The day I took my first step, my father did not smile. He did not congratulate me. He did not take a picture and tell me how proud he was. No. When he saw me walk, my father gave me a sword. Then he slapped me with the back of his hand. And I fell to the ground. It is my first memory. The shock of it. Blood in my mouth. On my tongue. Bitter wet. I wiped my lip. I looked up at the demon. “Fight,” he said. “Or die.” And so I fought. Every minute. Every day. Sometimes I won. Sometimes I died.