I have been working on a new novel. I've had the story idea for a while, but our class's first weekly journal prompt inspired me to flesh out the story. So far, I'm having a lot of fun writing it.
The story is called Gutter Diamond. It's about a black orphaned boy named Lamar who's accepted into an elite private school in New York City. He must balance his group home life back in Brooklyn with his new life at The Bellsworth School on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
in the Crown Heights neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York City, New York
located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, New York City, New York
I ran up the stairs of my building, my bookbag half-open and jiggling on my back. I just threw all my homework worksheets in there, but I ain’t give a fuck. Ending up on the fourth floor, I took my house key out of my bookbag’s smallest pocket, rounded the corner, and unlocked the door.
Inside, looked like any other apartment in New York City. Small and dingy. Flipping the light switch on in the small entry hallway, the yellowing light flickered. I walked down the hallway and entered the living roo—
“Aaahhhhh!!!” I screamed, clutching my face.
In the living room, what looked to be a man’s body laid in a pool of black blood. The dark liquid soaked into the beige carpet. Red blood was splattered on the walls, it streaked like the soapy water starts to do on cars at a car wash.
I shook my backpack off and left it in the hallway to go to the house phone on an end table in the living room. I had to call someone—9-11, anyone. The back of my eyes stung as I forced myself not to cry or be scared.
As I inched closer to the phone, careful not to step into any blood, I tried not to look at the body, but I couldn’t help myself. I looked at the man’s face. . . “Pops?” my voice broke. “Pop!” He was supposed to be at work. He appeared to be wearing his ugly brown UPS uniform.
I tried not to, but I started making that ugly crying face, squishing my face up as tears escaped my eyes.
I wanted to touch him to see if he was breathing—even though I knew he couldn’t be. A part of me felt like I could still save him.
But he was . . . dead.
That realization made my knees buckle and I dropped to the floor. Hiccups jumped out of me in between cries and my shoulders jerked. Squinting my eyes, I saw that his left hand was holding . . . a gun. The type of gun I saw those corner boys tucking in their jeans. The ones with the silver body. This one, though, was covered in blood . . . and other stuff. It was disgusting.
If he shot himself then where’s the . . . I found it: the bullet hole . . . through the side of his head. The longer I stared at its darkness, the bigger it seemed to get.
I stood up and backed away until I hit the wall where our two windows faced the street. My dad didn’t look like himself—actually, he didn’t look like anything. He looked like if a baboon broke out of the Prospect Park Zoo and attacked him, beating him to a bloody pulp.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I stumbled over to the end table again to make the call. When I picked up the phone, a folded-up sheet of paper caught my attention. It was on the floor, almost behind the end table, and surprisingly clean with no blood on it. Unfolding it, I realized it was a letter. I read it as best as I could:
Dear DJ,
First, let me tell you how much I love you. I love you so much, son. I hope you know that. And know that I’m very sorry. After your mother died, it was hard. I cried so much when you went to sleep. I even cried at work. I think I tried though. But I can’t take the pressure of taking care of you by myself now that your mom’s not here no more. I miss her just like you, DJ. I hope that one day you understand. Until then, know that I’m sorry and know that I love you so, so much.
Love,
Pops
“Nooo! How could you do this, man? This is stupid! We coulda—we was in this together, Pops!”
At this point, I was wailing and wheezing, fumbling the phone as I called my neighbor Kiana’s house. Her mom, Ms. Ky’esha, answered and somehow through my mumbling she understood what happened and told me she was on her way and was going to call 9-11 for me.
After that, it was all a blur. I opened the door for Ms. Ky’esha, an ambulance came, and police showed up. I zoned off as Ms. Ky’esha pressed me to her boobs, telling me it’s going to be okay. I stopped crying after a while, though. Honestly, I think my tears dried up. I was all cried out.
I couldn’t believe it. My mom and my dad were gone. Both of them—gone. . . I was only nine-years old.
That day, I had never felt so alone. Ms. Ky’esha let me sleep over for the night and until CPS found me a place to stay. As much as Ms. Ky’esha wanted to, with her four kids, she didn’t have enough space for me to stay for a long time. She let me not go to school for a few days, too. In fact, I went to work with her, chilling in the break room, playing with paper plates. Back home, Kiana would sit with me and do her homework as I just stared at the turned-off TV screen. I don’t think I was fully there those days—if you know what I mean. I was still trying to understand my new life.
Now, I didn’t have any parents. Now, I was what they called . . . an orphan.