Turning Point
By Mickey

Status: Completed 5/17/2009

Archive Permission: Ask first.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.

Word Count: 1,209

Author's Notes: So, I was on my way to work on Friday when this story started to form in my brain. I wrote some of this there as I waited for class to begin (I'm in training right now) and just finished it up. Many thanks to Cheryl and Annie for the beta!

I sit here on his bed, contemplating how I should do this. Should I put the gun to my temple? In my mouth, maybe? No. That would be too quick, both of them. He didn't get to die so fast, so painlessly. Maybe I should put it to my chest and pull the trigger, die the way my kid did -lying on the floor gasping for breath and in incredible pain.

I'm not sure how long I've sat here with the gun to my chest, but I realize now that I can't do it, can't pull that damn trigger, and so I lower the gun.

Damn, I am such a coward.

I've been called a brave man, a hero, more times than I can count. It's so far from the truth that it's ridiculous. Those people don't know the real me, don't know the things I've seen -the things I've done. If I'm so brave, why can't I talk to my own wife? I might have said three words to her in the past few weeks since Charlie . . . died.

Sara has been trying desperately to get me to talk to her, or at least she was for a while. I want to, I really do. I just can't. She keeps telling me it wasn't my fault, that it was just a stupid, tragic accident. I'd love to be able to believe that, but every time I try, certain facts keep coming back to slap me in the face. It was my gun. I was the one who forgot to lock the box and the drawer it was kept in.

Come to think of it, I'm not just a coward; I'm pathetic too. Scratch that, I'm a real bastard.

I hate her. I hate my wife for forgiving me when I can't forgive myself. How the hell can she say it wasn't my fault? How can she forgive me for killing our only child? Our little boy? Sure, the day it happened she yelled and screamed at me, hit me, and threw things at me. For two days after she didn't say a word to me, but then she came to me on that third night and hugged me. She apologized for "overreacting". How the hell could she do that?

I still can't believe he's gone. We were supposed to go fishing this weekend. We've been planning this for weeks. I retired a month ago. All I had to do was take care of a few minor details, which I was doing on that day, and then it would be official. His birthday is tomorrow. We were supposed to spend two days at my grandfather's cabin then come back here and have a huge birthday party. It was going to have the works -barbeque, a huge cake, balloons, hell, I'd even hired a clown. Charlie loved clowns. After all, it was to be his tenth birthday. Something special. The first and, for most people, the only time you add a digit to your age.

There won't be a party. There's nothing to celebrate now. Sara called all the guests, well, the few who didn't already know what had happened, and informed them. I should have done it. Or helped at least. I certainly shouldn't have left it up to her alone. Told you I'm a bastard. I did make the funeral arrangements though.

Maybe I'm not a complete coward. As I stare at the loaded gun in my hands, I realize there is a reason, or at least partly anyway, why I haven't done it, why I can't do it. I can't put Sara through that again. I won't leave a mess like that for her to clean up again. She's the one who had to clean up our rug after the . . . after Charlie died. I couldn't go in that room with his blood all over the floor. She did a good job of cleaning up, arranged for the rug people to come out and replace the carpet. I just can't force her to have to deal with that again. Nor will I put her through having to make my funeral arrangements then have to attend another funeral. No one should have to bury a child and a husband, especially in the same month. Even considering how much of a jackass, pun intended, as I've been, she still loves me, and I've hurt her enough.

I stare at Charlie's stuff. Kid loved baseball. He was really good at it too, and has the trophies and certificates to prove it. He was so damn proud of them. So was I. They spelled the last name wrong. It's O'Neill with two L's not one. That other O'Neil, the one with one L, is in Washington DC and has no sense of humor at all. Then again, neither do I anymore.

It amazes me that they put his first name on the certificate. I love the name Tyler, it was my grandfather's name, but he's never answered to it. Sara fell in love with the name Charles, loved the nickname Charlie, so that's what we've called him from the day he was born. The only person who ever called him Tyler was my grandmother, but even she stopped when he was about four and he told her he wanted to be called Charlie. She was clearly disappointed -to me it was clear anyway- but she never let on and called him Charlie from that day on.

So, here I am sitting on my son's bed, gun in hand and resting on my lap, contemplating how to do this without hurting Sara anymore than I already have. I hear voices coming from downstairs. I didn't realize we were expecting company. It's probably one of her friends. Maybe a neighbor who's come to pay their respects. Or it could be just another traveling salesmen trying to get her to buy the newest, latest and greatest vacuum cleaner; or whatever.

Suddenly there's a knock at the door and I slide the gun under Charlie's pajamas. I say nothing as two Air Force Officers enter, barely even turn to acknowledge their presence.

"Excuse me, Colonel O'Neill."

Sorry, fellas, not a colonel anymore. I retired, or didn't you get the memo?

"We're from General West's office."

Figures.

"Sir?"

Maybe if I continue to ignore them, they'll go away and leave me to wallow in my anger, self-pity, and regret. Fat chance.

"We're here to inform you you've been reactivated."

Really? We'll see about that.

I remain silent as they explain why they're here. Leave it to that son-of-a-bitch, West, to take advantage of my pain, to send me on a mission he knows, if it actually happens, will be a one way trip for me. And it's exactly what I've been looking for. A way to end my pain without leaving Sara to clean up the mess.

Yup, definitely a bastard.

It all sounds nuts to me, but what the hell. I was all set to tell them to go to hell, and to tell West the same thing, but as they finish and wait expectantly for my response, I finally stand and turn towards them. I never claimed to be sane.

"When do I report for duty?"

THE END