“Charlie was a good bloke.” Charlie shook his head and crossed the last line out. He stared hard at the notebook on his lap and bit on the end of his pen in thought. “Charlie was always there to lend a hand. No, that’s utter crap.”

He crossed another line out. Then another. The page was filled with squiggly writing, all of it crossed out. Some more than others, so lines were illegible.

“Charlie liked to party. Bloody hell, I’m turning into Dr. Seuss.” He crossed that one out too.

He hummed the bass line to Drive Shaft’s latest song, the one Charlie never got a chance to record. He wondered if it was recorded now, without him.

Abruptly, he stopped humming; he wouldn’t think about life going on without him back home. He wouldn’t think about the band, a Charlie-less band which was probably far better for loosing his heavy baggage.

Still, though, he could clearly see a memorial service. It would probably have lots of groupies he’d once shared a bed with, some reporters wanting to write dramatic pieces about the life and death of a rock star, and his band mates, of course. They would let bygones be bygones, after all. Charlie couldn’t imagine them not going to his funeral.

Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d think about what the boys’ reactions were when they found out his plane went down. Liam would be enraged at first, saying it was just like Charlie to leave them hanging like that. Noel would stare at the television screen in silence, tapping his drumstick against his knee slowly; he wouldn’t believe the news, and then would go through a few days thinking Charlie would be rescued, thinking there was hope. Colm would show absolutely no emotion, because that’s what Colm was best at, but Charlie knew he’d miss him. Colm, after all, was Charlie’s back up. When fights within the band occurred (and they did - often) Colm would come to Charlie’s defense. At least until he figured out that Charlie didn’t deserve to be defended.

Colm would speak at Charlie’s funeral, that was for sure. He’d stand up and clear his throat and push some hair out of his face (because hair was always in his face) and then he’d speak slowly, and clearly, and seriously about what Charlie had meant to him.

“Charlie was my best friend.”

Charlie left that on the paper and stared at the words, wishing he could talk to them, to tell them he was okay. They were his family, and as such, he missed them the most. Even as the band crumbled and broke apart, then inevitably came back together, it was the one constant in Charlie’s life.

They were just…there.

Tears pooled in Charlie’s eyes as he remembered his last moments with Liam. His big brother. The one who always promised to look out for him, but never did. Liam, the Music Slut and Rock God. All rolled into one. Well, okay, Liam was different now. Or so he said. He’d settled down.

But, even so, he’d never been the best big brother. He had faults like every other person Charlie knew. The biggest fault, of course, was not taking care of Charlie like he’d promised. He watched him slowly sink down into oblivion. Liam joined him on occasion. “It’ll be okay, baby brother,” he swore. But it wasn’t.

And now it would never be okay.

Some nights, Charlie hoped Liam was feeling bad about what had happened. He hoped Liam cried his eyes out as he lay in bed staring up at his perfect ceiling in his perfect house. In his perfect life.

Perfection was in the eye of the beholder, and Charlie knew this most of all. But, still, in comparison, Liam had the perfect life.

At least he was free of the wanting. Free of the uncontrollable shaking and ragged breathing. He could go about his life as if nothing was wrong. Charlie envied him that.

But, no matter what Charlie told himself, the bitterness wouldn’t recede. He prayed every night, hoping for forgiveness. And he prayed that the last thing he said to his brother wasn’t, “You never looked out for me!” until he turned away and stalked off to his doom.

If Liam got up at the funeral, which he undoubtedly would, he would say gruffly that Charlie would be missed. He would call him his baby brother, and he would take off his glasses and wipe tears from his eyes. His fallen Rock God of a baby brother. He’d be missed. That’s what Liam would say. “Charlie will be missed.”

Noel wouldn’t make a statement. He’d stay seated, probably staring off into space and barely listening. But he’d be there. If he did decide to say something, the reason would be to get some air time on whatever music station was broadcasting a memorial service for a fallen rock star.

“The Life of Charlie Pace.”

Charlie had done a lot of bad things in his life. He had regrets, like everybody, but he tried to think positively.

Of course, if he were thinking realistically, he’d realize that his band mates would release a statement to the press and it would probably be short and to the point. It was doubtful they’d get too emotional. On the band’s website, there’d be a grief message board, where fans could send condolences. (Noel would joke that they could send money, and he’d only be half kidding.)

The band might even release a new CD dedicated to his memory. Or, at the very least, re-release one of their old ones with a black cover and depressing liner notes.

“This is dedicated to Charlie…he partied hard, he played hard, he lived hard.”

In a few years, he’d be forgotten. It’d be like he hadn’t existed in the first place. Thoughts like these did nothing to keep Charlie’s spirits high. He was surrounded by people who had loved ones at home; surrounded by people who missed someone, too.

For the first time in a long time, Charlie didn’t feel alone.

If Charlie was at his own funeral, and got up to say a few words, he knew how he’d start.

“Charlie made a lot of mistakes in his life. But, for the most part, he was happy.”

There. That seemed to fit.

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