Bleach Novels & Stories

She explained. Mrs. Teddy squinted her eyes and then she moved closer to her and tried sniffing what she had on her face and then she said. “I think it’s just bleach, an undiluted one. It could do a whole lot of damage if it stays longer on your face.” She grabbed her and pulled her inside, before closing the door and then began to walk her to the kitchen. “Do you think it's going to damage my face?” she asked, her mind going into dismay. She couldn't even think straight at that moment.

"What do you want to know, Bloom?" I shrugged lightly. "Favourite colour—and movie?" Zac's eyes squinted as he chuckled. He hummed for a moment. "Blue and Pulp Fiction." I nodded slowly. "Why blue?" His head cocked to the side as he looked out ahead at the world sprawled out in front of us. "It reminds me of the ocean." I bit on my bottom lip to stop my smile from stretching miles. I would have never seen it coming—Zac Miller being soft and sentimental. It was endearing.

Tears filled my eyes and my heart hurt so much. Was this the life I was cursed to live until I died? Slave from one house to another and be condemned to work under someone? As a tear slipped down my face, I pushed my thoughts aside and realized I had a lot of work to do. Crying won't do it. Neither did scrubbing. The stains were so tough that no matter what force I put into it, it didn't budge. There was only one other option. Bleach. I was very allergic to bleach.

A breath slips free of my lips. “Tessa.” She strides toward me. “Are you okay? Did the guards hurt you?” Her palms gently touch my skin and shoulders, checking for wounds. “No. I am good.” My lips answer. “How did you do it?” Jay questions. “The only thing I am good at is making chemicals. The blue paint is a strong chemical mixed with a red one. The water drains the red chemical first, then blue.” “We can clean them in hot water and the original red color will be back.”

But the lemon smell is overpowered by the horrible scent permeating the room. “What’s that awful smell?” I say, waving my hand in front of my nose. “It sucks to have a sensitive wolf nose right about now,” Callan says. “This is bleach. It’s the only thing I could think of to get the bloodstains off the floor.” “Is Ethan okay?” I ask, sitting my backside on one of the chairs. “Other than a bad hangover, he’ll be fine by tomorrow.” Callan grabs a pink-stained towel and wipes the water and bleach from the floor.

Looking outside and beyond the horizon, I swipe my tongue across my lips to wet them, hoisting myself to my feet. Hands on my waist, I once over the entirety of my space, satisfied and proud, telling from the smile playing on my lips. I nod slowly, turning on my heels to head for the kitchen. It’s my next target. As soon as I step into my living room, a strong stench of bleach attacks my senses. Not unpleasant but too strong for my liking. I remind myself to be careful with the amount I use next time. Pinching my nose to reduce its potency, i dash across the living room and into my kitchen. A stack of dishes piled into the sink awaits me. I groan out loud, whi

Blood smears across the carpet, dark streaks that'll never come out. Good thing this place sees worse things than murder. The bathtub is barely big enough, but I manage to fold him inside. His head lolls at an unnatural angle. I turn away, focusing on the next step. Bleach. Lots of it. The motel's supply closet is a joke—just cleaning rags and half-empty bottles. But there's enough bleach to burn away DNA. I pour it over everything: the carpet, the walls, the doorknobs. The chemical smell makes my eyes water.

⁠ I⁠ tied a‍ rag around‍ my face like a mask. I po​ured b‍l⁠each on t⁠he floor.⁠ I​ poured bleach‌ on the walls. The s​mell was overp‍ower⁠ing, ch‍emica‍l and sha‍rp‌.​ It burned my‌ e⁠yes, but I lov‍e‍d‌ it. It smelle‌d⁠ like purity. ‍I scrubbed the c‍oncrete⁠ on my h‍ands an⁠d‌ knee​s.⁠ I scrubbed the toilet‌. I s⁠crubbed the s‍ink.

For a moment, the air between us felt too heavy, too charged. I was the first to look away. Hunter exhaled, the sound somewhere between boredom and amusement, before reaching for the bowl of bleach again. He pulled a chair closer, the legs making a muffled scraping noise against the plush carpet, and plopped down beside me. Without a word, he dipped the brush into the thick mixture and started applying it to a streak of his own hair, right beside the crimson one already there. I arched a brow, watching him. “What the hell are you doing?”

Too clean. The scent of bleach hits me first—sharp, chemical, stinging the inside of my nose. Antiseptic lingers heavily behind it, mixing into something cold and clinical. All the blood from earlier? Gone. The mess? Gone. The chaos? Erased so thoroughly you’d think the violence was nothing more than a bad dream. Except it wasn’t. And the two bandaged women in the living room are proof.