Burns on Snow Christina Liu The moment I opened my eyes, a soft haze of icy pale blue filled my vision. It was the first fall of goose down, of confectioner’s sugar, of dandelion puffs. Slipping out of my comfortable bed, I was greeted with a soft chill that was just enough to make me want to fall into the warmth of my kitchen.
I slipped into my socks and made my way to the stove. Even though I was only eight-years-old, I was tall enough to see above the counters. My mom was hulling and dicing strawberries. The red stains under her nails were pretty, and when I told her so, she smiled and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. Then, out of the blue, she said, “I thought that you might like to spend the day with Sarah, so I arranged to leave you two together in this apartment, and I don’t want it to be a mess when I come back, understood?” “Yes, mom. I won’t touch the stove, use the oven, open the door to strangers, climb out the window, go outside, play with the snow, feed the pigeons and squirrels on the windowsill...” I was going to go on and on like this, but, fortunately, my mom stopped me from doing so. Soon, after bundling up, she left me in the apartment with a kiss. A few minutes later, Sarah rang the doorbell. “Hey! So, we have the whole place to ourselves! This is going to be fun,” she said. Yep, it sure is, I thought to myself. Sarah was my neighborhood friend. We had a lot in common, such as our favorite books, hobbies, and songs. I grinned at her and asked if she wanted to see a new toy that I had gotten for my birthday. It was a chemistry kit with shiny, glazed surfaces and strange chemicals and gadgets that I was dying to try out. I knew that the labeling said the set was for kids ages eleven and older, but I knew that I wasn’t clumsy enough to mess up. We set about putting everything on the counter, fitting together pieces, and sorting out the different chemicals. After a bit of mixing and pouring, we finally got to the part with the Bunsen Burner. I read the instructions on the page but misread the part about isopropyl alcohol. I thought that I should pour it into the fire and went to get a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Are you sure we should do that? My mom says that pouring alcohol into fire makes it burn even more,” Sarah warned me. “I’m sure. See, it says it right here,” I wave the page at her. Did the clocks all stop, or was it just me? Did the snow stop falling from the sky? Why wasn’t the fire moving like it was supposed to? I poured the alcohol into the fire. The fire died. Then it reared up on its hind legs, and I was momentarily stunned. My hand was close to the flames, and my nerves signaled for me to pull my hand away, but it was too late. Long sharp needles of fire pierced my palm, sending alarms running to my brain, the place where I had not adequately consulted before my foolish act. I dashed to the medicine cabinet for the bottle of aloe vera gel that we kept. I rubbed some onto my burns, hoping that they would heal. My mom soon came home, scolded me for my brainless decisions, and put more gel onto the wounds. Sarah and her mom left, leaving the apartment to my mom and me. At night, the burns had receded a little, but the pink flesh was still bright on my hands, reminding me of my rash behavior. I looked out the window, seeing that the goose down, confectioner’s sugar, and dandelion puffs on the ground had been trampled on, messed with, ruined. I noticed that the snow was still falling, so I stuck my head out into the wind to taste the snowflakes and to let a soft tear trickle down my cheek, dripping onto the already gray snow.
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