Creative Writing: Bleach and Revenge

Bleach, such a wonderful concoction. It boasts to remove any stain, disinfect any surface, and eliminate any unfavorable odors. My house alone always has two gallons on hand for the laundry and typical cleaning duties. It is the answer to every question. How do I get this grass stain out? Bleach. The wine bottle left a ring on the kitchen counter, what should I use? Bleach. The cat pissed on the … Bleach goddamnit!

The scent of bleach, I find, is indescribable because it is different for everyone. Odors are so tied into memory that you do not simply smell bleach, you are inhaling a moment. Whenever the strong cure-all wafts beneath my nostrils, mixed with steaming hot water, I think of turtles. Growing up, my mother promoted us to keep pets so once I had collected the normal domestic animals, I moved to the more exotic. I brought home my first turtle, a red-eared slider whom I named Revenge. I loved to see her sunning on her floating rock and swimming endlessly in the corner, as if she thought the glass would expand and give way to a new place to roam. Her webbed feet would stretch and scratch on the tank as she pushed her large shell forward, only to bump back to her original position.

Being young, I thought nothing of the future so I was surprised when the time came to clean the tank. I placed Revenge in the bathroom sink and brought the tank into the kitchen. The smell wasn’t bad, until a removed the filter and ran it under hot water. The rank odor clung to my nose hairs and pulled fiercely, causing my eyes to water. I gagged involuntarily, my stomach heaving and the back of my throat attempting an emergency escape. My mind raced to identify the horrific smell and settled on over ripe pumpkins and decaying fish. It was so strong that it stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter, thick and layered.

What will get rid of this smell? Bleach. I grabbed the bottle and practically emptied it into the tank. The scent of the bleach swam with decayed stench, but instead of eliminating it, it merely added to it. It still had the same smell, but it gave it more power, more range. Bleach carried the horrid stench on it’s back and paraded it around the other rooms. Once I finished scrubbing, making sure that everything was clean and safe for Revenge, I refilled the tank and placed her in it. She swam straight to the corner, pushing her webbed feet against the glass.

I cleaned the tank once a week for three years before I donated Revenge to a local school for a class pet. She got a brand new filter and a larger tank, it seems her pushing and pulling at the corners finally enlarged her world. It has been years since I last cleaned the tank but whenever I use bleach, I think of that first moment. Before, bleach never really smelled like anything. Now it smells like over ripe pumpkins and decaying fish. For a product that is supposed to remove a stain and make it as if it had never occurred, it is strange that it creates an irremovable memory that was worse than the stain.