Page 90 of Like A Moth To A Flame

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the panic rising in my chest.

“It’s not even just about me. It’s about that boy. Billy? And all those other kids out there who are just trying to figure themselves out. How many others are there? How many others are going through this kind of cruelty because of fear and ignorance?”

Amelia wiped a tear from her eye and nodded.

“So what’s that?” she asked, nodding towards the last folder in the file. This one was much thinner than the rest, and then my shaking fingers opened it, and two pieces of paper stared up at me.

I picked up the first, and it was glaringly obvious. It was the black and white copy of an old, worn birth certificate.

Certificate of live birth

Name: William Benjamin Jacobson

Date of birth: 11/06/1995

Place of birth: Wyandotte County

Mother: Loretta Marjorie Foster

Father: Michael McClean Jacobson

I took the information in, reading it over and over to try to connect the dots, but none of it was making sense. This was Billy, the boy I’d been stolen for? I wondered where he was now, and if he was okay. I wondered if he knew of his father’s evil deeds and the things he had done to me in an attempt to force him to be someone he wasn’t.

I just wished I could remember any of the things that had happened while I was with them. The doctors had called it Sedative-Induced Amnesia, brought on by the drugs he’d used to keep me asleep. What had happened to me while I was asleep? Did I even want to know?

I had a horrible, gut-churning feeling I didn’t.

My only memories were of the day I was rescued, waking up to the heavy scent of smoke and the sound of angry screaming. Later, I’d come to learn those screams belonged to Tommy, fighting to break down the basement door to get to me. The next thing I knew, he’d pulled the door off the cage and ripped me out, covering my head in his wet t-shirt to protect me from the smoke as he carried me up the stairs and out the backdoor.

Sighing, I dropped the birth certificate and picked up the final paper.

Petition for change of name

IN THE MATTER OF THE PETITION OF: William Benjamin Jacobson

TO CHANGE HIS/HER NAME TO: Barrett William Foster

I didn’t read the rest. I didn’t need to. The paper fell from my fingers, fluttering to the ground as I jumped up from the couch, rushing into the kitchen, tripping and nearly falling as I hurried to the trash can and knocked off the lid. My eyes watered, my stomach cramping painfully as I leaned over it and spilled the bile in my throat into the black trash bag. Shaking hands came up to grab fistfuls of my hair, holding it back and away from my face as the watery contents of my stomach slipped from between my lips.

I gagged twice, my throat aching and my shoulders heaving as my terrified gut tried to spill into the bag. But after earlier, there was nothing left to give. I had nothing but my betrayal and my tears, my heart ripping itself apart as a thousand questions raced through my mind.

I dropped to my shaking knees, the sound of bone striking linoleum ringing through the empty kitchen. I leaned back against the cold kitchen floor, my back pressed against the cabinets. Through blurry teardrops, I stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything crash down on me.

Amelia’s footsteps brought me back to reality as she kneeled next to me, her hand rubbing comforting circles on my back.Reaching up, she flipped on the kitchen tap until the water ran cold, wetting her fingers beneath the stream and using the pad of her digits to wipe the remnants of my disgust off the corners of my lips. She wet her hand again and ran her palm across my forehead and under my eyes, wiping away my sweat and my tears.

The cool water was comforting, and I leaned into it, desperate for the touch of another human being—for a connection to keep me grounded.

In my bra, my phone vibrated, and without a second thought, I reached into the bodice of my dress and fished it out, squinting against the bright light as I held it up to my eyes.

I’m so sorry, Little Moth.

23

I love the smell of gasoline. I light the match to taste the heat.

Moth

“So what does it mean?” Amelia asked, sliding the steaming mug across the table to me. I picked it up to warm my hands, but not much else. I didn’t trust my stomach to keep anything down right now.

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