The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

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.

CHAPTER EIGHT

REN

* * * * * *

2000

SCENARIOS RAN IN my head as I careened to a stop outside the house where Della Mclary waited for me to fix what I’d broken.