Authors: K Webster
Moth to a Flame (30 page)
A VERY SPECIAL thanks goes to Nikki McCrae, Anne Jolin, and Wendy Colby. This book was a struggle for me and you guys kept my chin up. I appreciate that more than you’ll ever know.
I want to thank the beta readers on this book, whom are also my friends. Star Price, Holly Sparks, Leann Jester, Wendy Colby, Alexander Godfrey, Heather Dahlgren, Nikki McCrae, Dena Marie, Michelle Ramirez, and Elizabeth Thiele, you guys provided AMAZING feedback. Pointing out areas that didn’t work and gushing over parts you loved, you helped boost the confidence I needed to finish what I’d started. I can’t thank you enough and look forward to sending you more of my stories in the future.
I’m especially thankful for the Breaking the Rules Babes. Without the daily support of my sisters in there, I’d be pretty lost. You girls rock my world!
Mickey, my fabulous editor from I’m a Book Shark, thank you for taking this book that had been a thorn in my side from the get-go and turning it into a thing of beauty. You rescued this poor little book and breathed life into it again. For that, I can’t thank you enough.
Thank you Stacey Blake for not killing me for my massive amount of chapters in this book. I swear, woman, I will make it up to you one day. Name your price. You are truly the best at what you do and I would be lost without your magical touch. Love you bunches!
A huge thanks goes out to my wonderful husband, Matt. I struggled hard with making this book the way I wanted and you stayed by my side, encouraging me along the way. Your support with this book was the ONLY way I made it through on the other side alive. I love you, babe.
Lastly but certainly not least of all, thank you to all of the wonderful readers out there that are willing to hear my story and enjoy my characters like I do. It means the world to me!
I’M A THIRTY three year old self-proclaimed book nerd. Married to my husband for eleven years, we enjoy spending time with our two lovely children. Writing is a newly acquired fun hobby for me that has now turned into a livelihood. In the past, I’ve enjoyed the role as a reader. However, I have learned I absolutely love taking on the creative role as the writer. Something about determining how the story will play out intrigues me to no end. My husband claims that it’s because I like to control things—in a way he’s right!
Most days, you can find me firmly planted in front of my computer. It’s my life. If the world ever loses power, I’d be one of the first to die—of boredom! But, I guess as long as I have books and a light, I might just survive.
Looking forward, you can expect to see many more novels from me—my fingers are on fire to get these stories out of my head!
This writing experience has been a blast and I’ve met some really fabulous people along the way. I hope my readers enjoy reading my stories as much as I do writing them. I look forward to connecting with you all!
A little more from K Webster……..
(A Standalone Paranormal Erotic Romance)
Available Now
She approaches me with the glassy, far-off look, and I cower away from her. There is no escaping her when she goes into one of her moods. When she’s like this, I refer to her as Clean Momma. I plead with my eyes, not daring to voice my prayers. You never speak to her when she has that look in her eyes. Speaking will only make things ten times worse.
“Sidney, baby, are you dirty?” she questions, the sweetness in her voice thick as syrup.
I blink a few times to rid the tears that are threatening. Clean Momma hates tears.
Quickly shaking my head from side to side, I once again plead with her nonverbally to not go to the inevitable. When she takes a step toward me, I flinch, and the corners of her lips turn up into a sickening smile.
Momma is as twisted as they come. Even being a very naïve, sheltered fifteen-year-old girl, I know that there is something sick in her brain. Thankfully she allows me to borrow books from the library. Because of those escapes from hell, I know that I am living in a nightmare that is far from a normal life.
As if reading my mind, she glares at me with all the hate she can muster, it seems, and I nearly vomit. But I choke it back because you certainly do not do that in front of Momma. Only a few times in my life has it happened, and I paid dearly for them.
“Sidney, you are a very dirty little girl. When you went to the library today, you were exposed to some nasty things. I can practically seem them crawling on you. Momma needs to wash you clean.”
This time, the tears fall on their own accord, and I slowly inch myself away from her. Even though we are nearly evenly matched with our height and weight, she has just enough crazy in her that I will never be able to fight her. Breaking my vow of silence, I finally succumb to begging.
“Momma, please,” I begin in a whimper, “I was so careful not to get dirty. I wore clothing to cover my arms and legs. Plus, I remembered to wear my gloves.” I didn’t really, but I threw it in for good measure, hoping it might work this time.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk…”
I gulp, once again trying to push down the rising bile in my throat. There is no way around this. And since I’ve spoken, it will be brutal.
“Get into the bathroom right away and undress. I’ll get my supplies.”
When I don’t make any moves toward the bathroom, she picks up one of her many switches that are scattered about the house from the end table and cracks it across my upper arm with surprising force for a woman of her size. I howl in pain and pull away from her, hurrying into the bathroom. The last thing I need is a bunch of open lashes while I endure my punishment. My arm stings, and without looking, I know she’s broken the skin.
Not wanting to push her any further, I quickly strip out of my clothes as I wait for her. I know the drill. She will bathe me as if I’m a child. Problem is, she will do it in such a sadistic manner that it will take me days to recover. Again, I feel like puking.
I can sense her presence before I see or hear her and step out of her way as she comes into the bathroom. She’s in her ‘uniform,’ as she calls it, donning long yellow rubber gloves and goggles. Heaven forbid she gets any bleach on her precious skin. Spinning around so fast that I yelp out in surprise, she glares at me. The woman can sense, even in my mind, when I have the smallest inkling of defiance rolling through me. Her look is enough for me to wash it away immediately.
Stalking over to the tub, she draws what I know from experience is a scalding-hot bath. I’m already whimpering as I mentally prepare myself for what’s to come. As it fills, she adds the entire bottle of bleach into the tub. It instantly burns my eyes and nose as it fills the air, mixing with the steam. I try not to choke and take shallow breaths as not to inhale it all and send myself into a coughing fit. Clean Momma is bad, visiting frequently, but Nurse Momma is the worst. A cough would bring her out in a flash, and I simply can’t deal with Nurse Momma.
“Dirty child, get into the tub. We need to wash the filth from your body. Momma needs to make you clean again.”
I blink the tears from my eyes, which are now a mixture of fear and chemical irritation, and approach the tub hesitantly. Because I must be going too slowly, I am immediately attacked with the switch again across my bottom, and I wail out in surprise. This, too, has broken the skin, and I curse myself for making things worse on me.
Raising my foot over the top of the tub, I try to ease my toes in, testing the temperature of the water. Of course it is beyond scorching, and I whine as I force my foot into the blistering abyss. Escaping to the mental holes in my mind, I think about anything but the pain that is slowly rising up my leg as I fully submerge it. Once my toes graze the bottom of the tub, I get my footing under control before I pull the other foot into the tub.
Momma calmly watches as I lower myself down, grabbing ahold of either side of the tub. This part always hurts the worst. If I don’t do it in a manner that she views is quick enough, she’ll help me along. I do not like it when she helps me along.
Biting down on my lip, praying to distract myself from the pain, I lower my bottom. I feel the heat on my sensitive flesh between my legs before it even touches the scorching water. When I hesitate just a fraction of a second, I know I’ve made the worst possible mistake.
Momma slams her hands onto my shoulders and pushes me into the piping-hot water. My screams are otherworldly as the liquid fire lashes at my flesh. Tears roll down along with snot as I try not to move a muscle, hoping not to inflict any more pain on untouched skin.
My breaths are coming out shallow and ragged as I throw all of my willpower into not hyperventilating. I still have a death grip on the edge of the tub so that she doesn’t fully submerge me if I am caught off guard. Every muscle in my body is tight as I brace myself for what she has plans for next.
From the corner of my eye, I watch with bated breath as she pulls out a bristly scrub brush. Thankfully this one only has plastic bristles. If they ever ran out of the plastic ones at the grocery store, she was in no way opposed to buying metal scouring pads. Momma has her own business as a cleaning lady with many affluent clients and I often wonder if she cleans their bathtubs like she cleans her daughter—very thoroughly. Carefully, she pours a little bleach over the scrub brush and turns to me. Clenching my eyes closed, I hold my breath as she begins her relentless scrubbing.
She burnishes my skin, meticulous in removing every single perceived contaminant. My skin burns as the bleach and slowly cooling water irritates the raw places. Every single place she can reach, she does her ritualistic cleansing. Momma never goes above my neck.
“I think we managed to take care of your dirty little problem. Now I suggest you finish up in here and get off to bed. Momma’s tired from all of this hard work,” she says without any indication that what she has done to me is wrong. No, Momma doesn’t see anything unusual about her behavior, which only solidifies how sick in the head she is.
“Yes, Momma,” I agree softly, not looking at her.
“Very well then. Goodnight, love.”
Her words are just that—words. She may call me “love” or “baby,” but they are empty. There is absolutely no feeling behind them. Momma has deep-rooted psychological problems for which she’s never received any type of professional help. In my many trips to the library, I have read through tons of books looking for her disease. There isn’t anything in those books about cleaning your child in bleach because of imagined germs—at least not as far as I could find.
After she exits the bathroom with her supplies, I drain the water and stand up. The cool air washes over my skin, much to my delight. Once the last bit of water disappears, I turn on the shower to the coldest setting I can handle. The spray of icy water cools my burning flesh and rinses away the bleach, finally making it easier for me to breathe.
There has to be a way I can escape her sick abuse, but I don’t know how. Everything was fine until Daddy left us a few years ago when I was ten. The moment he left, without a word of goodbye, I watched my momma slowly morph into a monster. In the beginning, she just started using the switch on me frequently. Whenever she was upset about missing Daddy or had a bad day at work, she would punish me by beating the stew out of me with her switches. My body is littered with scars over scars from those painful lashings.