It could have been an accident, the first time. Wood is treacherous; axes are sharp. The blade slips... it could have been accidental. But not the second time. Or the one after that. Each time, I crawled home and healed my wounds. Each time, I replaced another piece of myself with cold metal.
Metal is hard. Metal does not bend.
Metal does not bleed.
The original me is almost gone, every part replaced. I have only one small piece of flesh remaining, somewhere deep inside, pulsing arrythmically. I heft my axe with my metal hand.
It could be an accident.