Bleach Writing Novels & Stories

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?”

I was hoping my training this summer would give me the edge I needed to end this bullying once and for all. I took a final look in the mirror. My long onyx black hair was down today, gentle waves cascaded along my face, neck, shoulders, arms, and back. My vibrantly blue eyes mirrored my determination. I nodded in approval at my outfit, a black and silver blouse and black skinny jeans. I was ready to seize the day and make it amazing. I hurried out the door and leapt into my tiny little sedan, driving off to my high school.

29 A knock on my room door interrupted my reading. I was reading 'Bloom', the book Zac had given me. He was right when he said I would like it. It was heartwarming and made me smile as I thought about my mom. Speak of the devil. Zac walked in, staring down at his shoes as he walked over to me. My eyebrows pulled together as I instantly noticed his knuckles that were cut up and bruised. I blinked, sitting up straighter. "Zac... what happened? What's wrong?"

2 years later I am here outside my school, feeling the breeze of the air that is touching my skin. And as this engineering school of mine is near the Manila bay, where you can watch the beautiful sunset, I stood here and watched that masterpiece of the nature. The sky is in the color of orange, yellow, and a hint of blue. Which calms my mind. I hugged myslef as I can feel the cold breeze. I took a deep breath, and smiled. I can’t help ut to smile. Everything is over. Everything have fall in their places. There is no more of everything. I’m at peace. We are at peace. Of my best friend slash brides maid Elocin, and my fiance Elexier. Yes, that’s right, fiance.

She tested up more badly while panting terrible and then immediately got up with the help of door She opened her purse while breathing heavily and took out what she thought she was never going to use again but now she was in need of it terribly . Ridhima took out that thing and stormed towards her bathroom . She went inside and opened her shower .cold water started talking on her whole body where as her eyes fell on her reflection every possible way . TRIGGERING /SENSITIVE CONTENT AHEAD She gazed at deep into her eyes which never stopped shedding, tears her face had turned more red whereas her breathing acculerated more "I hope my presence is wrothy enough to pleasure you . Ms Ridhima saree

Harper’s POV My leg knocks into something, and it clatters to the ground. “Crap,” I mutter bleach spills out faster than I can catch it. The clear liquid rushes out of the bottle, spilling everywhere. By the time I stand the bottle back up, a large puddle sits in the middle of the floor. I grab for some rags, but there aren’t enough to soak up the entire spill. The acidic scent of bleach fills the air and sends my head spinning.

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.

A white rose lay on the floor dripping with blood. A small, shiny blade lay beside it. A beautiful object in such a terrible and painful condition. The blood stain on it did not hide it's immaculate and beautiful nature. She puffed smoke in the air and took a sip of the liquor beside her, as she glared at the bleeding rose with sad and anguish filled eyes, it told a lot about her and her agony. She was as beautiful as the rose in front of her.

November. The thirty-third review. She writes it at the kitchen table with the Cristina pen, which is how she has been writing the annual reviews since October two years ago. The pen has been writing for thirty-eight years now — hers and Cristina's together. When she uses it she can feel the weight of Cristina's thirty-six years of briefs in it. Not as memory. As structure. She is fifty-third years old. Thirty-four years into the second life.