*
It ends like this: your son will not know your name. But it did not begin like this.

Well, that is not entirely true.

There is a certain similarity in the beginning and ending of your life. You begin in blood, pain and destruction, marking the start of something new and you end it the same; you are surrounded by blood, fire and destruction as you die and you give your last breathes to ensure the start of something new.

The happiest you ever were was in the middle of your not so very long life (you are dying, screaming and you are only twenty-two). Its a bit funny, that you were so happy then, because you were fighting a war in the name of your new home and pretty much everyone around you was dying (everyone around you is always dying) but you were still so very happy.

His kisses tasted like sunshine.

(Well, not really. But that was always what you thought they tasted like)

You would have liked to have known your son, to have been able to convey the joy he and his father brought you but you will never do so.

And oh how that hurts, makes you ache somewhere deep inside you (though that ache could just be because you are bleeding to death in a hospital bed).

You scream as your son enters the world and you begin to leave it, not wholly because of the pain, but also as rage against this. This leaving. This dying.

As you die, you can only hope that someone eventually remembers to tell your son your name.