Pain - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Ben is in so much pain his complexion is ashen. His natural golden skin has sunken in tone to something so lifeless it scares me just to look at him. His eyes close and he sucks himself into a deeper place to cope. All I can do is stroke his salt 'n' pepper hair and hold his hand. It barely seems enough, yet his heart rate comes down almost twenty beats per minute. From time to time my eyes drop to the bedsheets, but mostly they are fixed on his face in a soft stare so that whenever he opens his eyes I'm the first thing he sees. I've been in his dark place before, felt more pain than I knew a human body could bare and it breaks me to see him hurting this way.
Chanyeol couldn't help but compare the night with his own state of mind. Just like those clouds, his insides were in a chaos. A mess. Something was bothering him. Something was hurting him. Something ached inside him. Something felt so wrong, so invalid but Chanyeol couldn't tell what. He tried to pin point the cause for this unexplained pain but failed. He tried to reason this unbearable burning but didn't find any. Everything felt so confused, just like a jumbled set of a puzzle.
A puzzle that Chanyeol didn't know how to solve.
Tom lay on the ground, his face closed in a grimace, is skin pale and clammy. Every few minutes he would scream, not like one of those guys in some Tarantino movie being tortured, but worse. It had a raw quality, the realness of a person consumed by a pain that knew no end or limit. Then he would go quiet, just panting. I should have been there at his side, at least then he would have known I cared. But instead I walked away, unable to bear it, leaving Sofia to talk constantly in his ears and stroke his hair until the paramedics took over. Then it was Sofia that climbed into the ambulance and disappeared in a whirl of blue light and blaring siren. I knew then I'd lost him, even if he survived. I was the one that stepped away rather than face his suffering.
Her eyes have frozen over like the surface of a winter puddle, robbing them of their usual warmth. She's in there, I know it, but it's like she just took a huge step back from life. I want to reach in and tell her it isn't hopeless, but she won't believe me. I want to rekindle her heat but her insides are too damp with uncried tears. I always knew she had pain inside, but now its visible on her face and I wish it would go away. I know that's a selfish want, people have a right to their pain, they don't ask for it - it just arrives like the gift you never wanted.
When asked to describe the pain of childbirth, my mother would smile sweetly and say, dear, just take all the drugs you can get. But my aunt was less coy, she relished telling me of the pain to come. 'It's like someone reaching inside you and pulling your guts out with their bare hands. It's like being ripped rather than cut. It's so intense that if you didn't know it would be over when the baby was born you'd be begging someone to just shoot you'. The only blessed thing, she said, is that the mind protects you somewhat from it's memory, five hours of brutal agony will seem like five minutes when you recollect. And by then you'll have the memory of holding your newborn for the first time and all that medieval torture you went through will seem like a price worth paying.
In the end it isn't dying that scares me but pain. If I don't wake up in the morning I will know nothing of it. My affairs are in order, my husband and children are as provided for as they are ever going to be. I have an army of friends committed to raising them like besotted aunts. I grieved for the loss of life I would should have had with them months ago, I cried until my eyes ran dry and my chest heaved violently. I'm not over it. I never will be. I wanted to see my daughter grow to be a woman and my son to be a man as good as his father. But that isn't my lot and I have accepted that the Lord has called me home before I was ready to come. I have stopped asking “Why me?” I have stopped raging at God. He works as fast as he can thought the scientists and doctors, I know. It just wasn't fast enough for me. So now just let me kiss the beloved people who have graces my life and go to Him. I am ready.
Slowly I tried to get up but quickly realized how futile it was when I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. Sharp pain lanced through my head and colorful spots flashed in front of my eyes, it felt like my whole body had been beaten and every movement caused some muscle or bone to ache. Regardless, I needed to get out of here...away from those things.
Wincing In pain I started to grab the corners of desks and at the cracks in the tile to help me pull myself way. I was careful to not look at the bodies I was pushing every which way to move, and extra careful to not to place my hands on the glass. But there was one second, one second I just happened to look down, and I saw the body of someone I knew and I recklessly started crawling forwards again and...
Crack. My hand came down on a piece of glass and I hissed in pain as every creatures face swiveled around...and looked at me.
It is truly amazing how every time someone feels emotional pain, it doesn't hurt as a cut or a bruise would. It's just this heavy feeling. Your head spins and it's as if your tongue feels too big for your mouth. You feel the need to wipe away non-existent tears that you want to form but they wont.
And It is truly amazing how every time you feel that pain the only explanation you can sum up, is how you caused that pain on yourself. All that does, though, is bring on even more pain.
Every ounce of you wishes you had the nerve to swing your body off the top of a building. To walk deep into the depths of the ocean and stay down under. To take a gun and place the cool metal down your throat, pulling the trigger, shooting away the pain.
Some days, I feel everything at once. Other days, I feel nothing at all. I don't know what's worse; drowning beneath the waves or dying from the thirst.
Searing fiery bursts pulsated around the wound, intensifying with each dragging step, jarring and brutal. With each step the pain amplified, the bloody muscle quivered, her consciousness ebbed. Black mists swirled at the edges of her mind drawing her into sweet oblivion.
We're all in the same game; just different levels. Dealing with the same hell; just different devils.
Blood was slowly oozing out of numerous wounds in his face and arm, a small but relentless flow of crimson, but however, he felt no pain;
They say the pain dulls with time, and that things will get better. But how can things be better when the reason the pain isn’t as bad anymore, is because I’ve forgotten? Over time, the memory of your presence has escaped my mind. I no longer see your face in strangers, and the things we once shared no longer bring tears to my eyes. If getting past the pain means forgetting you, then I choose suffer my entire life.
Her arms ached. No matter how she moved them, they were impossibly numb. Someone could cut them off and she wouldn’t feel a thing. She was exhausted. There was no way to sleep standing upright. It had been two days. No food. No water. Her numb arms were one of the least of her problems, thought they were an irritant. She stood on her tiptoes, relieving the pressure on her arms from the metal cuffs. She jerked back. If only these would break. She couldn’t stand the dusty, mute space in the cell. She couldn’t stand the bone-dry feeling in her mouth, how it ached when she tried swallowing. She couldn’t stand her stomachaches, caused by pangs of hunger. A matter of fact, all she could do was stand.
His pain was an icy wind choking the breath from his lungs and making a noose around his neck. It's savage, bitter blasts cut right to his bones and gripped his brain in it's freezing claws. His heart constricted in it's wake as if not sure if it should go on beating.
His pain was an ocean of unknowable depths, swift currents and lurking beasts.
I know it's coming and my muscles tense as much as they can. The knowing doesn't soften the blow. The bat is as hard as it looked and my leg is no ball. I feel the bone split into an untold number of fragments as my mind becomes inoperable. The pain takes me not far away, but deep inside myself to some primitive place that knows how to cope with the kind of pain that precedes death. My vision is blotched with violent colours that move and merge without pattern or design. The wall of pain still cripples but Edward swims back into view. His face is just as you'd imagine it to be if her were waiting for a bus. Then he smiles in a small way before continuing his narration of my end, “Lee, it's just no fun if you don't see it coming.” Then the bat falls onto my other leg...
His words splinter inside me causing more pain than the cancer. Terminal. Hospice. Comfort care only. He's telling me that there will be no more walks in the park, no more birthdays with Hank at the bowling alley and I won't see another snow season. My life from here on in is four walls and pain medication until I die. I don't want it, not any of it. Last year I put down my spaniel to save him from a a painful end, why can't I have the same? Perhaps if I scream and scream for pain medication I can get an overdose, slide out on a feather-lined cloud into the arms of the almighty.
The pain throbs in my guts, it's deep and warm, but not in a nice way. It feels like someone has their hand in there and are squeezing my organs first gently and then as hand as they can. When it wanes I can move, when it returns I can only hold still and breathe, breathe slow and deep until it has passed. There is no blood anywhere but my abdomen is purple and lumpy where it should be smooth. Every step feels like a nail bomb exploding in my innards. If it wasn't for Mary I'd curl right up here in the snow and let it take me away to the next life, but I promised I'd come home, so I must.
The pain was like a knife being twisted in my spine. It shots up fast, erasing every thought from my head and paralyzing my body. Apparently I screamed, but I don't recall that part, only the pain. It couldn't have lasted long though, the screaming, because by the time the paramedics arrived my speech could only come out in faltering gasps as I struggled to make my brain listen to their voices and respond with something appropriate. Fiona was kneeling by me - I remember that - stroking my hair over and over, saying it would be alright with a voice that betrayed her tears. There was no kind way to move me onto the stretcher. I am told I passed out for a time and I suppose that was a blessing. I've never felt anything so sweet as that morphine, taking me away onto a cloud of the purest nothing.
The pain commands my attention, it does not sit quietly in the background like garish wallpaper, it cows my brain into meek submission demanding a solution that I cannot provide. I used to think that the intermittent pains were the worst because they were chaotic, random. Now that they are constant I know that this is far more debilitating. Without a break in the pain I cannot formulate a thought, be generous in my nature or take enjoyment in anything at all. It is there when I eat, sleep, move in anyway. Despite my immobility my weight has plummeted below the level I have tried to diet to for years. I could slip into all of those dresses I bought in the crazy winter sales. I promised myself that the day I fitted into them I would party like a teenager, right now I'd settle for being able to move around the house pain-free, being able to listen to the radio and focus on the words. The doc wants me on morphine in the hospice, but I won't go...
His pain came like a sudden squall out at sea. Bullets of rain from ragged black clouds came pounding down with absolute brutality.
Incidentally her head ached and her shoulders ached and her lungs ached and the ankle-bones of both feet ached quite excruciatingly. But nothing of her felt permanently incapacitated except her noble expression. Like a strip of lip-colored lead suspended from her poor little nose by two tugging wire-gray wrinkles her persistently conscientious sickroom smile seemed to be whanging aimlessly against her front teeth. The sensation certainly was very unpleasant.
As he knelt in the freshly dug earth, roses clasped in one hand, memories ransacked his mind. Tormented with what could have been and what should have been, words and regrets taunted him with a savage intensity. The images were so acute, so crystal clear, it was like living with her ghost. How he longed to curl up in that rich loam soil and ebb into an eternal slumber, to be close to her forever more.
Dakota is almost at the aluminium frame of the hospital; look, a porter is coming out with a wheelchair and she’s in. But wait, that’s not the end of it. We’ll fast forward fifteen minutes, that’s all they’ll take to discover she has no health insurance. There, the porter is wheeling her out again. Look, you can see her. You can hear her too. She’s screaming like her guts are being ripped out with a blunt instrument even against this terrible wind that threatens to rip the limbs from the trees, especially the young ones. In five minutes she and the baby will die. I’m going to give you the price of saving her life in cash, the price the hospital needs to cover her expenses and you can either keep it or take it in there and save them both. I know you want the money right now so you can run out into that storm and save them but there is some information you need first. We have three envelopes to open here. Let’s see what is in the first one...
Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by .
I let out a strangled scream and feel blood well into my throat from the tongue I had just bitten through in vain attempt to keep quiet.
“Fourteen.” The white witch calls in satisfaction and the leather drags across the ground as the werewolf behind me pulls his arm back for another lashing.
I lose conscience on the next lash stroke and wake up chained to the wall again.
“Ciara?” Ajax asks.
“I’m fine.” I answer back, knowing it wasn’t true, and pass out again.
“We’re just not getting through to you anymore, are we?” She says, nudging me hard in the side with her pointed heel, the broken ribs there singing in agony and I barely lift my head to meet her gaze before slumping again, my energy drained by the fever that had taken hold of me and the infection settling into the wounds on my bloody back. “Chain her back up; we need to plan something different with this one.”
He knows what’s coming next. Sehun will start spending more and more time with them until he almost disappears. Jongin will only see him in school. Jongin will feel like half of him is missing. Then it will all start to go wrong. Then Sehun will appear on his lawn at stupid-o-clock in the morning broken and aching and Jongin will have to try to piece him back together while inside he’s just as broken himself. And then they’ll be back at the beginning again.
Rinse, wash, repeat.
The first time the pain Jongin felt was like a knife to the gut. Unbearable. Like he was being torn apart. At the time they were fifteen and Jongin hadn’t understood that he’d done wrong that his best friend would ditch him for some guy. He hadn’t realised he hadn’t done anything. He didn’t know that this was the only way Sehun knew how to love.
Those realisations came two or three cycles later.
After that the pain morphed into the dull ache of a thousand paper cuts laced across his skin – an ever-present throb that he can live with, but cannot ignore. Every time he moves, every time he breathes, the wounds reopen and weep until Sehun is back with him and giving Jongin his everything again.
Throughout my entire life, I've never felt the kind of pain I did when I saw the way you looked at her.
He loiters around inside me whilst I helplessly try to shut him out, scratching and aching my every bone, he crawls around in my stomach and fires spears at my heart. He pokes at my brain and plays with my mind. He whispers acidulous words inside my ears and bites at my tongue. He climbs up my spine, crushing my bones with his unbearable, unbeatable strength, demanding to be felt. He's the type of person to knock on your door and even when you so nervously refuse his company and say there is no room for him to stay, he will tell you not to worry because he has brought his own chair, only difference is he is not human. He is an emotion and I call him pain.
I sat there, tears pricking my eyes, pale hands trembling with fear and sadness. I've been trying to block out the screams, but now it's impossible, the noise ripping my heart.
At first it was the occasional wince of a groan, but then it got louder and move constant. The groans became screams as Janson operated more and more buttons, switchers and levers. I had my head in my hands, crying endlessly.