The first thing you need to know is that I didn't mean to do it. Who would? But accidents happen, right? That’s what they always say. Accidents happen. Like when you spill milk or trip over your own feet. But this? This was different. This was a whole new level of accident.
It started with dirt. Just dirt. We were playing in the backyard, digging up worms and pretending we were explorers. My little brother, Timmy, was always the brave one, always the one to stick his hands into the muck first. So when he started rubbing his eye and whining about something being in it, I didn't think much of it. Just dirt, I thought. Just dirt.
Mom wasn’t home. She was at work, like always, leaving us to fend for ourselves. It was a familiar routine: her absence was the backdrop of our childhood, the canvas on which we painted our mischief. I remembered how she used hydrogen peroxide to clean her ears. She'd tilt her head, pour a few drops, and let it bubble and fizz. It always looked like magic to me, like some kind of science experiment. So I figured, why not? If it works for ears, it should work for eyes, right?
I went into her room, rummaging through her stuff until I found the bottle. It looked the same, same size, same color. I didn’t bother to read the label. Why would I? I was just trying to help. The intentions were pure, the execution catastrophically flawed.
"Hold still, Timmy," I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing. He squirmed, those little limbs wriggling like a fish out of water, but I held his head steady and poured a few drops into his eye.
At first, nothing happened. A brief moment of tranquility, a deceptive calm. Then, the fizzing started. Just like in Mom's ears. But this wasn't the gentle bubbling I remembered. This was violent, angry, a furious eruption of chemical warfare. Timmy screamed, a sound that cut through me like a knife, and in that split second, I knew I’d crossed an invisible line.
His eye started to bubble, the white turning to a sickly yellow, then to a horrifying black. It was like watching a time-lapse of decay, accelerated to real-time. Each second stretched into an eternity, the horror unfolding in slow motion. I dropped the bottle, my hands shaking like leaves in a storm. It wasn’t hydrogen peroxide. It was something else, something dangerous. The label read "Ayoola Industrial Strength Drain Cleaner." The kind of stuff you use to dissolve clogs, not clean ears. Or eyes.
Timmy was on the floor now, writhing in pain, his screams morphing into guttural, animalistic noises. I was frozen, paralyzed by the horror of what I’d done. My mind raced, trying to think of a solution, any solution, but there was nothing. No way to undo it. No way to fix it.
I grabbed the phone, my fingers fumbling over the buttons as I dialed 911. The operator’s voice was calm, too calm, as I tried to explain what had happened. They said help was on the way, but it felt like an eternity, an agonizing stretch of time where I could only hear Timmy’s cries echoing in my ears.
By the time the paramedics arrived, Timmy’s eye was a melted mess, a grotesque reminder of my mistake. They took him away, their faces a mask of professionalism, but I could see the horror in their eyes too. I was left alone, staring at the bottle, the label mocking me with its bright, bold letters, a cruel reminder of my naïveté.
Mom came home later, her face a mask of shock and disbelief. She didn’t yell, didn’t scream. She just looked at me, her eyes filled with a sadness that cut deeper than any words could. It was as if the air had been sucked from the room, leaving only a suffocating silence that pressed against my chest.
They say accidents happen. But this? This was something else. Something that would haunt me forever. Every time I close my eyes, I see Timmy’s face, hear his screams. I replay the moment like a broken record, the needle stuck on the worst part of the song.
I can’t escape it. The guilt wraps around me like a thick, heavy fog, suffocating and relentless. I try to wash it away, scrubbing my hands until they’re raw, but the dirt remains. The dirt that led to this, the dirt that filled my brother's eye, the dirt that now fills my soul.
And no matter how much time passes, I know I’ll never be able to cleanse myself of this stain. Forever trapped in the nightmare of that sunny afternoon, where innocence turned into a grotesque reality, all because I thought I was helping. The irony stings sharper than any scream. The dirt. Always the dirt.