The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(11)

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 bright 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.