The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(12)

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 short, 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.