I crept back into the house, snatching some bandages. As I started wrapping my hand I realized I didn’t know much about medicinal practices. Was I wrapping it right? Was it too loose? Too tight? Didn’t I have to do something other than just put cloth over the wounds?

I started to panic a bit.

What if it got infected? Was I going to lose my hand? I needed my hands. I couldn’t become whatever it was Bernard was training me for without them.

I felt two hot tears begin to trace themselves down my cheeks. What was I without my hands? What would I do?

I heard a sigh from the hallway behind me. I turned and saw Bernard standing there, eyebrows raised.

“What are you doin’ up so late?” He yawned.

I blinked only able to stand there awkwardly with a bundle of bandage cloth and bloody hands. “Uhm…” I started. He spotted the mess and quickly became concerned. He picked me up and set me on the kitchen table, my legs didn’t even touch the floor then. I watched as he opened and closed a few cabinets before finally finding some medical supplies. Turning back to me, Bernard set two different types of cloth down on the table along with two jars, one was clear like water and the other was a thick green poultice. He took the bloody bandages from my hands and threw them aside. Then proceeded to light some candles so he could see what he was working with.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

I watched as he took a softer piece of material and soaked it in boiled water. It stung as Bernard wiped the blood off my knuckles, but not near as bad as when I had punched that tree. He opened the jar of clear liquid and dabbed some of it onto the wet cloth.

“Alright, so this one is gonna sting like all hell. But you need it to clear away any infections, okay?” He looked up at me. I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek. And he was right. It hurt. It hurt so bad. But at least my knuckles had stopped bleeding.

Next he grabbed the green poultice, applying it to the open wounds. It stung a little bit too at first. But it seemed almost gentle compared to whatever he used before.

“Now you can wrap it.” He showed me how, directing me as I covered my hand in bandages. He taught me how to tie it, and where to leave it loose for circulation.

And then it was done. There was still blood on the floor and table, and I remembered I had left my jacket outside. The candles were almost completely melted, and the medical supplies were still out. But it was over.

We sat in silence for a moment. Bernard leaning back in his chair. Me, still sitting on the table, legs swinging back and forth as I held my bandaged hands in my lap.

“What were you doin’, ”he growled.

I looked down.

“I was practicing punches.” I mumbled.

I hear him take a deep breath. I thought he was going to yell at me. Tell me that I shouldn’t have been so stupid, like I had told myself. But then I heard an exhale, all the tightness went out of his shoulders. I looked up, and he started to laugh. It was quiet at first, just a chuckle. But now it was roaring laughter.

I started shaking, tears forming in my eyes. What was so funny?

“You-you’re just like...” He had to stop talking for a moment, waiting for his laughter to subside. Once it was over, he began again. “You’re just like me when I was your age.”

I blinked.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

Silence for a moment. I looked at Bernard, curious for the first time, as to who he was before me. He seemed to be lost in nostalgia.

“When I was your age, I always felt I wasn’t trying hard enough.” He paused. “My master- gods, he was a mean bastard- overloaded me with work. It made me feel like I wasn’t doing things right. Like I could be doing more.”

“But I-” I tried. Bernard shook his head.

“So I wound up practicing every night, and eventually got myself those same bloody knuckles.” He motioned at me.

“Did your master find out?”

“Oh yes, he did. And when he found me in the kitchen the same way I found you, he was furious.” He chuckled, and mimicked in a different voice that I can only assume was his masters: “‘Quit gettin’ blood all over my floor!’”

We laughed.

“Oddly enough, he sat me down on this same table. And taught me how to stop the bleeding. He walked me through it without touching anything himself. And when it was done he made me clean the kitchen.”

“That’s mean,” I mumbled.

“Yes, I suppose it was.” Bernard looked out the window. “I like to think that he did genuinely care. He just didn’t know how to express it. The next morning he showed me his own knuckles and told me that he had done almost the same thing when he was a boy.”