Tin

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.