I was eight years old when Grandma Audrey caught me masturbating.

For as long as I can remember, I lived in my imagination—a half-lit world stitched together with razor wire and broken dreams.

I was always the wayward damsel—barefoot, breathless, waiting to be rescued by a mysterious hero with flashing obsidian eyes and a soul so dangerously dark that mothers would turn their innocent little girls away.

Whatever you do, darling, don’t look into the man’s wicked eyes. Or your soul will be gobbled up and gone … just that fast.

And don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.

That morning, rain hammered the windows, turning the whole house a brutal shade of gray. My mother had already gone to work. The house was quiet, the road empty. I stayed upstairs, scavenging through my mother’s vanity like a pirate hunting for treasure. I found a battered tube of ruby lipstick, a tiny container labeled “cheek stick,” and a pair of pointy-toed black high heels that left me scuffling and slinking down the hall like a drunken sheep at a goat convention. The effect was perfect.

Way in the back of my closet, I pulled out an old pink cardigan, stretched and faded until the color was lost to time. It was totally too small—tight enough to cling like a second skin. I rolled up two pairs of my mother’s itchy woolen socks and stuffed them inside it, adjusting them to fit just so on my flat chest. Giggling, I turned this way and that in front of my dresser mirror, admiring my exaggerated curves, my bitten-red lips, and my cheeks painted so bright they’d get a clown kicked out of polite society. The whole scene was like a prophecy of doom. But I quite liked it.

In my mind, this was my future. This was what being a woman was really about: being seen, being wanted. To make every boy stop and look. To make every boy ache to touch, to possess.

At eight years old, I was completely convinced that being a grown-up woman meant freedom—that precious, sparkling commodity that automatically came with age. At that glorious point in the future, I would know exactly what I wanted. And I would be old enough and big enough to take it with no apology necessary.

Simple as that.

Outside, as the rain grew more insistent against my window, I caught an occasional flash of lightning, followed closely by the ominous growl of thunder. I crawled onto the bed, curled into myself, and shut my eyes against the storm. I don’t know why I felt compelled to lie on the bed just then or why I lost myself in the hypnotic sound of the storm. All I really wanted to do was go outside and roughhouse with the boys across the street.

In that moment, still caught up in the drama of weather and womanhood, I drifted absent-mindedly and began to trace the lines of my body, my comically crooked woolen breasts and curves, my small hips. The torn lace on the edge of my panties. Everything. I tugged my pants down, just far enough. I wasn’t consciously thinking about naked bodies or anything remotely forbidden. I was eight, for God sake, not twenty-eight. I was playing dress-up. I was a self-styled femme fatale cobbled together from lipstick, socks and storm light. That’s all. 

My Grandma Audrey was an immense, curdled lump of a woman. She wore the exact same stained, shabby pee-yellow housedress day after monotonous day, like a uniform of decay. She always reminded me of a mound of cold vomit. She seemed to infect everything around her – air, furniture, people – with the toxic reek of her Bible-banging personality. Even her thin-lipped smirks seemed calculating to me, like her very soul had been fashioned out of disappointment and rabid revenge. “Let’s pray about it,” she would challenge in a pinched snivel that left little room for argument.

The truth has always been that females understand other females—it doesn’t matter about age. Females just know. By any stretch of the imagination, Grandma Audrey was a . . . well, you know what she was.

 With my perfect ears, I could usually pinpoint every minuscule movement that matron of hate made: the scrape of her slippers, the wheezing grunts, even the nervous click of her false teeth. I could hear it all—until that one stormy, horrible day.

Across the street, the Taylors’ house was my secret kingdom. There were the boys—Eli and Edward—and Gwen, their older sister, impossibly cool in cutoffs and eyeliner, her laughter trailing after her like summer smoke. Gwen had a boyfriend with a car—red, shiny, dangerous—and I would watch them from my window, inventing stories where I was the chosen one, the girl who got to ride along, hair streaming in the wind, free. That seemed so impossibly grown-up to me. She was seventeen and sometimes got to stay with their Aunt Margie in Netherton. I loved it when she was home though and would babysit me. We were just two girls staying up late and watching TV until ten. It was our secret. God, I loved her.

About the boys, they were the only kids anywhere close to my age for over a mile in any direction. Edward, at thirteen, was a little too grown-up to bother with an eight-year-old. But Eli, at eleven, was still tethered to race cars and Star Wars. He was mine. Most days, we’d vanish into the woods behind their house, inventing games, finding hiding spots, and naming trees like they were old friends. Our favorite game was called predator and prey. We never discussed the rules, but I was always the prey, and he was always the dangerous rogue who would risk life and limb to save me. His eyes were icy blue though, not black and mysterious like the ones I had always dreamed of—but I forgave him for that.

I was still thinking about Eli—about the woods, about being chased, about the moment he’d catch me and carry me to safety—when I heard my grandmother’s rasping snarl.

My heart lurched, slamming so hard it seemed to echo in my ears. For a split second, the storm outside vanished—all I could hear was the scratchy wheeze of her breathing. The air felt suddenly thick, sour with old perfume and indignation.

When had she come in? How long had she been standing there, drinking in my shame? My body recoiled on instinct—I yanked my hand free as if I’d been burned, tugging the cardigan tighter around my ribs, wishing I could crawl inside my own skin.

“Lilah,” she half-barked, half-croaked, her voice thick with phlegm and fury. “What in God’s holy name are you doing? Look at you—sprawled out like that, half-naked, showing off your “all-together” like a little whore! You think Jesus doesn’t see your sin? You think this is some kind of game to play?” She jabbed a bloated finger toward me like she was cursing my entire existence. Every word that dripped off her lips held the promise of eternal damnation.

“You’re nothing more than a filthy little girl that no decent man would ever want.”

She wrinkled up her nose in disgust like she could smell my rancid sin from across the room. “Pull up your pants and cover yourself—before the Devil dances on your grave, and—between you and me—he will, soon enough!” The smirk was clear. She was in control of hell itself, and she loved the poisonous power. By this point, my blood had gone colder than a witch’s patoot in the winter. My dreams were all but lost. Eight years old and my soul had been condemned.

In reality, I wasn’t completely uncovered, not in the truest sense of the word, but the implication was there. I immediately tugged up my pants and sat up, letting my jean-clad legs dangle off the end of the bed.

“Don’t pretend to be innocent with me, you brazen little tramp.”

 She crossed the room in a blur of yellow fabric and self-righteous authority. Her hand caught my ponytail, twisting tight, her nails scraping fire into my scalp. I clenched my jaw, biting back a whimper—any noise, and she would jam her hand over my mouth, suffocating me with the stench of coffee and bitterness. I held myself rigid, every muscle straining not to flinch, not to cry out.

By that point, I was convinced that she was going to – as she would put it – smack the stuffing right out of me. Of course, I cowered against the inevitable, squinting my eyes, trying desperately to shrink away from her noxious breath and dime-store perfume.

 When she spoke next, she growled like a feral cat. “Do you know what happens to nasty little girls who touch themselves like that?” Her eyes seemed to glitter with excitement as she let the word nasty melt on her tongue like the devil’s chocolate.

I sat motionless, tethered by my scrawny little ponytail. First, I was horrified by whatever damning thing she might say. Second, I was actually more terrified she’d run like a tattling old hen to my mother. “No,” I told her, diverting my eyes, “I-I don’t know what happens to a little girl like that.” My heart was thumping so loudly, I couldn’t even hear the rain anymore. I knew my cheeks had to be glowing crimson underneath my exaggerated make-up.

After a few painful shakes, she let go of my ponytail, then lowered her voice to a snakelike hiss as if she were sharing an age-old secret about Eve and her vile ways. “You will be one of those trashy girls who end up crazy as a loon, ensnared by the cheap promises of the devil’s whorehouse.” Her eyes went white with emphasis, her lip curled, and she made a circular motion around one ear with a forefinger. “You know . . . out of your mind! You’ll go with any boy. Do any filthy thing. Is that what you want, Lilah? To end up crazy, locked up, or on the street with nothing and no one to love you?”

I vehemently shook my head no. I didn’t want to end up crazy. Before I could finish my thought, she stood up as straight as her judgmental soul would allow and muttered, “Fine! I better never catch you touching yourself again. Do you hear me?"

Grandma Audrey always carried a pocket Bible with her and instantly pulled it out like a shield against an advancing legion of demons. She opened the small tome, thumbing until she got to the first book of Thessalonians. Mumbling something about sexual immorality, she pointed to the floor. “Now, get on your knees, you grimy, foul little thing, and pray that Jesus forgives you for every impure, unnatural thought you have.”

“Yes, grandma.” I dropped to my knees, awkwardly tangled my trembling fingers together, and closed my eyes so tightly that I saw stars exploding behind my eyelids. My prayer was simple. “Dear Jesus, forgive me for my unnatural impurity. I will never, ever, ever do it again. I promise.” I desperately wanted to believe that Jesus could save me from the devil’s grasp and that it would be as simple as my prayerful request and heartfelt promise. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?

Before she could turn to leave, I had to know. Tentatively looking up, I asked in a voice barely audible, “Are you going to tell mother?”

I could swear that the icy shadow of a smirk passed over her intractable face. “I’m not sure yet,” she growled, wagging a finger at me. “But I will if I have to.” At the door, she turned one last time. “Now go wash yourself down there, and you better hope the damage isn’t already done because I will be watching you.”

I learned that day that my body wasn’t just a bad thing, it was an open door to the devil. And any sexual indulgence would inevitably ruin the rest of my life. No more socks in my sweaters, no more make-up or pointy-toed high heels. Even my whimsical fantasies felt like wicked betrayals trying to entice me into sacrificing my soul. I wanted to cry—so bad that it hurt. But I couldn’t. On that day, my tears were just gone.

As Grandma Audrey meticulously explained, any sexual stimulation would cause mental illness. It was fated. Sex was, hands down, the root of all evil—the key to the devil’s heart. And, let’s face it, at eight years old, I was completely horrified to be labelled and locked up as a sex-crazed little girl in league with Satan. I mean, by this point, wouldn’t it only be a matter of time before someone found out about my penchant for sin and turned me in for real? Right? As ridiculous as it sounds all these years later, back then I wholeheartedly bowed to the demons of fear and insecurity. And, of course, I chased every fear to its logical conclusion.

I was clearly destined to be in an institution before I ever made it into high school. That meant that I’d never dress up in sparkly clothes and go to a school dance. I’d never get the chance to drive a car. I’d never go on a proper date or let a boy kiss me. I would never find my way to the freedom I was so certain adulthood promised. In essence, I’d never be treated like a normal girl. Sex had already made my world smaller, alone.

That night, my nightmare seemed more vivid than usual, more real. I was in a small room – not alone, but not with anyone in particular either. I could see leering, laughing faces all around me, boys and girls melting like disgrace into the blackness of my guilt. I could feel a pain so savage in my stomach that I cried out, begging for it to stop. This time, though, I suddenly stopped breathing. And Grandma Audrey’s words taunted from every shadow - the wages of sin are death. I woke choking, gagging, and gasping for air. No one came to check on me. Lying in bed, finally able to catch my breath, I understood that Grandma Audrey had done her job. I didn’t want the devil to dance on my grave.

Now, I was always a little sponge for shame—young, impressionable, and painfully alert to every flicker of disapproval. But after my grandmother’s tirade, the words weird and crazy didn’t just hurt—they stalked me, bullied me. I saw them hiding behind every glance, every joke, every too-long pause before someone spoke.

Not long after, we piled into the car for a Sunday drive—me, my mother, Grandma Audrey. The day was all blue sky and stiff church dresses, the kind that scratched my thighs and smelled faintly of moth balls and old hope. We cruised through empty streets, radio crackling, the scent of vinyl and cheap air freshener mingling with the memory of dread.

As we passed a huge brick building—four stories, at least—Grandma Audrey leaned forward between the seats and asked me in a slow, deliberate voice, “Do you know what that is, Lilah?”

Eyes wide, expression benign, I shook my head.

“That’s a mental institution,” she cackled slowly. “It’s where bad girls go.”

Even my mother laughed at the perceived joke.

I didn’t laugh. I didn’t just get quiet, either. I dropped like dead weight through the gates of hell. I remember the seatbelt cutting into my chest, the sudden nausea in my throat. Was this it? Had Grandma Audrey finally told my mother? Was this drive just a trick to get me close enough to the gates of an insane asylum so they could finally leave me behind and forget that I ever existed?

With every day that passed – every month, every year, the skillful fingers of shame wrapped tighter around my guilty soul until I was completely owned by the shadowy world propagated by Grandma Audrey and indulged by my mother. My only way out appeared to be on my knees, praying. It never worked.

Two other things happened in those early years that I have never been able to forget. The first was when Grandma Audrey showed me a book on war. The horror of it was stunning. Blood, death, and destruction beyond my wildest imaginings. But then, there was one page – a page she specifically pointed out to me. The poor soul was dead, and his clothes were somehow ripped completely off. I saw the obsessive darkness in her eyes when she instructed me to look closely at the picture. Her excuse was that this horrible event was the result of unimaginable hate and sin. And, that I needed to learn from it. But that’s not what I saw in her eyes that day. I saw hunger. I felt her hunger. I hated her for showing me such a lurid example of death. I hated myself for finding a strange beauty in the curves and details of the man’s naked body. What was wrong with me?

The second turning point wasn’t an event—it was a slow drip of realization. A thought that began as a whisper and, over time, became gospel. Each year, I extended the deadline in my head—maybe I’d make it to middle school, maybe even high school—before the inevitable white coats would come for me. But then it struck me: even if I was crazy, maybe I could fake it. It was working so far. I could smile at the right times, nod in the right places. I could pretend to be normal enough to drive, to date, to have a boyfriend. Maybe that’s all “normal” ever was. Pretense.

Grandma Audrey had lied.

After that, the dark damsel wasn’t a fantasy anymore. She was me—this time stitched together from silence and survival, waiting to be rescued… or ruined… or both.
The game of predator and prey had already begun.
I just didn’t know which side I would end up on.
Or if I ever had a choice.

To read the rest of the book, please follow this link at Amazon.com - Disposable

“Grandma Audrey ranks among one of the most hiss-worthy villains in fiction.”
— Readers’ Favorite

Prologue - Lilah