Just a Dash of Formaldehyde

The label on the jar read, formaldehyde.

Ichabod gingerly lifted the glass jar in his fingers. It was the last ingredient he required for his healing elixir. Not a lot of medicines, of course, would require something like formaldehyde. But this medicine was not like others. For one, he only planned to use it once. For another, its healing properties were to be something revolutionary- the ability to vanish scars.

Ichabod glanced down at his palms. Each was dotted with strange, bone-deep markings. They had existed ever since he could remember, but he didn't know where they were from. What he did know was that they filled him to the core with mysterious sorrow and pain, an inexplicable hurt that came without warning or reason, and which he could not stop.

He wanted the scars gone.

Holding his breath, he stirred up the elixir and applied the tiniest of drops to his left hand. This medicine had never been tested; it was a new formula. The theory was that the scars would heal into smooth skin, but in all honesty, Ichabod wasn't sure what would happen. He closed his eyes a few brief moments, then peeked at his hands.

First, he noticed his scars were not healed. Second, he saw that the chemical had eaten right through his skin, leaving the scars vivid and intact. 

His face contorted in pain and he jumped up, rushing to the water basin and plunging his hands in. The water that splashed up for the basin clung to his face, mixing with salty tears of pain. Another failure.

He bandaged his hands and threw the elixir away, leaving everything else on the table; several glass test tubes, a book, and a jar. The label on the jar still read formaldehyde.