By the time I was around five, Bernard was already teaching me how to hold an ax. He had spent a good amount of time making a wooden one that was my size. Everyday I would stand outside and hold my miniature, toy ax. Raising it above my head, breathing in. I would hold that position for a moment, as Bernard instructed me on better posture. Shoulders back and loose, feet apart, chest out. Then I exhaled, bringing it down with full force. As I got older, I learned to let the blade do the work. It would build up its own momentum, so I barely had to use mine.

On my seventh birthday, Bernard told me to punch him. I remember the confusion I felt.

“Why?”

“Because I told you to,” was his terse reply.

So I had stood up from the table, pushing my meal aside. I stopped before my foster father, looking up and wondering why he asked this of me. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I won’t even defend myself, go ahead.” So I raised my right fist and punched him straight in the thigh.

I don’t know what I had been expecting. Maybe more of a reaction at the force behind the attack. But Bernard had just stood there, not even a sigh. To be fair, I was a little girl trying to fight a seven foot beast of a man, who had to duck his head when going through his own doorway.

Bernard nodded to himself.

“Try again.”

“Why?” I grumbled, discontent at the previous punches outcome.

“Try again.” He repeated.

In the end, I couldn’t inflict any damage on him. And for the next few days, he didn’t ask me to hit him, he didn’t say much at all. I was worried I had disappointed him somehow. Every time Bernard walked out of the room in silence, my guts felt like they were scrambling themselves. Did I mess up? Was I already failing whatever job I was supposed to inherit?

So for the next few nights, I waited till I heard my dad snoring. I sneaked outside, avoiding the parts of the floor that creaked. Silently, I closed the door behind me. A slight breeze ruffled my hair, making me shiver. Hugging my jacket close, I walked over to the wood pile. My toy ax leaned on the tree stump, beside it was a large pile of wood. Most of it was chopped by Bernard, but there was a small portion that I had done myself. At the time, I took great pride in my little pile of chopped firewood.

I took my jacket off, laying it across the stump. Taking a deep breath, I spread my feet to shoulder width. Raising my arms, I made two fists out of my small child's hands. I squinted, pretending that Bernard was standing in front of me. I struck at the air once, twice, three times. After a few minutes, my blood was pumping and I was warmed up.

Turning to a nearby tree, I punched it and immediately regretted that decision. It’s rough bark cut into my skin, bruising my knuckles. The sensation sent waves of sharp pain up to my elbow.

“Agh.” I held my hand to my chest, doing my best not to start crying. I looked over at our house, hoping I hadn’t woken Bernard up. I breathed out a sigh of relief. No sign of movement from his room.

“Maybe I should’ve wrapped my hands before hitting the tree,” I whispered to myself. “Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”