Bleach On Hands Burning Novels & Stories

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.

Holding the horsehair brush in my bare hands, I began to scrub. The lye water bit into my skin instantly. Within minutes, the soot and charcoal under my fingernails were burned away, replaced by bright red, weeping chemical burns. The raw cuts on my knuckles from yesterday's iron cauldrons screamed as the harsh fluid seeped into the open flesh. Hot, involuntary tears spilled from my eyes, burning tracks through the grime on my cheeks. But I didn't make a sound. I couldn't. My ruined voice box was locked in permanent silence, keeping my agony trapped inside my chest where no one could feast upon it.

I dive to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Even that part of my morning routine is far from positive. As I reach the sink, I wonder for a second why our anti bac wipes – the ones that I used to clean the toilet yesterday – are sitting where I expected my make up remover wipes to be. I realise why, when I gaze into the mirror and see my face; I look like I’ve undergone a skin graft on a burns unit. Oh Christ. Only I, would encourage my best friend to nuzzle his face into my boobs and remove my make up with household bleach in a single bloody evening. How do I manage it?

He didn't respond to my questions. He walked over to me and squatted in front of me. I held my breath as he reached gently for my hand. He opened the balm and uncapped it, “It won't sting but it will burn for a little while. The scald will heal faster and it won't leave a scar.” “You sound like an expert,” I commented. His movements faltered but he didn't comment. What was that about? He applied the cream gently on my hands and yes, it burned. A lot. I wanted to retract my hand immediately and blow it as much as I could or even soak it in water, as stupid as that is.