Coming of Age with Acid

Written in a stream of consciousness. Unedited and Raw.

Burning flesh. That’s what my dog’s breath smells like. Why? I don’t know, but I should probably find out why. You’re most likely wondering why I know what that smells like. As an angsty teenager, I would burn my arms and legs with acid to try to feel something.

My father worked in a lab. He would take me to his job once a month until I was a junior. I would steal bottles of acid almost every time I visited the lab. It was the graphic on the warning label that sold me—the black figure of a hand with a crater in it from just a drop. It looked like someone carved a well into it. My dad said that wouldn’t happen exactly like that.

I was just curious. I would never practice on live animals. I liked animals too much. I liked them more than people. I didn’t even have the nerve to try it on roadkill or birds my cat would murder. It became a party trick of mine among me and my friends. Once it burned so deep I saw bone. Bone is surprisingly very white.

I’m sitting on my couch playing Street Fighter on my Switch. I’m about to get perfected by my opponent, who is playing the worst character in the game, Dan. I flip the game off to save myself from the embarrassment and pat Rosco on the head. He’s a good boy and an old hound.

He opens his trap like he's a T-Rex about to devour a nest of baby raptors and their mother. “Good gravy!” I screeched. His hot breath hit me. It felt as if the flesh on my face was going to peel right off.

I slide off the couch, my ass print indented in the cheap sofa. It’s a nice reminder that I’m a lazy sack of beans. I sighed, “What did you eat?” The old boy sat, charmingly tilting his head to my left with a look of confusion.

I moseyed around the small house looking for what he got into and scrolled on my smartphone at the same time. Why should I give my full attention to such a simple task like this?

At this point, I’ve looked in every room, and I don’t see or smell a thing. I shuffle into the kitchen as I’m reading a post about an art special in Street Fighter. Suddenly, I slip and slide falling on my right knee. My phone slaps down on the tile floor. It’s blood—mixed with turtle chunks and shell.