The Real Me

He stares at me wildly, a massive smile stretched across his muddy face. I stumble backwards, hands in front of me, ready to push him away. Why me, I think groggily, why can’t you try and kill someone else? I grunt as I get my skirt caught on a twig, of course the one time I wear a skirt everything goes upside down. I tug desperately at the hem, not wanting the man to get any closer to me than he already is. It’s not budging, I am going to need to walk towards his to get it unhooked. I take a step and boom I’m free, but the man’s hand grips onto my arm, tighter and tighter. It hurts, I automatically retaliate. I spin around and punch upwards, I knee him in the balls, I hit him again and again. A wave of shock covers his face, I bang his head again a rock and he freezes and goes limp. He’s dead, I killed him. All I could think was, ‘Father would be proud.’

I remember my father’s words and lessons. Living the way, I live, we all have to take precautions. I started my training when I was 3, it was small things, mostly how to fight. As I got older, my father started to teach me more and more skills like how to shoot and survive in the wild. I learnt how to find my way, how to get food, how to fight better, how to disguise myself. By the age of twelve, I could fight multiple fully-grown men, I could shoot guns and bows with 100% accuracy, I could throw knife and spears so fast and strong I could impale a moving target. I wasn’t like any other kid. Sometimes that was a bad thing. I’ve always had a short temper so with these skills and that trait I would snap, A LOT, boy or girl, I would fight them… and win easily.