As I lie here, blood dripping down my chest, I wonder if we will be remembered. Enjolras for his bravery, Jean Prouvaire, his sensitivity, Combeferre, his deep philosophy. Or will we be forgotten, like so many seasons past? Will I myself, Lucas Courfeyrac, be remembered by the ones I love, few though they are. I wonder, will my brother spare a thought for me, after three years of stubborn silence.

As I lie here, rain on my face and cobbles at my back, I think of how we have all changed, some for the better, some for the worse. I have not seen any one of us laugh since we took to the streets. And we shall never laugh again.

As I lie here, pain pulsing through my body, I think of how many of us would have been great lawyers, doctors, husbands, fathers, and instead will spend eternity rotting in a gutter, barely men. Do they know that? Do they know that they have killed a group of young boys, guilty for nothing more than wanting a better France? Do they have our blood on our conscience, or were we simply a nuisance, needing to be taken care of?

As I lie here, and breathe my last breath, I wonder if it was worth it. Have we made a difference? Or have we died for nothing? Will there still be hungry children, freezing to death on the streets? Did we die for a cause, or was it simply mindless slaughter?

As I lie here, and feel the pain leave me forever, I wish I could say goodbye to my mother, the only person who ever believed in me. I wish I could tell her I loved her.

As I lie here, I feel my life leave me...

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