It is the summer of my crucifixion. I try so hard to be pure; I take two baths a day. At least underwater, I can hear my heart beat. The skin on my back dries. Cracks. I make the noise of splitting wood when I walk and my scent is of something crumbling. I scratch with a knife the word NO a hundred million times on the back of all the mirrors in our house, so my mother sees that I say NO to her, so my mother sees that I say NO to my father, so my mother sees that I say NO to the world, and to the acts unforgivable. I walk out to the road that leads to Edzo and Yellowknife. I stand daringly close. I wave to the truckers who blare their horns. I am still a child and comfortable waving to strangers. I see a therapist who asks me to draw how I see myself. I hand in a picture of a forest. He looks closely, says there is no one. I say, “Look, there. I am already buried.” There is NO a hundred million times on every rock, tree and leaf... Them “Firefighters Find Rae Man in Burning House, Fort Rae, N.W.T.”
