The routine had become so relentless that it felt like my entire life revolved around cold showers. My father’s voice still echoed in my head every time I stepped into the freezing water: “You smell horrible, go take a cold shower and use the soap I gave you.” No matter how many times I followed his command—three, four, sometimes five times a day—he always repeated the same line, as if nothing I did ever made a difference. It was maddening. My skin felt raw, my nerves frayed, and my patience stretched thin.
What unsettled me even more was my mother’s silence. She and I had always shared an easy closeness, the kind that made it impossible to hide secrets for long. But during these strange days, whenever my dad barked at me to shower again, she simply lowered her eyes or busied herself with something else. No explanation. No comfort. No questions. Her quietness felt like a betrayal, a small but sharp fracture in the relationship I depended on. I tried to make sense of it, convincing myself that perhaps my father was attempting some unorthodox parenting method—maybe trying to teach me discipline or pushing me toward better hygiene. But the theory felt flimsy. Nothing about the situation made sense.
The soap he gave me was odd from the beginning. Its scent was harsh and medicinal, the kind of smell that lingered in my nose long after the shower ended. Yet I tried to trust him. Parents did strange things sometimes, I told myself, and maybe this was just another one of those quirks I’d laugh about in the future. Still, whenever I stepped into the icy stream of water, a knot tightened in my stomach, an instinctive warning I tried desperately to ignore.
Things reached a breaking point one afternoon when Jake, my boyfriend, came over. His presence was a welcome relief from the suffocating tension at home. We lounged in my room, swapping stories, laughing about nothing, wrapped in the comfort of familiar company. But the question that had been haunting me slipped out before I could stop it.
“Do I smell bad?” I asked abruptly.
Jake laughed at first, thinking I was joking. He teased me lightly, the way he always did. But then he excused himself to wash his hands in the bathroom. I stayed on the bed, fiddling with a loose thread on my blanket, wondering why the feel of cold water and bitter soap had been so deeply affecting me.
When Jake returned, everything changed. His face was pale, his eyes wide, and his hands shook as he held out the bar of soap.
“Who gave you this?! Are you taking cold showers with this?!?” His voice cracked with panic.
The blood drained from my face. Anxiety surged like a wave crashing down on me. “Yeah, why?!” I asked, my voice trembling despite my attempt to stay calm.
Jake’s eyes filled with tears almost instantly, his breath unsteady. “They didn’t tell you, did they?! Baby, this isn’t soap! It’s used to decontaminate before surgery!”
My entire world lurched. “What?!” The word tore from my throat as I snatched the bar from his hands. My fingers shook as I finally examined the tiny print on the wrapper, print I had blindly ignored for days. There it was—clear as day. Antiseptic. Surgical-grade. Not meant for everyday use. Not meant for skin so young and sensitive. Certainly not meant for multiple uses in a single day.
I felt the floor drop beneath me. My father’s constant demands, my mother’s painful silence, the burning sensation I had chalked up to cold temperatures—all of it now twisted into something sinister and incomprehensible. Betrayal wrapped itself around my chest like a vise. Why had he done this? Why wouldn’t my mother speak up? What possible reason could justify putting me through something so extreme?
I sank down onto the edge of my bed, the antiseptic bar still clutched in my hand. My mind spun with questions and anger and fear all tangled together in a storm I couldn’t sort out. I felt foolish for trusting blindly, foolish for obeying without understanding, foolish for dismissing my own discomfort.
Jake sat beside me as tears slipped down my cheeks. He pulled me into his arms, grounding me with gentle pressure. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t believe they didn’t tell you.”
I leaned into him, shaking my head. “Why would he make me do that?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “Was he trying to teach me something? Or… was he hiding something? What reason could possibly make sense?”
Jake exhaled heavily and rubbed my back. “I don’t know. But I think you need to talk to them. You deserve an explanation. They should have told you what this was—even if it was a mistake.”
His words, quiet but steady, reminded me of something I had forgotten: I didn’t have to accept confusion as my reality. I didn’t have to follow without questioning. I didn’t have to suffer in silence just because my father expected obedience.
The truth mattered. My safety mattered. And I had a right to understand what had been happening in my own home.
Anger simmered beneath my ribs, but beneath that was something deeper—a growing resolve. I wiped my face, straightened my shoulders, and set the harsh-smelling bar of antiseptic soap on the table beside me. Whatever the explanation was—whether twisted, misguided, or shockingly simple—I needed to hear it. The cold showers, the secrecy, the silence… it all had to end.
With Jake by my side, I rose to my feet. I wasn’t stepping into another freezing shower. I wasn’t blindly obeying anymore.
It was time to confront the truth.
And whatever it was, I would face it head-on.
