Bleach On Hands Burning Novels & Stories

I pulled my hand back sharply, the skin of my palm sizzling like I'd placed my hand over open fire. "What the fuck?!" I yelled, clutching my burned hand. I stared at the door, horror seeping into my bones and chilling my blood. What....what have I gotten into?!

he screamed, stepping back. I grabbed the bleach bottle and hit him on the side his head as hard as I could, causing him to step backward. I took advantage of his momentary unbalance as he rubbed his eyes, knowing that I only had a second. I unscrewed the cap from the bleach bottle and threw the contents at him, causing him to scream out in pain as bleach covered his face and hair. I grabbed the broom and, finding sudden strength, rammed my foot into the wooden handle, breaking it in half.

I’m standing in the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent light reflecting off the mirror as I examine my wounds. Angry red burns mark the places where the metal rods touched my skin, leaving painful blisters and scorched flesh. There is still the strong smell of rubbing alcohol from the so-called medic who was called in to tend to my wounds. I wince as I gently probe one of the wounds with my fingertips, feeling the raw, tender skin beneath. I don’t want to think of how I got myself into this unfortunate situation where I just made a deal with the devil who had his friends almost electrocute the skin off my bones.

*Ember* It burned. My hands burned as though I’d stuck them in fire. I sobbed in pain, calling out for my mother. I pulled my hands back towards me, but that didn’t stop the pain. Looking down, I could see it was my hands that were the problem—they were glowing blindingly bright and burning themselves! Screaming, I tried to find my mother, my hands the only light in the darkness. Finally, her smiling face appeared. “Mama!” I cried. “Mama, it hurts! IT HURTS!!!”

I fell to my knees, panting, as my right hand burned with a violent, white-hot agony. "Zack!" Elena was beside me in an instant, her wrench ready to strike, but she stopped. Her eyes fell on my right hand. I was clutching my palm to my chest, but the blood leaking through my fingers wasn't normal. It was a thick, dark red, and it was glowing. The old, silver scars from the shaman’s blade had split completely open, the jagged lines that wept a brilliant, red that hissed as it dripped onto the cold stone of the Ridge.

He walked toward the door, opened it, and walked out. I slumped back, bracing against the sharp pain. It felt just like being back at Eliana’s house. An unfamiliar doctor walked in with Blanke. Just the two of them. Amon wasn't there? “Let me see your hand?” the doctor asked. I held my hand out to him, still weak. His eyes went wide. “Your hand is burned. This is severe.” I exhaled and sat up. “I’ll give you some first aid, you can head to the hospital after this,” he said, and I nodded slowly.

I couldn't handle the burning feeling of my own skin. I rushed into the connecting master bathroom, violently tearing off the ruined black velvet dress with trembling hands. I threw myself into the massive stone shower enclosure, cranking the iron handle to a freezing, near-scalding balance. I stood under the heavy, punishing spray, grabbing a loofah. I scrubbed my skin raw. I moved aggressively over my arms, my bruised wrists, and my neck, desperately trying to wash away the phantom heat of Kaelen's touch and the lingering, intoxicating scent of his pine-and-frost aura.

Large iron pots boil on open flames; the water bubbles vigorously. The strong, bitter scent of bleach and harsh soap fills my lungs, making my head spin. My hands, already peeling from the lye soap I used earlier, burn the moment I plunge them into the scalding water. My ribs throb with a dull, radiating pain every time I lift a heavy, waterlogged sheet to twist it against the wooden scrubbing board. Sweat drips down my face, mixing with my tears. I'm alone, trapped in this harsh reality.