It happened just as I was pulling left onto Sycamore Drive. It’s an odd junction; the planters between the two lanes make for very poor visibility. I probably could have been paying more attention myself so I don’t blame you. I don’t even know your name, and I never will now. Strange to think I will never know the name of the person who killed me. I say it’s strange, do many people know the names of their killer? All those boys who have laid down their lives for their country, their beliefs, they lived and died in anonymity. They don’t know who killed them, and we don’t know them. Oh we know of them, and we know of the things they have done but that’s all. All they are now is a row of blank crosses, a poppy in November and forgotten by most for the rest of year.
As I was saying, it happened as I was turning left onto Sycamore Drive. I remember light, blinding light, although it could have been the pain that was blinding, as short lived as it was. Then there was nothing. I tried to look down at my hands, my arms, and my body but there was nothing. There was no tunnel of light, no ascension to above, and no chorus of angels lamenting my demise. Just the vast expanse of nothing.
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