ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
“Why does it matter? You’re not going to keep me anyway.” Darrien Mourn looked out the car window sullenly, the setting sun illuminating his young brown eyes.
“You don’t know that.” I replied.
“I’ve been rejected by four families already,” he said quietly, with a mixture of defiance and shame.
I didn’t know how to react to that. Was I supposed to be impressed? Intimidated? Sympathetic? I tried to imagine what emotions must be running through his head. Hope, fear, doubt, anxiety, excitement. Deciding to attempt to be understanding, I said, “Look, I’m sorry you’re an orphan —"
He interrupted, “I’m not an orphan.”
Caught off guard, all I could manage was, “Oh.”
Still gazing out the window, he said, “My parents abandoned me on the orphanage doorstep. On a cold winter night, with no explanation. The only knowledge the orphanage has of my family is my mother’s words: Call him Darrien, after his father. I gave myself the surname Mourn when I was seven. And yes, I’ve lived my entire life at the orphanage. But I’m not –” he gritted his teeth, “I’m not an orphan.”
“Darrien, I —"
He cut me off again, “And don’t call me Darrien.”
I was taken aback, “Why not?”
He looked me right in the eye, his dark eyes glaring, “Would you want to be named after a man who’d completely abandoned you?”
“I guess not.” There was a long silence. “What should I call you then?
“Call me Mourn.”
An hour later, Mourn had fallen asleep, curled up in the passenger seat, breathing softly. According to the orphanage, he hadn’t slept in days, suffering from nightmares. He was asleep in his empty room when I’d arrived, and woke briefly, still exhausted, but now had wearily drifted back into slumber.
Adopting wasn’t the hardest decision to make. I needed someone to love. And Mourn needed someone to love him. At least that’s what I was hoping. Already he wasn’t what I had expected. And I loved him for it. I looked at him, keeping one eye on the road. He had shaggy dark hair that fell over his long-lashed slightly slanted eyes, olive-coloured skin and he was small for his age, nine years old. Mourn shifted slightly in his sleep, revealing a slight chain around his neck. I’d ask him about it later.
Stopping at an intersection, I turned east, where the night sky was darkest. I drove on for quite some time, until finally pulling into my driveway. Mourn slept on, oblivious to our arrival. I walked around the car and opened the passenger door, sliding my hands around his sleeping body. I effortlessly lifted him out of the car, and he laid his head against my chest as I walked to the front door.
The door was locked. I decided to wake Mourn up rather than risk dropping the boy as I searched for my keys. He rubbed his eyes blearily, blinking in the darkness. I smiled at him briefly before turning around and fitting the key in the lock. When I turned back, I discovered that he had wandered away from the house, staring in wonder up at the sky. Realizing that he had lived his entire life in the city, and had probably never seen so many stars, I joined him.
With a voice full of awe, he said, “I can’t believe…” His voice trailed off into silence. The stars winked in the inky night sky, and I saw the beauty that left him speechless.
I smiled and took his small hand in mine. “It’s called sky.”
“You don’t know that.” I replied.
“I’ve been rejected by four families already,” he said quietly, with a mixture of defiance and shame.
I didn’t know how to react to that. Was I supposed to be impressed? Intimidated? Sympathetic? I tried to imagine what emotions must be running through his head. Hope, fear, doubt, anxiety, excitement. Deciding to attempt to be understanding, I said, “Look, I’m sorry you’re an orphan —"
He interrupted, “I’m not an orphan.”
Caught off guard, all I could manage was, “Oh.”
Still gazing out the window, he said, “My parents abandoned me on the orphanage doorstep. On a cold winter night, with no explanation. The only knowledge the orphanage has of my family is my mother’s words: Call him Darrien, after his father. I gave myself the surname Mourn when I was seven. And yes, I’ve lived my entire life at the orphanage. But I’m not –” he gritted his teeth, “I’m not an orphan.”
“Darrien, I —"
He cut me off again, “And don’t call me Darrien.”
I was taken aback, “Why not?”
He looked me right in the eye, his dark eyes glaring, “Would you want to be named after a man who’d completely abandoned you?”
“I guess not.” There was a long silence. “What should I call you then?
“Call me Mourn.”
An hour later, Mourn had fallen asleep, curled up in the passenger seat, breathing softly. According to the orphanage, he hadn’t slept in days, suffering from nightmares. He was asleep in his empty room when I’d arrived, and woke briefly, still exhausted, but now had wearily drifted back into slumber.
Adopting wasn’t the hardest decision to make. I needed someone to love. And Mourn needed someone to love him. At least that’s what I was hoping. Already he wasn’t what I had expected. And I loved him for it. I looked at him, keeping one eye on the road. He had shaggy dark hair that fell over his long-lashed slightly slanted eyes, olive-coloured skin and he was small for his age, nine years old. Mourn shifted slightly in his sleep, revealing a slight chain around his neck. I’d ask him about it later.
Stopping at an intersection, I turned east, where the night sky was darkest. I drove on for quite some time, until finally pulling into my driveway. Mourn slept on, oblivious to our arrival. I walked around the car and opened the passenger door, sliding my hands around his sleeping body. I effortlessly lifted him out of the car, and he laid his head against my chest as I walked to the front door.
The door was locked. I decided to wake Mourn up rather than risk dropping the boy as I searched for my keys. He rubbed his eyes blearily, blinking in the darkness. I smiled at him briefly before turning around and fitting the key in the lock. When I turned back, I discovered that he had wandered away from the house, staring in wonder up at the sky. Realizing that he had lived his entire life in the city, and had probably never seen so many stars, I joined him.
With a voice full of awe, he said, “I can’t believe…” His voice trailed off into silence. The stars winked in the inky night sky, and I saw the beauty that left him speechless.
I smiled and took his small hand in mine. “It’s called sky.”
Inspiration
This story was inspired by a door. Seriously. At the art camp that I went to, there was a door, on which someone had written "It's called sky." I was upset when I realized that I'd forgotten to take a picture, but it's still interesting. I knew right from the moment I saw that door that I wanted to write something about it.
I actually originally wanted to write something about prison. But honestly, the biggest problem was the fact that I have no knowledge whatsoever about jails (except for the fact that my elementary school town claimed to have the smallest jail in all of Canada – a bit of a pathetic boast, in my opinion). Not that I'm hugely knowledgeable about adoption, but this topic left more open for creation.
Technique
The words above are also about my fifth attempt to write something about this topic. It's taken me about a month, believe it or not. I think I kept overdoing it, and finally just decided to keep everything really simple and, well, it worked for me.
I also had a hard time figuring out how to start, until my sister told me just to start in the middle, and add the beginning later. I did, and as you can see, never added the beginning.
So shoot me, I think it's an intriguing beginning, middle of the conversation and all.
Special Mentions
*WanderingHere, for advising me on the character development.
Groups
Other Deviations
It Was Always You: the sequel to this piece.
© 2009 Jonathon Reed
deviantART | Society6 | Tumblr
portfolio.jonathonreed.com
This story was inspired by a door. Seriously. At the art camp that I went to, there was a door, on which someone had written "It's called sky." I was upset when I realized that I'd forgotten to take a picture, but it's still interesting. I knew right from the moment I saw that door that I wanted to write something about it.
I actually originally wanted to write something about prison. But honestly, the biggest problem was the fact that I have no knowledge whatsoever about jails (except for the fact that my elementary school town claimed to have the smallest jail in all of Canada – a bit of a pathetic boast, in my opinion). Not that I'm hugely knowledgeable about adoption, but this topic left more open for creation.
Technique
The words above are also about my fifth attempt to write something about this topic. It's taken me about a month, believe it or not. I think I kept overdoing it, and finally just decided to keep everything really simple and, well, it worked for me.
I also had a hard time figuring out how to start, until my sister told me just to start in the middle, and add the beginning later. I did, and as you can see, never added the beginning.
So shoot me, I think it's an intriguing beginning, middle of the conversation and all.Special Mentions
*WanderingHere, for advising me on the character development.
Groups
Other Deviations
It Was Always You: the sequel to this piece.
It Was Always You It was a beautiful clearing. I bent and picked a brilliant red flower from the long still grasses and set it in my hair. It was peaceful. But kind of lonely, you know? It was just another reminder of all the differences from back home. Across the country and all. My mom said I’d meet new friends, but so far, she was wrong. I sighed and sat with my back against a large oak tree.
I’d just begun to read my book when I hard the sound of muffled laughter from the branches above me. I looked up in alarm to see a face peering down at me from th
© 2009 Jonathon Reed
deviantART | Society6 | Tumblr
portfolio.jonathonreed.com
Comments67
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Aw, that is lovely.
I like how the story just seems to start... not necessarily at the beginning, but the story doesn't need to. I developed a soft spot for Mourn, almost immediately, but I think that's becuase i adore children.
Gosh, if Christmas I should have asked Santa to visit you for a day of literature and chocolate (: