Crash!
Rows upon rows of beakers dominoed onto the bathroom floor, cascading into malodor. Shoving tissues up his nostrils, Tom stretched up for the window, faffing around by touch until he found a groove. Heaving twice, it opened with a swoosh, as incoming air puffed aside the cloud of acetone and acid.
Tom took a breath, then gasped as his throat stung. Clenching a fist around a mop, tears of anger filled his eyes as he swabbed the floor.
His face writhing in agony, a couple of seconds passed; then a dozen, then a minute. Bit by bit, the mop disintergrated with each swipe; flakes of cloth dissolving and bubbling away into fumes.