8. Steamy Introspection
Chapter eight
Steamy Introspection
Monique
Completely naked, I went to the back of the space, moved the large tent’s flap, and entered the bathroom.
I scanned the space.
Okay then.
For a makeshift shower on a mountain, the details and thoughts that went into it were astounding.
To my left, there was a small carved wooden bench covered in plush blue towels.
On my right, a sleek metal frame held a peculiar-looking showerhead. The pipes leading up to it appeared to be more rugged and robust than I was accustomed to. It was most likely to withstand the mountain’s harsh conditions.
They twisted and turned in unusual configurations, like some kind of steampunk art piece.
I approached the shower area and my feet relished the sensation of the soft mat that lay beneath. It felt like stepping onto a cloud.
Taking a closer look at the showerhead, I noticed odd designs etched onto the surface. It was wider than the typical ones I’d seen, and it had multiple tiny holes, promising a rainy experience.
Alright. Let’s do this.
Turning the handle, water cascaded down, initially cool but gradually adjusting to a warm, comfortable temperature.
The sound it produced was more like a gentle waterfall than a regular shower, likely due to its unique design.
Only on Lei’s mountain could such a paradox exist. It was a small haven, a sanctuary of sorts, offering solace amidst the chaos outside.
And as the warm water caressed my body, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for this unexpected comfort.
The liquid’s soft moisture soothed my restless muscles and massaged away my aches.
Each droplet felt like a kiss from an angel, washing the doubts and fears away with soothing love.
I grabbed a blue bottle and snickered.
Even their toiletries have to go with their color? Wow.
I squeezed a dollop onto my palm. The turquoise mixture had a thick foamy consistency.
A fruity scent permeated the air.
With gentle circles, I lathered my body with it.
The subtle sounds of the cascading water, combined with the distant chirping of nocturnal creatures outside, lulled me further into a state of relaxation.
Steam rose around my legs.
Every now and then, the water’s temperature would shift ever so slightly, sending a brief chill that only heightened the warm embrace that followed.
I’m taking a shower on a mountain. Can this week get any crazier?
Then, my dad’s bruised and tortured face flashed in my mind along with bloodied chopsticks and crumpled money.
No.
I froze with my hands in the air.
Don’t think about that. There’s no good in remembering that.
A cold shiver sliced through me.
The soothing sensation of the water began to wane as my thoughts consumed me.
Come on, Moni. Get back to the present. You’re on a mountain. In a shower. It smells good in here.
I did my best to push away the horrifying images.
But the memories were like intrusive vines, relentless and overpowering.
I took a deep breath and returned to washing.
The distinct sound of a distant scream cut through the air, muffled but chilling.
I paused.
What was that?
My heart skipped a beat and I instinctively turned off the water, listening intently.
A few seconds later, rhythmic pounding echoed through the night. Maybe it was metal hitting metal or something else.
Hammering?
A boom sounded and then silence.
That must be the Four Aces setting up for the feast. You’re tripping, Moni, because you’re on edge.
I turned the shower back on.
Warm water spilled over me again. The space filled with the steady patter of liquid hitting the shower floor.
I tried to rationalize, telling myself that it must be the bustling preparations for the night’s event.
But something about that scream. . .
It didn’t quite fit the narrative I was trying to construct.
Forget about it and finish washing up.
I stepped closer toward the shower spray and tilted my head back, allowing the water to massage my scalp.
Next, I began to smear the fruity-smelling foam on my head.
Though once completely bald, now a faint layer of hair had started to sprout, making the sensation all the more noticeable.
It made sense. I typically shaved my head every other day to keep the smooth look. Clearly, I had been too busy.
My fingertips grazed my head, feeling the soft stubble that now peppered my skin. The budding hairs possessed a peculiar sensation.
It was like touching velvet.
Hmmm.
I gazed around the shower and didn’t see a razor.
I could get Chen to give me one tomorrow but. . .maybe it is time to let my hair grow back?
It would be a journey in itself, watching the transformation from bald head back to hair.
What would I even do with it now? It’s been so long since I’ve even had to pick up a brush or comb.
Steam wrapped around me, forming a warm embrace as I thought back to the pre-bald- headed years.
My hair—much like chapters in a book—marked significant periods of my life.
I could never forget the hot comb.
As a little kid, those Sunday afternoons before the new week, when my mother would place that metal comb on the stove, waiting for it to heat up. Grandma was alive then, and even my aunt—Bank’s mother would be there gossiping about this or that.
I could still hear the sizzle as she ran it through my hair, transforming my tight curls into straight strands.
The process was almost ritualistic.
Surely, it was bonding time, moments where life lessons were shared, and family stories passed down.
Every stroke of the comb not only shaped my hair but also molded my young mind.
Then, junior high hit, and it was time for a new hairstyle—a new me.
I remembered the smell of the chemicals from the relaxers, the creamy texture, and the burning sensation if it stayed too long.
The first time I had my hair permed, I felt such a transformation.
The sleekness.
The way it swayed as I moved.
It had been a true departure from the tight curls I had been born with.
Permed hair was my first foray into maturity.
My rite of passage going from kid to pre-teen.
Dad was still with us then. Back then, Mom had extra money to send us to salons.
I remembered the countless hours of waiting for my turn, the scent of hair products, and the hum of the hairdryer.
High school triggered the era of weaves.
Oh, the versatility of it all!
Long, short, curly, straight— I changed my look as often as I changed my clothes.
It was thrilling and gave me a taste of what it was like to be someone else, even if only for a little while.
But under those weaves, I sometimes felt I was hiding, concealing a part of who I truly was.
College came.
I got a scholarship and did a big chop on my hair, cutting it all off.
Freshmen year, I rocked a sassy afro.
Sophomore year, I shifted to braided crowns and Bantu knots.
Those were the days when I felt an immediate connection with my heritage, every style telling a different story, a different chapter of my life.
Then, mom got sick.
I dropped out sophomore year and returned home to help her with my sisters.
Hair and any other form of self-care took a backstage to my family.
But now. . .I have a house. . .I have a briefcase of money. . .I have time.
I rinsed the soap off my head and touched the short hairs again.
I smiled.
Dreadlocks? Twists? Or perhaps a short, curly afro?
So many thoughts spun in my head.
What would this new hair journey symbolize?
Would it be a resilience? Or a nod to rebirth?
As the droplets trickled down my head, Lei’s face flashed in my mind and all thought of hair vanished.
From our unexpected meeting, to now, it was all an adventure, throwing my once-predictable life into this whirlwind of chaos and emotions.
With him, every minute was unpredictable, and every hour brought with it new challenges and surprises.
Then a sudden and sharp gunshot pierced the silence.
I froze.
Okay. That was definitely a gun.
Every muscle in my body tensed. My hands clung to the shower wall for support. My mind raced with possibilities, attempting to put together the jigsaw pieces of sound and context.
Was someone in trouble, or was it a mere accident related to the feast’s preparations?
Panicking, I turned off the water.
My nerves perked up on high alert.
Something is definitely happening, and I won’t be butt naked and, in a shower, while it goes down.
I spun around and screamed. “Ah!”
To my utter shock, Lei stood behind me. Less than two feet away, right in the damn shower.
“Oh my God!” I stepped back fast, my feet nearly slipping on the wet floor. “H-how long have you been there?”
His towering presence took up the entrance, eyes darkened with an intensity I had never seen before.
Every ounce of his being radiated sheer fury.
Scared to say anything else, I studied him, trying to get some clues.
Rips marred his blue athletic pants. Dirt caked his sneakers.
He wore no shirt.
What had once probably been a pristine white bandage on his right arm was now a dirty, reddened mess, dangling off his elbow.
But what truly shook me to my core was the blood. Splatters of it painted his face and dripped onto his chiseled chest.
So. . .that really was screaming I heard earlier.
My heart boomed in my ears.
But. . .was he the one who made the person scream? And where did all that blood come from?