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.
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.
No alarm shattered the night.
No security guard grabbed me by the scruff of the neck.
I spent the rest of midnight wandering aisles, staring at pictures on packets and squinting at words I didn’t understand.
I tested the weight of tents and camping stoves. I snatched sharp knives and Swiss army blades and stashed them deep in my pockets. I stole a foldable saw, small hammer, and a handy toolkit with screw drivers, pliers, and other miniature hardware I’d no doubt need.
Scooping up two first-aid kits complete with everything from needles to painkillers, I gathered a pile of water purifiers, strange dried food, bendable plates, cups, and cutlery, and finally, after much deliberation, I chose the smallest one person tent I could find that weighed less than Della.
Trading my dirty backpack, I upgraded to a cleaner one with waterproof flaps and hardwearing zippers. Khaki green with navy blue stitching, it fit my tent, sleeping bag, and everything else I needed with plenty of space left over for food.
Once I’d exhausted my checklist, I headed toward the clothing racks and helped myself to two of everything.
Two long sleeves. Two t-shirts. Two undershirts. Two trousers. Two belts. Two jumpers. Most were too big, but they were well-made and warm and would last me a lifetime if I took care of them.
For the heavier things, I deliberated far too long, doing my best to make the right choice. Eventually, I settled on a windbreak, waterproof duck-down jacket along with tramping boots a size too big, a four-pack of woollen socks, and some underwear.
At the last minute, I also shoved in a pair of flip-flops for reasons I wasn’t entirely sure of, along with a beanie, scarf, gloves, and sunglasses.
Dawn slowly blinked fresh eyes and yawned away the night, giving me a heads-up that it was time to leave.
Hoisting up my new bag of possessions, smoothing my stolen wardrobe, I crept from the camping store, pulled the door closed behind me, then headed to the supermarket across the street.
* * * * *
I had everything I needed.
I was ready to trade closed-in civilization for wide open spaces.
For the first time in my life, I felt an unfurling of excitement.
No one had caught me raiding the supermarket. No one saw the small smashed window in the staff bathroom even though they’d opened an hour ago and customers came and went.
I strolled boldly down Main Street in my clean earth-coloured clothes and dared them to say I didn’t belong.
My eyes latched onto the horizon where beckoning trees and twinkling sunlight promised a new beginning.
And then, I made the second biggest mistake of my life.
I glanced to my left, toward an appliance store selling computers, stereos, and TVs, and there, on the four giant screens in the window was Della.
Her scrunched up face, purple from crying, her fists flailing, her mouth wide in an ugly scream.
My legs shot across the street before I could stop myself, slamming to a stop with my heavy backpack bashing against my spine as I pressed a shaking hand against the window.
Della.
Why was she crying?
Why was she on TV?
And where the hell was her ribbon? Her little fists were empty of her favourite belonging.
Her blue eyes shot red with tears, her little legs kicking as some strange man held her with a heavy scowl.
I wanted to kill him for holding her with such disgust and inconvenience.
My fingernails clawed at the glass, trying to comfort her even though I’d been the one to throw her away.
Then screaming Della was replaced with a severe woman in a pink suit.
Her mouth moved but no sound came.
There was nothing more important to me. I had to hear what she said.
Shoving my way past a customer exiting the store, I stomped my way inside and latched onto the closest TV. The sound was turned down but loud enough to make out words I never wanted to hear.
A few nights ago, a baby girl was found in Mr. and Mrs Collins home. No sign of forced entry, no note explaining who she is, no hint where she came from or if whoever left her plans on coming back.
Mr. and Mrs Collins kept the child for a few days, hoping whoever had left her would see the error of their ways and return, but when no such visit occurred, they contacted local authorities and requested she be collected by Social Services until a foster family can be found.
If you or anyone you know is missing a baby girl, approximately one and a bit years old, blonde hair, blue eyes with a birth-mark similar to a sunburst on her left thigh, then please, ring the number below or call the police.
For now, the baby girl is having one last night in Prebbletown before facing an unknown future tomorrow.
Social Services.
Unwanted.
Unknown future.
My knees turned to water as images of Della being sold, same as me, to a fate worse than me crashed through my mind.
She’d end up being the girls with ponytails forcibly taken into the house by Mr. Mclary to do special tasks. She’d become broken and rageful and full of vicious hate at a world that’d failed her.
At a boy who had failed her.
My heart traded hate for something else.
Something that tasted like obligation, commitment, and a tiny thread of affection but most of all, like sour seething possession.
Della Mclary had become mine the moment she ended up in my backpack.
I was the only one who could hurt her.
Not that man holding her. Not Social Services. Not Mclary or false parents or men who might buy her for special tasks.
Only me.
I spun in place, the cutlery clanking loudly in my backpack.
“Hey, what are you doing in my shop? Where are your parents, buddy?” an elderly shopkeeper waddled from behind his desk, but he was too late.
I bolted from his store as the little bell jangled my departure.
I ran down the street.
I sprinted all the way to the pretty blue and white house where something of mine waited for me.