why I’m here.”
    â€œThen why are you here?”
    â€œYou don’t know?”
    â€œHow can I know unless you tell me?”
    Arman made a gasping sound. He clawed at his throat, digging his nails as deep as they would go. “I’m here to make you proud of me!”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œYes!”
    There was another beat of silence. Then: “Sit down, Arman.”
    He shook his head. “No. I want to go back. I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this.”
    â€œSit,” Beau commanded.
    So he sat. Right in the damn dirt.
    Beau leaned forward. Took both of Arman’s hands in his. The kerosene lantern burned bright between them, and Beau held on to him for what seemed like forever.
    He held.
    And held.
    And held.
    â€œI can feel your pain,” Beau said at last. “It’s hot. Like a fever. Your sickness runs deep, son. No wonder you’re willing to spill your own blood to get rid of it.”
    Arman stared at the ground. “Whatever.”
    â€œDo you understand that I want to help you?”
    â€œYeah. I guess.”
    â€œThen you have to trust me.”
    â€œI
do
. It’s just—”
    â€œAnd you have to help me in return.”
    â€œBut how can I do that? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know anything!”
    â€œStand with me.” Beau got to his feet. Arman got up with him but staggered, woozy, as spots flashed before his eyes.
    â€œI’m fine,” he said, but Beau grabbed on to him. Held him steady. Then he pushed Arman’s shirtsleeves up. Exposed his bleeding wound and all the scars of wounds long past.
    â€œYou have to stop hurting yourself,” Beau said softly.
    â€œI
know
.”
    â€œI mean it. You’ve been taught to turn your pain inward. But that’s wrong. It’s sick. Do you understand me?”
    Arman nodded. “I . . . I think so.”
    â€œ
No!
” Beau hissed. “That’s your whole damn problem,
thinking
. Ever since the day we met, you’ve told me what you
think
about things. But you don’t
feel
and you don’t
do
. Not in any meaningful way. Feeling and doing, they’re more important than the thoughts inside your head. They’re our primary channels to health. To
immunity
.”
    â€œHuh?” Arman shivered. He couldn’t even pretend to comprehend what was going on.
    Beau sighed. “Do you take care of yourself by thinking about exercising? Or by actually exercising?”
    â€œActually exercising.”
    â€œAnd does thinking about, say, sex keep you from wanting it? Or do you find you’re driven to satisfy your desires in more physical ways?”
    At this, a great roar of laughter rose up behind him, and Arman longed to melt. Or evaporate. Did everyone know about him and the cook? That’s what it felt like. But he managed to answer,