it wasn't the idea of living; seeing another sunset or somehow taking a drink of something perfect, that kept her moving nor motivated - no. it was her sister, twirling in soft pink and tulle, someone who never fully grasped the weight of the world, or the groans of the dead.
Charmeine isn't the type of angel you pray for, hands pressed together in firm devotion - not one you summon to bless you in multitudes of mysterious ways. She's the one that appears when your soul feels like a creature without a mouth; the need to scream yet wildly unable to, when you're left broken with no voice.