(no subject)
Twenty seven.
On the night of her twenty-seventh birthday, Charlie had had dinner with her fiance. She hadn't wanted a party, not with the wedding as close as it was. They'd enjoyed their evening alone. On the day after her birthday, her twenty seventh birthday, Charlie was down in the Hidden Hamlet, red hair wrapped up in a scarf with gypsy colours, the dress that she'd worn for Nate's christening neatly hanging on a hanger while she wore overalls hanging loose around her waist, a white tanktop already smudged with dirt.
The christening had been beautiful, but she'd needed a little time on her own, afterwards. She'd needed a little time for a year to sink in. She'd decided to finally clean out the hut in the Hamlet, her hut, the one that Duck had built for her. She was rearranging, making it into a painting studio, not a home. She wasn't going to live there. She didn't want anybody else to live there. It was hers. It was the first thing she'd had that was really hers.
She was humming to herself as she swept out the main room, the paper cranes still hanging from the eaves bobbed gently in the breeze.
Twenty seven.
Not bad for the dead girl from Midland, Texas.
Not bad at all.
ooc: I'm a bad mun. Charlie's birthday was yesterday. This is timed to the early evening, after Nate's christening.
On the night of her twenty-seventh birthday, Charlie had had dinner with her fiance. She hadn't wanted a party, not with the wedding as close as it was. They'd enjoyed their evening alone. On the day after her birthday, her twenty seventh birthday, Charlie was down in the Hidden Hamlet, red hair wrapped up in a scarf with gypsy colours, the dress that she'd worn for Nate's christening neatly hanging on a hanger while she wore overalls hanging loose around her waist, a white tanktop already smudged with dirt.
The christening had been beautiful, but she'd needed a little time on her own, afterwards. She'd needed a little time for a year to sink in. She'd decided to finally clean out the hut in the Hamlet, her hut, the one that Duck had built for her. She was rearranging, making it into a painting studio, not a home. She wasn't going to live there. She didn't want anybody else to live there. It was hers. It was the first thing she'd had that was really hers.
She was humming to herself as she swept out the main room, the paper cranes still hanging from the eaves bobbed gently in the breeze.
Twenty seven.
Not bad for the dead girl from Midland, Texas.
Not bad at all.
ooc: I'm a bad mun. Charlie's birthday was yesterday. This is timed to the early evening, after Nate's christening.