I couldn’t run far. I couldn’t travel fast. All my ideas of finding a new place to call my own had been scrapped because of her endless needs.
She would end up killing us both, and a solution had just landed squarely in my lap.
The cat meowed, weaving around my legs as I strode quickly toward the back door. Shoving the creature away, I ducked on all fours and wriggled my shoulders back through the tight rectangle.
I’d have bruises tomorrow, but I wasn’t counting. I already had more than normal along with scars and bumps and missing fingers.
With my body half in the kitchen and half on the deck outside, I strained to reach the backpack and dragged it unceremoniously toward me.
Della grumbled as it tipped sideways.
“Hush up.” I yanked her closer, so I could unzip the top. Ripping it down too fast, a blonde curl got caught in the zipper’s teeth. Her face scrunched up with indignation, her mouth wide and ready to scream.
My heart jack-knifed as I clamped a hand over her tiny mouth. “Don’t you dare,” I hissed in her ear. “It’s just a little pain. It’s nothing.”
She wriggled beneath my hold, little whimpers and struggles unmatched for my wiry strength from working the land and wrangling unhelpful livestock.
The cat swiped at my ass still lodged in its exit. I tried to kick it and lost my grip on Della’s mouth.
I stiffened, already preparing to run the moment she cried.
Lights would flick on, feet would pummel stairs, and I’d be caught stuck in a cat flap like a failed, stupid thief.
Why didn’t I use the door?
I could’ve unlocked it from the inside.
Hating and cursing my idiocy, I didn’t breathe as the moment stretched so long my teeth ached. My body already vibrated with her scream. But slowly, her lips closed, anger faded from accusing eyes, and her teeny hand rubbed her scalp with her ribbon clutched tight.
I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“Good girl,” I whispered. “You’re very brave.”
The transformation in her entire body blinded me. A smile spread. Cheeks pinked. Spine straightened. Any sign of sickness and starvation from living in the wild deleted, all because of one morsel of praise.
There was a key in that.
A message that all humans—tiny or ancient—needed nutrition in the form of love as well as everything else.
It made my recent decision even easier because I was not capable of feeding her everything she needed. I’d gotten her this far. My job was done.
“Get out of the backpack.” I pushed the canvas sides to collapse on the deck.
Giving me a sideways look, she bit her lip uncertainly.
“Get. Now.” Pulling her once chubby arm, I knocked her off balance and dragged her out. She didn’t make a sound, not caring her filthy onesie got caught on a deck splinter or that the only place she’d found safety in was now tossed out of reach.
Keeping my fingers locked around her midget wrist, I backed through the cat flap, pulling her with me. “Come on.”
It took a few attempts with the cat trying to squish past me and Della wriggling the wrong way, but somehow, I managed to get her inside without too many grizzles.
I really should’ve just unlocked the door, but we were inside. The cat shot outside. And the house slept on none the wiser.
The minute all limbs were inside the kitchen, I stood and stretched out sore muscles, ignored my growling stomach, then scooped her from the clean floor.
The novelty of not having to knock off leaves from her ass or check her for beetles and ants was nice as I carried her into the lounge and placed her on the rug with all the bright plastic toys.
Instantly, she latched sticky fingers around some sort of ring with rainbow disks slipping and sliding. Once again, she gave me a smile so blinding, so pure, so grateful, I buckled under a different type of hunger.
A hunger for the same thing I couldn’t give her.
A hunger for something that offered safety even if everything around us was dangerous.
“Don’t make a sound.” I pointed at her, backing away to the kitchen. “I mean it.”
She watched me go, blue eyes never leaving mine as I ducked around the breakfast bar and wrenched open the pantry.
She stayed quiet as a chipmunk as I grabbed packets of crisps and chocolate biscuits and brightly wrapped lollies. The foils and wrappers made a horrendous noise in the quiet, making my ears twitch for company and eyes flicker to the dark corridor beyond.
Abandoning them on the counter, I turned to quieter things.
Knowing I was on borrowed time, I yanked open the fridge and fought every instinct to dive straight into the cool crisp shelves full of deliciousness.
Grapes dangled with a cheese platter wrapped in cellophane. A chunky pink leg of ham smelled of smoke and honey. Beer clattered in the door along with apple juice packs and little glass jars with a picture of a baby on the front.
I couldn’t read what flavours they were, but one was orange, another green, and one a greyish pink. Grabbing all three, I shoved them into my cargo pockets, grabbed the platter with cheese and grapes along with the ham, and somehow balanced my haul back to the living room.
Plonking them beside Della, I dashed back to the kitchen drawers to pilfer a spoon for her. I didn’t need cutlery. I was too hungry to eat with manners.
“Sit still,” I ordered as I landed next to her on the plush comfy rug. I wanted to take this rug. To sleep on it. Wrap myself up in it in the forest. I never wanted to leave its comfy-ness.
But it was too big, too heavy, and after tonight, I would be travelling light.
I’d no longer have a baby to haul across the country.
I could fly.
My stomach growled at the enticing smells, and I ripped off the cellophane, dug dirty nails into the ham, and ripped off a handful.
Della licked her lips as I tore it apart with my teeth, swallowing before properly chewing, forgetting I was human and becoming an animal instead.
Her smacking grew louder as she squashed herself against my leg, reaching for the ham. I didn’t stop her as she copied me, powerless fingers clawing at the meat, little tongue licking air for a taste.
Even though part of me wanted to strike her for touching my food, I fought those instincts and tore her off a piece. She snatched it as if possessed by the same feral obsession, sucking and mouthing the smoky meat, frustrated tears filling her eyes as she failed to chew.
“Ugh, you’re so useless.” I grabbed another handful of ham, feeding the monster in my belly so I could at least find some compassion to be kind.
Content, if not annoyed with her lack of progress, Della sat quietly and let me eat. She never tore her eyes off my mouth and swallowed when I swallowed and smacked when I smacked, and when that crawling, tearing emptiness inside was sated, I shoved as many grapes into my mouth as I could then twisted off the lids from the baby food jars.
With ham-greasy fingers, I scooped up a bit of orange slop with the spoon and held it in front of her nose.
She gagged and fell backward.
I snickered. “That good, huh?”
I didn’t help her up. She’d been the one to tumble; it was up to her to figure it out, but I did shove the spoon in my mouth to taste what she’d refused.
“Yuck.” My lips puckered at the overly mushed paste that tasted vaguely like pumpkin. Nothing like the sun-ripened, freshly picked pumpkin that we’d grow at the farm, but a vegetable pretending to be a close cousin.
Tossing it to the side, I pulled a strip of ham off the bone and waited as Della figured out with her hopeless legs and arms how to sit up and wave her hands for something to eat.
I placed the ham on my tongue and chewed it. I chewed until the meat was juicy and tender, and then I passed it to her.
Instantly, the ham vanished from my hand to hers, then disappeared into her tiny mouth.
She bounced on the spot as she swallowed, eyes br
ight for more.
I didn’t know if it was the familiarity of the routine from living in the forest together—eating rabbit and rat—or if I’d turned her into a carnivore with our previous measly choices; either way, I tried offering the pumpkin on the spoon again, only to have it splattered over my cargos with demands for more ham.
Seeing as this would be the last time I ever saw her, I obeyed. Stripping ham, chewing, and giving it to her until she’d had her fill.
When her eyes finally grew heavy and the sparkle of dinner and toys dimmed, I stood and returned to the kitchen.
Della did her best to watch me as I reached outside the cat flap for my backpack and stuffed it with as much food as I could. But by the time I’d finished squashing in apple juice cartons and filling up a few empty bottles I found in the recycling bin with water, she was curled up on the rug, snoring gently.
The cat slithered past me, giving me a cold glare before trotting over to the baby on his rug. He sniffed her, investigated every inch, then curled up beside her as if accepting this new human in his home.
She didn’t need me.
Soon, when the sun rose, she’d have brothers and sisters and parents who would raise her as one of their own. For now, she had a cat to watch over her, fish to blow bubbles at her, and a kid who’d never meant to be in her life disappear.
She’d forget all about me.
She’d stay alive and bug free.
This was where she belonged.
“Goodbye, Della Mclary.”
With a final look, I unlocked the back door and strode out of her life forever.
CHAPTER SIX
DELLA
* * * * * *
Present Day
INTRODUCTORY ASSIGNMENT FOR: Creative Writing Class
Professor: Diane Baxter
Brief: To write a non-fiction piece about our lives that reads like fiction
Dear Professor Baxter,
I know you asked us to write something true that reads as fake, but I have a problem.
I’m not trying to be difficult and refuse to do the assignment but…well, this problem of mine…it’s a fairly big problem.
You see, I’m not allowed to tell the truth.
Ever.
Like literally, forbidden on pain of death.
Ever, ever, ever.
You want us to write a story based on reality, but my entire life I’ve lived a reality based on a story.
Every town I ever lived, every school I ever went to, every friend I made, and enemy I crossed, they all got told a tale.
That’s probably why I’m so good at your class. Because creative writing wasn’t just something I was interested in but a skill that ensured I stayed alive.
I know I’m not making any sense, but you’ll understand by the end.
If I do this assignment, of course, which I’m still debating whether or not I can.
It’s not that I’m afraid anymore. I know nothing can hurt me (now). And I know if I don’t do it, it will affect my grade and possibly even my graduation.
What I’m worried about is what will happen if I tell the truth, and what will happen if I continue to live the lie I’ve been living since the day I was born.
Then again, if I don’t write it, no one will ever know how unbelievable real life can be. But if I do write it, I’ll probably never show you.
Round and round I go, Professor Baxter. Hopefully, I’ll make my decision very soon, but whatever choice I make, whatever story I tell…my life?
You’ll never believe me.
Even if I tell you the truth…
Even if I reveal every secret…
You’ll never believe me.
No one ever does.
CHAPTER SEVEN
REN
* * * * * *
2000
FOR FOUR DAYS, I hung around that town.
I didn’t know its name.
I didn’t know how many people made it their home or the names of those I stole from.
All I knew was I missed the trees and open spaces and the smells of dirt and rain and sun. Concrete, paint, and petrol covered the softness of nature, hinting that I might have been sold to a farm, but my soul had found sanctuary there. I missed fields and animals and even the toil of turning seed into crop.
I was too wild for a city and struggled with what that meant. I had no recollection of my life before I was sold, and now that I was free, all I wanted to do was return to what I’d run from, but on my terms, not Mclary’s.
I wanted the caw of cockerels at dawn.
I wanted the bay of cattle at lunchtime milking.
I wanted to be free to make my own way, and unfortunately, the city was the opposite of freedom.
It had rules that came with punishment—just like the farmhouse.
It had expectations that came with penalties—just like the farmhouse.
Civilization was a foreign, scary place for someone like me who had no urge to become a clone, co-existing in the town’s matchy-matchy houses.
All I wanted was to be left alone, and that was the heart of my problem.
I didn’t want to be touched or talked to or cared for or told off. I didn’t need company because company came with future complications.
All I wanted was life.
And it left me with only one solution.
Along with hurting my body, Mclary had hurt any chance I had at finding safety in normal society because how could a nine-fingered ten-year-old kid who’d seen things that he could never unsee, who couldn’t read or write, who’d never been to school or learned how to make friends…how did that kid become one of these adults? These shallow adults who scowled at messy children and laughed in condescending tones?
The answer that I grudgingly came to was…I couldn’t.
I was in a town surrounded by homes, yet I was homeless.
I was a kid, but I didn’t want parents to feed me or give up the tiny shred of independence I’d claimed for myself.
I was free, but I breathed and twitched with claustrophobia to run.
And so, that was what I planned to do.
Even though my heart pounded to leave immediately, I forced myself to sit down and plan. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, and I wouldn’t leave this place until I had better supplies.
The one silver lining was life was infinitely easier not having a baby screaming at random times or having to carry her heavy ass through car parks and hedgerows.
For four nights, I’d slept beneath slumbering houses or even sprawled on a lounger if the yard didn’t have a security light. I chowed through my stash of food and returned twice to different homes, slinking through cat flaps to restock my smelly backpack.
I’d washed in paddling pools left on front lawns. I’d stripped and scrubbed my filthy, scrawny body, diligently cleaning between every toe, every finger, and even my belly button. Crystal clear water was left a murky, muddy brown ready to be explained by confused parents and wailed over by angry kids.
I hoped they knew that even though I was a pest to them, their belongings were a godsend to me. Their food was appreciated. Their deck chairs highly rated. And the paddling pools wrenched utmost gratefulness from every bone.
I’d never had a bath at Mclary’s—unless I sneaked a dip in the pond—but then I’d end up smelling of algae and duck shit and be beaten for it anyway.
Paddling pools were much better, and I despised the feeling of slipping back into rank, grubby clothes after scrubbing so clean. I hadn’t gotten around to stealing a new wardrobe just yet, but soon. Very soon.
Clothes were yet more items on the long mental checklist I kept adding to. I was thankful for my good memory because without skills to write what I needed, I couldn’t afford to forget anything vital.
During daylight hours, I rested out of sight or wandered streets unvisited by locals, going over my upcoming vanishing act back into the forest.
Occasionally, my thoughts tripped back to Della, and I’d stop sho
rt, wondering if she was safe. Was she fed, clean, warm? Had she forgotten all about me?
The hatred in my heart slowly faded, leaving behind an uncertainty that I’d done the right thing.
On the third night, I was tempted to return to the house with the bay windows and welcoming blue paint to see if she was happy. I let my thoughts convince me that I was responsible for her future even though that was an utter lie.
She was the daughter of my enemies, and I shouldn’t care about someone who had such tainted blood running in their veins.
Besides, she wasn’t my responsibility.
She was never supposed to get mixed up in my life.
She was better away from a kid who didn’t have a plan apart from staying hidden, staying alive, and figuring out what he wanted to become.
Did I want to be Ren? The kid with no last name, no parents, no home? Or did I want to be someone else? Someone who had every right to walk down neat streets and sit at fancy restaurants?
Someone who was someone not something.
I did want that, but I also wanted more.
I couldn’t explain it, but whenever I looked at the treeline on the outskirts of town, the itch inside built until I physically scratched with the desire to disappear inside it.
I wanted twigs cracking beneath my shoes and grass swaying around my legs. I wanted the reward of hard living because every day was sweeter for having survived with no one and nothing.
Perhaps I was punishing myself, or maybe I’d lost all trust in people.
Either way, on my fourth night, I found myself in front of a camping store in the middle of the shopping district of the sleepy little town.
My fingers smudged the glass as I pressed my nose up and stared past the streetlight reflections to the tempting merchandise beyond.
Tents and sleeping bags and everything I’d ever need to turn the wilderness into my home.
It didn’t take me long to figure out how to break in, spying the back delivery door with a flimsy lock and no reinforcement. All it took was a twist of my dull blade and the mechanism gave up, swinging the door open with a whisper of invitation.