Okay so this is the first time i've submitted a story onto this site, and I got the idea because i'm a bit of a cold war history nut at the moment and the threat of nuclear war is something that both disturbs and fascinates me. I'm also a How To Train Your Dragon nut...

Dad,

You always used to tell me a story about how I got my nickname. You told me about how we all went out to watch a pantomime one Christmas together; I remember mum loved the theatre, the excitement and warmth of it all. I had gotten far too excited and warm, and I had hiccups all the way through the production, to the point where the has-been soap actor who was throwing sweets at the children took notice. "Feelin' alright there, Hiccup?" he had beamed, and I gave him a shy, crooked smile, a little surprised and forlorn over the attention I was getting. I remember you burying your head in your hands, embarrassed, but mum giggled hysterically, swooning over the man on the stage and smiling affectionately at the scruffy scrap of a son I was. That was the best Christmas; we were the textbook family, unwrapping presents by the tree and sharing selection boxes and mince pies. You had stashed crates of beer in our pantry, and throughout the course of the day I remember you getting more and more merry, eventually picking me up, laughing excitedly and swinging me round, our living room with our garishly decorated tree and suede sofa blurring into one and feeling as though I was flying through the sky.

I fell asleep on the sofa in your arms, the soft dragon mum had made me held against my chest, and a new name for myself.

I was that excitable kid at school, always getting into trouble, and it drove you mad. I wasn't into sports or athletics like you were, but I had my own niche; I liked to make things, and I was the kid that designed all of the sets in the school musicals and all of the displays for the parent evenings. You and mum bickered more and more the older I got, but you held it together when it was appropriate, and Christmas was always magic. Even when mum told me she was ill, she kept a smile, like nothing was ever going to change. But I never stopped noticing how sick she was in the mornings, and i'd wake up in the night as she was vomiting, holding myself close to the blankets and blocking everything out.

Then one morning I woke up and came downstairs as usual, but mum wasn't there. There was just you sitting at the table, looking straight ahead. It took you a few seconds to acknowledge my existence, but when you did, you shot me a weak smile and a weary expression. You told me how mum had gotten very sick and had to be taken to hospital, and I had taken to the news as solemnly as I was stirring the bowl of cereal before me, not wanting to eat in case I would catch what she had too. I realize she didn't have something that could be "caught", but a child's understanding of illness only goes so far; a child understands that someone would go to the hospital and the doctors and nurses would make them better, and that that was the end.

You told me to go to school, to keep things as normal as possible. We had art and design that day so I modeled something for her, as a get-well present. I was going to make the most magnificent, beautiful dragon, like the one I had but brought more to life. I was careful with how finely i'd carved the body, engraving at it's wings, horns and tails and finally painting it shimmering blue, with fierce green eyes. I stayed behind during break to finish it, Mrs Robbins eyeing me curiously; it was unusual for me to pay attention to something for such an extended period of time. She let me rest the dragon on her desk for the day so it would dry, and when the bell rang she put in one of those old shoe-boxes we used to send away for charity. You were outside waiting, and you were probably bemused at my high spirits. We drove to the hospital in silence, and my good mood was shattered the minute we had stepped inside. Cold, clinical, and dismissive, and all I wanted was mum. You held my hand as we stood in the empty lift, and the journey up seemed to be endless, as though we were going to escape into the roof.

I remember seeing mum in her bed, but I only just noticed how sick she really seemed, pale and malnourished and hooked up to machines. But she smiled. "Alright there Hiccup?" she whispered, but her voice sounded unfamiliar and broken. I cautiously handed her the shoe-box, helping her open the lid and watching her reaction as she eyed up the dragon I had worked so hard to make. She seemed to analyse it forever, staring intently as if it was going to leap up and start projecting flames, before looking up and beaming. "It's beautiful...thank you so much."

We went to leave after some time because you were hungry, and I gave one last hug. She told me she loved me, and that she was proud of her talented little boy. And that was the last time I ever saw her.

You left me with Old Wrinkly for five weeks, a particularly harsh thing for a nine-year-old to deal with. Things were never the same, even after you finally took me home. The house was dull, empty, silent. There was no laughter like there had been before. Christmas and birthdays came and went with little acknowledgement; it hurt too much because mum wasn't there. In my mind I was to blame. But you never seemed surprised when I started skipping classes and getting into the wrong crowd of friends, and never concerned when I came home in the early hours of the morning, spending long hours in the woods around Berk contemplating the pointlessness of our dismal existence. Sometimes I wanted this bloody war to happen that everyone kept banging on about. I'd listen to your speculation and worried debates to your friends down the phone each night, over how someone will drop the bomb.

War, in my warped mind, seemed exciting. It sorted the winners from the losers, the survivors from the failures. I didn't think i'd ever had to find out.

I did stumble upon your thoughts, and the letters you had written for me. It seemed strange, with so much compassion on paper and yet so little in action. It was nice, I suppose, to know that you too longed for the days of innocence, the Christmases by the fire with laughter and happiness. Somewhere in my stubborn brain I knew you loved me. Some part of me thinks that this bomb was somebody's doing. Perhaps it was fate.

I am in our house which doesn't resemble a home anymore. The curtains are on fire, the glass has shattered through, and everywhere is eerily silent apart from the cackling of flames. The suede sofa is completely ruined; mum would be furious.

If you ever find this, understand that I may still not be here. The blast has injured me, and I am losing far too much blood to survive much longer. And that's even before the effect of the radiation.

Just know that I love you, and that I tried to be the best son I could.

Hiccup.