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.