Her voice was like the tinkling of bells, like a child's giggle, the sound of the sun pouring onto a face it had long forgotten.
You couldn't help but drink in her voice. She spoke, and when she was so cheerful it was infectious, and she could have told you that you were dying in an extremely painful way and you would smile, comforted, because her voice was like the sun slanting through the clouds, the sound of comforting arms wrapped around you and the sound of bliss.
Unfortunately, listening to bliss, you forgot the saying. You would forget bliss's constant companion, usually attached at the hip. In your hope that was induced by that voice, even in the saddest situation, you forgot about ignorance. Until she died, that was. If her voice was bliss, the realization of ignorance was that steel sliding through her stomach like she was made of butter, and ignorance was the sound of the water slapping against her cold dead body.
But they could still hear her voice when the rain softly pattered on the roof, could still hear her laughter in the ripple of wind that would breeze by. Her voice was all happiness and kindness, the flowers she cared for so much blending into her nature. Her voice was all rainbows and rosebuds, lighting the sky even after it rained, and so beautiful you didn't care about the thorns. But her voice was all ignorance and bliss, and the beauty and horror that results from such a combination.
After, they would often wonder if she ever realized what her voice really was. They would wonder if she'd always known, and if the ignorance that hid in the bliss of her voice only affected others, if the ignorance they'd heard hadn't infected herself. But they would never know if she knew the voice she'd stolen. It wasn't quite the voice of an angel, no. Her voice was something greater, something brighter than an angel, something more real.
It was the voice of Hope.
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