Part 1 – The Bar of Soap

Ever since I was a child, my father repeated the same phrase I grew to despise: “You always stink. Go bathe. And remember—use this bar only, nothing else.”

He handed me a heavy, grayish bar with a sharp, stinging odor. I obeyed without question.

Each time I stepped under the freezing water, my skin burned as if pierced by needles. I scrubbed with that bar, the pungent smell filling the bathroom until it made me dizzy. At first, I thought I was simply too sensitive. But as the days passed, I realized something was deeply wrong: my skin cracked, sleep vanished, and exhaustion gnawed at me from the inside out.

What terrified me most wasn’t just my failing health, but my mother’s silence. She saw me weakening, yet said nothing. Once, she was the one I told everything to. Now, she only turned away.

I tried harder, bathing three times a day, scrubbing until my skin flushed red. Yet still, my father muttered, “You reek.”

One night, my boyfriend came over. Unable to hold it in, I asked:

— Tell me the truth… do I smell bad?

He laughed at first, thinking I was teasing. But when he saw my serious face, the laughter faded. He shook his head firmly. That was when I broke down, telling him everything.

Moments later, he walked into the bathroom. Minutes passed. When he returned, his face was pale, hands trembling as he clutched the bar.

— Where did you get this?!

— Dad… why? — I stammered, fear tightening around my chest.

He pressed both hands to his temples, voice shaking:

— This isn’t soap! How could you wash with this? It’s an industrial chemical, used to kill and repel pests!

The world tilted. My knees buckled as I sank onto the cold edge of the tub. My heart pounded so violently it drowned out his words.

He turned the bar over, pointing to faint letters on the wrapper: “Pesticide treatment.”

Rage, terror, betrayal—everything twisted into one suffocating knot. Why had my father forced this on me? And why had my mother remained silent?

My boyfriend knelt beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

— We’ll get through this. You’ll never touch it again. I’ll find out what’s really happening.

But in his eyes I saw something his words did not reveal—deep worry… and the burden of knowing far more than he was willing to admit.

Part 2 – The First Cracks

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The words “Pesticide treatment” burned into my mind. I wanted to tear my own skin off, to rid myself of the memory of its touch.

My boyfriend stayed beside me, silent but unyielding. By morning, his bloodshot eyes revealed he hadn’t slept either.

When my father left for work, he led me to the basement. Among dust and mildew, we found a large box filled with the same bars. The faded label still legible: “Industrial Pesticide – For Agricultural Use Only.”

I froze. A whole box. As if my father had stocked it deliberately.

— Why…? — My voice cracked.

My boyfriend clenched his fists, face grim.

— He knows exactly what this is. And I think… your mother knows too.

The thought crushed me. My mother’s silence—her refusal to stop him—suddenly made terrifying sense.

That afternoon, I confronted her in the kitchen. My voice shook, but my anger boiled over:

— Mom, I know. Why did you let Dad make me use this?

The spoon clattered from her hand. She turned, eyes red with tears.

— You… you weren’t supposed to know.

— Not supposed to know?! — I screamed. — I’ve been sick, broken, exhausted, and you just stood by!

She crumpled, sobbing into her hands. Between gasps, she whispered:

— Your father… he isn’t trying to keep you clean. He’s testing you.

My chest tightened, air fleeing my lungs. My boyfriend stepped forward, voice hard:

— Testing what?

Her eyes, filled with terror, met ours. Finally, she whispered:

— He wants to measure your resistance… to see how much poison your body can endure.

The kitchen fell silent, heavy as stone. My world shattered in that moment.

Part 3 – The Confrontation

That evening, dread clawed at me. Every sound in the house felt amplified, every shadow hostile. When my father came home, the weight of the truth pressed down like iron.

He dropped his briefcase, looked at me expectantly:

— Did you bathe? With the soap I gave you?

I stood my ground, trembling but firm:

— I know everything.

He froze, then chuckled coldly.

— Know what? You know nothing.

My boyfriend stepped forward, slamming the bar onto the table.

— This isn’t soap. It’s industrial pesticide. You’ve been making her bathe with this for years!

For a long moment, my father just stared. Then, without denial, he sat down, exhaled smoke, and said evenly:

— Yes. I knew. I did it for a reason.

— A reason?! — I screamed, tears flooding my face. — You poisoned me!

His eyes glinted, sharp as glass.

— Not poison. A trial.

He leaned closer, voice chillingly calm:

— You don’t understand. Our bloodline has a gift. Our bodies can resist what kills others. I had to prove you inherited it. If you survive this, you’ll be stronger than anyone.

My heart shattered.

— Stronger? You stole my childhood. You made me suffer for your madness. That isn’t love—it’s cruelty.

My mother collapsed, sobbing.

— He survived the same trial once. He thought… you could too.

My boyfriend’s hand tightened on my shoulder.

— This isn’t love. It’s abuse. And it ends tonight.

My father rose, towering over us, pride and fury burning in his eyes.

— If you can’t endure it, you’re weak. And I won’t have weakness in my house.

Part 4 – The Escape

The air turned suffocating. My father’s words echoed like a verdict.

But I rose to meet him, voice steady at last:

— I’m not weak. But I won’t live here another day.

His smile twisted into a sneer.

— You think you can escape me? You’re my blood. What I began, you must finish.

My boyfriend stepped forward, shielding me.

— No. She’s leaving. And I’m taking her with me.

My father’s gaze shifted to my mother.

— And you? Whose side are you on?

For the first time in years, she raised her head. Tears streaked her cheeks, but her voice rang clear:

— I stand with my daughter.

The words struck him like a blade. Rage erupted. He lunged for the bar in my boyfriend’s hand. But my boyfriend hurled it into the fireplace, where flames devoured it, filling the room with acrid smoke.

Grabbing my mother’s hand with one and my boyfriend’s with the other, I bolted for the door.

Behind us, my father’s roar shook the walls:

— You’ll never escape me! You hear?! I’ll find you!

But as the night air hit my face, icy and free, I felt something I had never known before: the taste of escape, of life beyond this prison.

For the first time, I no longer trembled. Whatever waited ahead, I would never return.