Adonis Ian Black.
My fingers danced over the keys extracting a soft melody of sweet notes. My small fingers moved rapidly, trying to impress someone, trying to make them happy.
I was too small for my age, fourteen and a mass of bones and skin and music and love. The boys had bullied me badly today and I came home hoping to tell my mom every bad word they've said to me, how they've thrown insults at my face and called me Greek yogurt since I was too pale to be anything else.
But I had come to find that my mother was having one of her mood swings again, she sat besides the tall window, looking out at the fields of tall grass while clutching her swollen tummy. She said my sister was in there.
And there was one thing I loved more than music, that was my mother's hugs. She gave the best hug
