If you grew up in the late ‘80s or early ‘90s, you remember it.
Skinned knees on gravel roads. Splinters from wood fences.
And then... the glass bottle of doom.
Mom or Dad would reach into that rusty ol’ medicine cabinet and pull out Mercurochrome or Merthiolate—glowing red or orange, like radioactive lava in a tiny bottle. The moment that liquid hit your skin, it was like your soul tried to leave your body. It stung like betrayal. It burned like judgment.
Some of the usual suspects:
Mercurochrome – Bright red. Contained mercury. Left a mark—and a trauma response.
Merthiolate – The spicy cousin. Also mercury-based, but with extra sting for maximum tears.
Iodine – Brown as regret. It wasn’t antiseptic—it was a punishment ritual.
Campho-Phenique – Menthol and phenol teamed up to ensure you felt the healing.
Rubbing Alcohol – For parents who believed if it didn’t burn, it wasn’t working.
Hydrogen Peroxide – The fizzy one. Fun to watch, slightly less brutal, still not gentle.
Bactine – The only safe space. The “softie” spray. Rarely used. Probably expired.
Back then, if it didn’t hurt, it wasn’t helping. That was the rule. For humans and horses.