Justin had been cutting himself when he moved in with me. He stopped after he moved in. For a month. And then he started again. I didn't want to take it as an insult to my abilities as a host, but it was difficult not to.

Later, Justin admitted that he had cut himself before. He had started when he was thirteen, the week after he first kissed another boy. He hadn't been addicted to it then. He picked it up, put it down. It was a casual affair. When he was fifteen he became more dependent. And then he quit. Cold turkey. He told me that it wasn't difficult. After three months, he felt like he had recovered. Put it past him. Moved on. A year after he quit, he started to miss it. Really fucking miss it. Like heroin addict miss. He bought some X-Acto knife blades from this art store. Kept them in a shoe box in his closet, with his lube and porn. All secrets are equal. But he was too scared to use them. For months, those blades sat underneath a copy of Buns and Ammo, untouched.

Justin told me that one day, he brought the box down, sliced up some old scar tissue, jerked off, and then had a shower, did his homework and went to bed. He skipped dinner. Told Jennifer he felt sick.

After that 'one day', he started to use creams and lotions and paints to make the scars disappear. It worked well. He spoke with a girl at school, and she told him that, since his skin was so fair, it would be harder, but he managed. Healed up well enough so that, when I met him, I didn't notice. I never noticed. Not until he started again.

Justin told me that, with all that shit going on around him and inside him, it was nice to escape. He felt like he was above it all. Freer than air.

At the same time, he felt in control. If that makes sense.

Of course, at the time, not a word was exchanged, except for a few disagreements and some half-assed expressions of concern on my part.

I noticed the scars the night we tried to have sex. Violent, desperate lines that crawled up his wrists and around his forearm to his elbow. I didn't say a word. I mentioned it to my therapist-friend, and he said it was important that Justin expressed himself, but I should try and direct him to more healthier avenues. Enter, sex.

Sex distracted him for a bit. Not long, though.

When he started up again, this time, on the back of his calf, as if I wouldn't notice, I asked him about them.

"You do those to yourself?"

"No."

"Then, what happened?"

"It was an accident. Happened ages ago."

"Liar."

"Fuck off, Brian."

I had to find a means to pressure answers from him, because I wouldn't be able to do it the conventional way with questions. It didn't help that he started to cover himself up, too. He wouldn't let me see what he had done to himself. He knew that I was looking. And then, he became . . . audacious.

He started to burn his stomach, his hips; he cut along his collarbone. It was as if he wanted to shove it in my face - look what I can do to myself.

"You think I don't know what this is?"

"What are you going to do about it?"

What was I going to do about it? Fuck.

Hide all the sharp objects. Hide all the scissors. Letter openers. Nail files. Lighters. Knives. Forks. Fucking spoons. Everything that could be used, or had been used, by him.

Of course, my brilliant boyfriend worked around the sudden loss of commonplace items. Creative fucker.

He broke mirrors, using the lightning-bolt shaped pieces to create jagged lines across his thighs. He stole bottle tops, and scraped them across the back of his hand to pull the skin up. He turned on the cooker, and held his forearm above the open flame until the skin blistered and boiled. He banged his wrist against the edges of counters and tables until bruises formed in straight lines. He stuck pins into his fingers. He threw himself into walls. He re-opened the skin on his older wounds. He pulled his hair. Chewed his lips. Scratched himself.

As Jennifer had said, if he wanted something, he would get it.

I don't think he was suicidal. He always stopped before he reached that point from which there was no return. He was dancing with death. Teasing it. Taunting it. Arousing it. And he was starting to feel invincible, forgetting his boundaries and pushing further than he should.

I came home at breaks, at lunch, to check that he was still alive. That probably hurt me the most - the realisation that I could open that door, and he would be dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Despite the fact that he had fought for life for months, he could be dead due his own pain management.

And would it be my fault?

I knew what he was doing.

Could I be blamed that I didn't stop him?

And then Daphne called me.

"Brian, I . . . I promised that I wouldn't say anything to anyone, but you must know. You see each-other naked all the time, right? You must know. About it. Right?"

"I know."

"I hate being alone with it. The thing. I wanted to talk to someone, but who the fuck would I talk to? Do you get that?"

I swallowed. "Yeah."

"God, Brian . . . I don't know what to do."

"Neither do I."

"Should we talk to him?"

"About what, Daphne? We can't make him stop. He's proved that."

"I asked him if he would stop. He said he would, but I don't think he will."

"He won't."

"Yeah . . . Maybe we could encourage him to see a therapist."

"We can try."

Daphne came to the loft the next afternoon, and we waited for Justin to come home from physio. He walked in, smiled and started to chat to us about some inconsequential shit.

"Justin." Daphne interrupted him. I was worried that she would cry, but she was always stronger than that. Always. "Justin. We need to talk."

"'bout what?" He spoke with a cookie in his mouth.

"About your self harm."

"What?" Justin looked stunned. "I'm not doing that. I never did that. Never."

"Bullshit," I murmured.

"Justin, Brian and I are concerned-"

"I'm not doing anything!"

"Justin, I fucking saw you today in the fucking shower! I know! Don't be in fucking denial." Justin looked like I'd slapped him.

"I don't want to talk about this," Justin said.

"Fuck what you want," I rounded on him. "You need to stop this shit, right now. I'll tell everyone, we'll put you in therapy, get you medicated and that will be the end of everything." Thinking back, I could have handled it better. But I was at breaking point. I had lost control of my emotions as much as he had.

"Might as well jump out the window then," Justin replied, in the cool and detached manner he had adopted in recent months. "That will be the end of everything."

I slapped him then. Daphne gasped, but didn't move. Justin met my stare, blinked once, and then left the loft.

Daphne breathed. "Oh, fuck. Brian . . . Why'd you do that?"

I didn't know. Still don't know. I remember how he had snapped underneath my hand. The kid was made of glass. I don't know how he survived with all those scars.

Daphne went out and brought Justin back. He wouldn't look at me. She pushed him to the couch, sat him down and then started talking to him in a soft voice I couldn't hear. I came over after a while.

" . . . Brian and I would like to understand, if you'd let us."

I sat down opposite him, and looked at him. His eyes came to meet mine. I felt that old connection. I smiled at him. He smiled back.

"Brian and I are here for you. Why not talk to us?"

Later that night, Justin did talk to me.

"When you talk to me about it, I feel . . . Bad. I feel like your expectation of me is of this cutter. This useless, useless person. Like all you expect from me is scars. And so I feel like I should live up to that expectation, if that's all I have left to live up to."

I held his hand. "No."

He shook his head. "I also think that my blaming you, saying that it's your expectations that push me, is a poor excuse. Even if I had never told you, it would be the exact same."

He looked at me then. "I don't know why I do it. I just do." His hand curled underneath mine. "If I did, I'd tell you. I promise. I think about it all the time, you know. It just circles around my brain . . ." His finger made circles in my palm. " . . . It's always there."

"I worry about you. All the time," I whispered to him. Like it was a secret.

"I wish you wouldn't," he replied. "I know how to look after myself."

"I wish you'd stop," I told him. He smiled. I guess it was a joke to him. "Will you at least try?"

I don't know if he did try. Not like a normal person. I know that he didn't harm himself for three days, and then, one afternoon, he came home and severed some artery in his leg. He passed out in the bathroom.

I took him to hospital. I don't know how he felt about it, but I was about ready to murder him. But my murderous desires were soon redirected to some cunt nurse.

I took him in, and when they started to remove his clothes they saw the scars and it was like they were repulsed. Medical professionals at an emergency room repulsed by some scars. Fucking cunts.

They were slow. Unresponsive. They left him there. I asked why no-one had treated his wound, and some bitch told me they had a different procedure for his 'case'. I asked what the fuck she meant.

"What the fuck do you mean? His case?"

"He's a self-injurer. His wounds exist because of his own doing, and so we have to deal with him in a more responsible and considerate manner."

"And that won't fucking matter when he's died from fucking blood loss."

"Please, sir. Don't become irritated. This young man must have understood the consequences of his behaviour."

"And you must understand the consequences of your behaviour, you dumb cunt. I'll fucking sue you if you don't treat him."

It was one of the few times I defended Justin on his 'self-injury'.

The cunt nurse moved a bit faster. Patched him up. Administered him medication so that he would regain consciousness. Found some blood for him. The cunt nurse frowned as she attached the blood to him.

"Problem, nurse?"

"This blood was intended for those who have endured operations, vehicular collisions and so on."

"Your point being?"

She shook her head. "No point."

I knew her fucking point.

I decided to make a complaint. I kissed Justin on his head, and told him I'd be back in a minute. He was barely conscious. The minute he was, he was in for a rough fucking time.

I found the nurses station, and approached cunt nurse number two.

"I want to make a complaint against one of your staff."

"And why is that, sir?"

"She has refused to treat my partner with the appropriate amount of professional sympathy, or even respect."

"Is your partner the cutter?"

"Excuse me?"

"Pardon me. Is your partner the young man in cubicle four?"

"Yes."

"I must apologise. Our hospital admissions rarely deal with such incidents. Most of our nurses have no experience with your partner's condition. It can be quite off-putting, as well. Don't you agree?"

"Who's your fucking supervisor?"

Justin is on my medical health plan now. Private and professional and non-cunty. Justin doesn't even remember that night. He was too out of it. But I do. And I'll make sure that it never happens again.

That night, I took him home and tucked him into bed. He was half-awake, half-sleep.

"I need you to stop this."

"M'kay."

I think what happened shocked him, too. Surprised him. He hadn't realised what he was capable of. And so he did stop.

For ten months, he stopped.

Seeing Chris Hobbs at the hospice startled him, and thrust him into that deep, dark corner. He used a kitchen knife to cut inner arm, and afterwards he felt awful. Hideous. He wouldn't let me touch him.

"Justin, I promise that I won't be mad with you."

That relaxed him. He uncurled himself and offered me his arm. I dealt with the cuts. They were shallow, but they were there. He had done it. It hurt me to see it. But I was glad that he was allowing me to help him with it. Allowing me to see it. Allowing me in.

I washed and cleaned the cuts, and then wrapped a bandage around them. He was tired afterwards, and so we took a nap.

A week later, he cut his ankle. But he didn't tell me about it. He wore socks around the loft - told me that it was cold. I shouldn't have been so trusting.

It took me four days to find them. We were in the shower, and I dropped the soap, bent down to retrieve it and saw them. Justin was laughing, and running his fingers through my hair, but he stopped when he felt me become . . . cold.

"Justin, what the fuck?"

"It was an accident."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Brian, I mean it."

"Justin, we can't do this. You can't do this."

"Brian, I . . . I am trying."

"Like fuck you are."

I ran out the shower, got dressed and went to some bar on the other side of town so that he would not find me. He called my cell a hundred and one times. I listened to all of his messages.

"Brian. Listen, I'm sorry. I should have told you. I know I should have told you. Listen, we need to talk. I need to talk. Please call me. Please."

"Brian. I'm sorry."

"Brian. Please call me."

No-matter how many times he repeated the same words, I never lost interest. Never. I wondered if Michael found the same depth in Zen Ben's words.

I should have went home. But I didn't.

I got drunk. Then, when the bar closed, I took a walk. I wandered around - the poster of public drunkeness.

I pissed in a children's park.

I vomited beside a bus shelter.

I slept in an alley.

When I woke up, I went home.

Justin was in the kitchen.

Looking back, I could've been more conscious.

He could have killed himself.

I wasn't there to protect him.

But fortune had smiled upon me, and he was in the kitchen. Just sitting there.

I wandered in. Hungover.

Justin let me shower and change and get some coffee. He even fed me some toast. Then, we sat down together and we talked like grown-ups.

We invented new rules.

Like our rules on fucking other guys, Justin came up with most of them. But I did come up with one controversial one.

Justin is allowed to hurt himself.

Justin looked horrified when I said it.

"You're allowed to hurt yourself."

". . . Really?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"But-"

"Justin, I can't stop you. I won't stop you. You know what you need. And if I can help, I will. But sometimes I can't. I just have to trust you. Can I?"

"Yes."

So, that was Rule Number One.

Justin is allowed to hurt himself.

But, there were conditions to that rule.

Justin is allowed to hurt himself, provided that - 1) He informs Brian within the hour. 2) He allows Brian to handle the incident as Brian feels is appropriate. 3) He does not use any tools or materials that Brian has not approved of previously. 4) If he is able to, he contacts Brian, or another acceptable contact, prior to the event.

Justin and I discussed people he could call. Hotlines. Friends. Justin told me that he didn't want to talk to Daphne. He loved her too much. We found a list of telephone numbers, and programmed them all into his phone on speed dial.

We then discussed tools and materials. I told him that I wouldn't have him use unclean metal or glass. He could acquire an infection. I also did not want him to burn himself anymore, but I would accept candles and ice burn. He was not to heat metal, under any circumstances.

"Not after what you did with the iron," I told him. He nodded.

I told him that he wasn't allowed to throw himself into walls or down stairs. He could punch the walls. I also approved of wrist-banging, hair-pulling and scratching. I would accept cutting, but not near the main veins or arteries - wrist, neck, chest, groin, etc. If he had to do any of the things that I had disapproved of, he had to speak with me first.

5) Any unapproved techniques, tools or materials must first be discussed with Brian.

The second rule was simple.

Justin must inform Brian when he feels he has lost control.

As was the third.

Justin must inform Brian when he feels suicidal.

The condition to his breaking any of the rules was that a therapist would be contacted. If three rules were broken within the same year, he would be hospitalised.

Like all our other rules, these were simple with simple consequences.

I know Justin was not entirely pleased with them, but he accepted them, which was all I needed.

And, provided that he could remain clean for more than a year, we could explore his options - laser treatments and surgeries to remove the scars. If that was what he wanted, which he told me he did.

In exchange, I would never be angry with him.

I would never judge him.

I would never tell anyone else without his permission.

And I will always look after him, even when he tells me not to.

We might as well be married.

There have been fuck-ups. On both of our parts. Justin doesn't call me. Justin sometimes gets desperate and uses weird shit. I shout at him.

But we survive.

Because, otherwise, that might as well be the end of everything.

"Everything is a self-portrait."

- Chuck Palahniuk