The vivid image would come to haunt him unexpectedly. The pale lifeless body of Charlie on the bedroom floor lying in stark contrast to the pool of bright red blood. The passage of time had lessened the pain and the horror of the moment.
Life would never be the same but it was better. Better because Jack O’Neill didn’t shrink from the memory. Better because his three best friends, having suffered their own distinct losses, knew when to speak and when to listen.
True friends were like that. They rejoiced in his victories and never chastised him in defeat.
~fin