burning pain - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The pain takes over a portion of my brain, as if dealing with it is energy expenditure enough, without the effort of new thoughts. It steals the part of me I most want to share with others, my light and laughter, my generous heart. It is the sort of pain that burns, as if some invisible flame where held against my skin. The emotions of loss are that way, right? Death, abandonment or betrayal, they all lead here.
The pain has an unpleasant warmth to it, eating at my stomach. There's nausea too, just enough to make me hold onto the table for support and breath slow. I've often prized myself in ignoring pain and just rocking on regardless, but that just isn't possible right now. It owns me, dominates every thought, controls every action.
Pain sears through my abdomen better than a branding iron, my mind conceding to the torment, unable to bring a thought to completion. Without meaning to my body curls into something fetal, something primeval and all the while the pain burns and radiates.
The pain isn't sharp like a needle point or a knife, it burns around my innards better than boiling water. Everything feels scolded and, move or not, I'm in more pain than I could have ever imagined was possible. A bullet would be a mercy right now but an increase in the sickly morphine is the best I can hope for.
The pain is increasing in waves, small lulls giving false hope of an end. Each peak robs my ability to speak, sends me crashing to the bare boards. It's as though my blood has become acid, intent of destroying me from the inside out. All I can do is writhe, the occasional whimper escaping to echo off the walls.
He ran on the spot, stamping his feet for a few seconds, and then jogged halfway down the lane and back, still thumping, and finally, he threw himself to the ground, clutching his arm, and rolling first one way, and then the other, in agony. The pain was deep within his arm, stinging and burning, almost as if the humerus bone was smouldering, and in the far distance, thought he'd heard an evil laughing.
He wanted it so badly. He was able to make it, watch it, even smell it but he couldn't touch it. That's what he want most to feel it in between his fingers. The wait whats giving him a burning pain. All he wanted was it touch it but yet no matter how hard he tries. it slips every time.
His mind screamed out as the pain drove through his back. Every thought he just had became confused as the burning pain licked up his back like scorching fire. The only thoughts he had was 'like knife through butter.' He weeped at his own suffering. He could hear people around him screaming and shouting. Mentally anger swiped through at this chaos and pain, pain for those around him he wanted to protect them increasing his own agony in defense of others. But he couldn't. He rolled up in a ball of self loathing and pain, wishing the world to end rather then this sea of endless currents some strong some weak but the waves always crashed over him, permanently.
A wave of pain suddenly washed over him and Kolya; it was exquisite, and debilitating even for most experienced of fighters. For both he and Kiesel it was the worst burning sensation either had ever felt, even worse than actually being burned. Adrenaline had masked the jagged injury for at least a little while, but now it was biting. Kolya began to fight it but Kiesel was slipping away, and dragging him down.
Kolya's throat gurgled as he struggled to breathe, spitting blood. His body was shaking he was sweating. Slowly breathing hard he dragged himself into a sitting position hand clutching his side as an electric shock from the wound went through his body, and then caught fire. The pain was merciless without escape.
For a second he felt too weak too continue, his head fell onto his shoulder his eyes flickered. Eventually, the pain settled into a sort of sharp throbbing that kept time with both Kolya's and Kiesel's heart, like someone was poking both repeatedly with a burning stick.
I thought that silence was painful, when we sat down and couldn't hear a noise. You would get the delayed ticking of the clock that hangs on the far side of the room, and the beating of your pulse against your skin. This noise makes me want to beg to a god I don't believe in to give me that silence, the peaceful quiet. When I first heard that noise, the cry, I think I died. It started as if a buzz of a bee on the other side of the wall, but mutated into a shrill, a painful screech which shattered glass back into the sand it was made from. The piercing cry dug deep within me, deep within, going through anything and everything. It was ear-splitting and piercing, my ears popped and my drums burst, and streams of blood began to flood my earholes, and dip off of my earlobes. My eyes watered in agony until my cheeks were waterlogged and the floor became a pond made of my tears and blood.