it wasn't as if he was necessarily a happy chap. but he seemed content, and in our lives, at ease. to the outsider, Charlie would have looked pained. maybe he was. as if those who knew him best didn't really see him.
what did we think we had offered him? friendship? companions? safety? did he actually accept it? or was it all just a facade?
we'll never know. we'll never, ever know.
charlie's dead. killed by his own daemons. not by those tormenting someone else, driving them to torture. but his own, his own hand.
killed by himself, killed alone.
without all that we had offered. and we're left with the shell, the pain, the confusion, the pieces. what are we left with but a pain that seems to over-shadow our memories.
like bullets to the brain? or a rope, or a pill, or what? what good are they to us that Charlie wasn't?