The shrill, relieving cry of a newborn babe echoed in a tiny, rundown shack that belonged to the young couple within its crumbling walls.
The young man, no older than eighteen, held the bloodied bundle in his arms, salty tears mixed with equally salty perspiration from the stress of watching the love of his life endure such pain. And now he had to watch her struggle to stay awake.
"C'mon Sharon," the Irishman begged his wife, taking her hand in his and squeezing, willing her to live. But, alas, she did not have the strength to give him the hope he desired as she stared at him with blurred vision. A solid minute passed before she had managed to gather the strength to speak.
"Keith, y-ye need to w-watch over our daughter for me," she whispered hoarsely, tears dripping from the corners over her silvery gray eyes, the color dark with sadness.
"No, don't leave me. Us." Keith exclaimed, startling their daughter into a glass shattering scream. His tears began to spill all over again as he realized what his wife had meant.
"Do not abandon her like our families did to us," she rasped, her breath coming out as a wheeze as the air in her lungs began to leave her, leaving her struggling for oxygen.
She died only moments after.
Keith looked down at his daughter, her eyes barely open as she peered up at him, his little flower. That thought alone made him think of Sharon's favorite flower, the Stinking Iris, a dull violet flower with a gray brown middle. He never understood the beauty of the flower until now, when he looked down at his daughter.
"My little Iris," he breathed, smoothing his thumb over her cheek, wiping away blood and gunk. "As long as I live, ye will want for nothin'."