Harlow
“Black is beautiful,” so they say. I was starting to believe that word when I was a kid, watching my mother sit across from me with a big grin on her face while my father had just brought her a black dress. “Black doesn't only signify death, Harlow. This is a symbol of our never dying love, and even in death, it continues.” She'd told me.
Each time I saw the color black, I was reminded of my parents, their gruesome deaths and how awful it turned out for us. It made me detest the color with each drop of blood surging through my veins. Lucy carefully walked over to Devon’s bed and layed on it like she owned it. Black was beautiful, but not to me anymore. I feared it like a small kid loathed the night. It was full of my weakness, hidden pasts I never want to bring up.
I sucked in
