Free The Smaller Evil by Stephanie Kuehn Page B

“I . . . satisfy my desires.”
    â€œI would hope so,” Beau said smoothly. “So when I say that you need to express your pain externally, what is it that you need to do?”
    â€œI need to do it.”
    â€œThat’s right.” A look of approval crossed Beau’s face, and seeing this calmed Arman. It reassured him that he was saying the right things and doing what was expected of him. It also gave him hope this ordeal would soon be over. He watched eagerly as Beau rolled his own shirtsleevesup, exposing the smooth skin of his forearms. Then Beau pulled something from the side pocket of his pants. He worked hard to pry whatever it was open before dropping it right in the center of Arman’s palm.
    Gasps came from the surrounding circle, and Arman stared, disbelieving. It was a knife. Beau had given him a pocketknife. A strange-looking one, with a rosewood handle and an ornate type of blade Arman had never seen before. Rather than a solid steel color, this blade was a dramatic mix of light and dark, of everything in between. Streaks of grays and blacks covered the entire surface—a gleaming feat of metallurgy that worked to form a distinctive pattern of whorls and loops. Like a fingerprint.
    â€œMy grandfather made it,” Beau said. “It’s a Damascus. Truly one of a kind.”
    Arman said nothing. He just kept staring at the blade.
    Then he looked at Beau’s outstretched, unscarred arms. Like an offering.
    A sacrifice.
    For
him
.
    â€œWait a minute,” Arman said slowly, shaking his head. “No. No, I won’t do that. Of course not. I won’t hurt you.”
    â€œYes, you will. You’ll do it now. Go on.”
    Arman swallowed hard. His trembling hand closed around the knife’s hilt. It was heavier than he’d realized, and it was nothing for him to let the weight of the decorative blade tip down to rest against Beau’s soft wrist. He glanced up.
    â€œI can’t do this,” he said.
    â€œYou can. You will.”
    Arman nodded. Held his breath. Then he began pressing down onthe blade. Slowly. Very slowly. Until
pop!
The skin gave. A dot of red appeared. The smallest mark. He quickly looked at Beau again. He wanted approval. He wanted to be told to stop.
    â€œDeeper.” Beau fixed his calm river-pebble gaze on him. “As deep as you can go. To the
bone
.”
    â€œWhat?” Arman yanked his hand back. “No!”
    â€œYou said you wanted to heal.”
    â€œYeah, but not like this
.
This isn’t healing. It’s gross.”
    â€œAre you sure, Arman? Or is that just what you think?”
    Was this really happening? “I’m sure I think it’s
true
.”
    Beau bent forward then, lowering his voice to a whisper, making it a moment just between them. “Maybe the truth is that you don’t know what healing looks like. Maybe nothing you know is as it seems.”
    â€œAnd why would that be?”
    â€œBecause you’re
here
. Because you can’t see the truth from where you’re standing. Because you’re like a dog chasing a squirrel as it runs around a tree. You don’t realize you could catch the damn thing if you just stood still.”
    Thick and heavy, Arman’s nausea had returned to roost. “So what? I’m just supposed to do something I don’t want to do because you think I should?”
    â€œ
Alia tentanda via est
. That’s our motto here.”
    â€œI don’t even know what that
means
!”
    â€œIt means ‘another way must be tried.’”
    Of course it did. And of course Arman understood. This was the moment he was meant to crack. This was the moment that he was meant to see the error of his ways and demonstrate that his disgust and self-loathing were far better off directed at the people in his life who’d actually caused him pain.
    The thing was Arman
didn’t
see it that way. The truth of who he was and why