I was 14. I spent that summer learning to smoke drugs, to give hand jobs, to drink wine: I even stole a copy of Blonde on Blonde from a record fair. I cultivated eating disorders.

Every day I would remember his name, remember his fingers in my cunt, remember his rank, pale cock pulsing in my fist. Time passed, I reassured myself that eventually I would not think of him every day. I tried to calculate how long it might be before I completely forgot. Four or five years maybe.

Angry and ashamed, I decided to slash open my wrists and let my blood spit hatred all over the bathroom. I took a disposable razor and I smashed at the plastic with anything that came to hand. The blade came free, so bent and blunt it wouldn’t cut, only tear. I was exhausted, I went to bed. I didn’t try to cut myself again for six years.

I rooted through the knife drawer. Where was the small, serrated Kitchen Devil? Dirty, in the dishwasher. I pressed a carving knife against my forearm. The metal, cool against my skin, was not sharp enough to draw blood, but hard and cold enough to clear my head. I knew what to do. I locked myself in the bathroom and smashed the razor’s plastic casing against the floor with a rolling pin. The blade slipped out, small and perfect. A tremor of anticipation ran down my arm as I reached out to pick it up, shaving a little skin from my fingertips in the process.

I sat up against the bath, my legs stretched out in front of me. I held my right wrist up for inspection. I felt momentarily sorry for my unblemished, blameless arm. I felt almost nothing as I laid my arm across my thighs and made the first, tentative, scratches. I experimented with direction, duration, pressure.

I watched the narrow white filaments gain definition as red lines spread. This bright-coloured magic of physical absolutes made me think of litmus paper and pregnancy tests... my thoughts drifted freely until I become aware of a stinging sensation in my arm. I rinse the blood away with cold water. Twenty three fine lines radiated out from a mid-point two inches below the heel of my hand. A gold sunburst behind a Bernini angel. The marks on a clockface. By now calm and relaxed, I put the blade away in my wallet.