There were times like these when he remembers that he knew. He'd sit by himself, and just think. About the not knowing, the finding out. The pretending like it didn't happen. Though he couldn't pretend for long, because they had to be managed. Someone had to do it, and it only made sense that it'd be him. But even when all of the evidence around him surmounted to the fact that he was gone, never coming back, not going to tell you he tried one more time, or give you an exasperated look, he had to admit to himself that he didn't believe it. Nine months went by. Financially they were in ruin. People asked them what they would do now that Charles was gone. He didn't answer. He knew they'd think him crazy, and that's why nobody ever talked about it. How smart would you look at a press conference saying, "I know my manager is dead, but here's the thing, he's really not. I know he is but, I've got a feeling." Death metal musicians weren't supposed to feel. And admitting to feeling something as crazy as that might just have him locked away in some white room. Brutal. That's why he wouldn't re-negotiate. Besides the fact that he really didn't know what he was re-negotiating to, signing that paper would make it real. He'd really be gone and they would get fucked by the record company and there would be nothing they could do about it. He doesn't remember much else. He remembers seeing him, like a specter from beyond, and the first thing he thought. "I fucking knew it."
Which brings him here. Present day, in the office where he's turned over chairs and broken lamps so many times before. Hunched in front of the familiar desk, with the rest of his band mates around him staring like they still can't believe it's really Charlie. But he does, because after all, he says, "I knew it."