Anish Aradhey

United States


August 16, 2020

His fingers curl wretchedly like dead spider legs, stiff with dried blood. He presses the piano keys, wincing through stinging tears. Gritting his teeth, he forces his fingertips to sing. The sonata aches, sounding grayer than it had the night before. It reminds him too much of the night, of him and Ajay sitting at the piano, of the others walking in, of his fingers crushed against concrete. 

He pants as the final notes suffocate the room. The piano bench scrapes the concrete floor. He walks away, swallowing a metallic taste and ignoring the crimson fingerprints staining the keys.


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  • August 16, 2020 - 9:33am (Now Viewing)

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