wound or injury - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
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 either gently or 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 ha 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 water envelops me as closely as my own skin. Every new sore stings with the salt being washed in, but it is the only way to avoid infection. I wince as it swirls without mercy, penetrating to the cells that should be protected by smooth skin but lie open and raw. After the initial surge of pain it ebbs and I can even enjoy my newfound weightlessness for a while, before Simon comes to say it's time to get dry before the heat of the day has gone. With great reluctance I place my palms on the edge of this sea-water tank and push down hard and fast. The briny me-stew splashes onto the concrete in lines of spray as I move into the outstretched towel...
Mac rose unsteadily to his feet, it was against doctors orders to be moving right now but he needed the washroom and he'd have to have both legs broken before he'd ask for assistance with that...He was startled to see a face glaring back that was more purple than any other colour. On impulse he reached for his gun, absent of course, and he felt foolish in his hospital gown. it was of course a mirror and his own beleaguered features staring back through swollen eyes. Between the wallops given by steel capped shoes his skin was simply grey. His nose was a new shape entirely and his head lumpy and mis-shaped. He tried to recall what had lead to this, how was it he was here and in this state. His last memory was of his wife kissing him before work. Then he noticed his hair, grey. Why was it grey? Nothing was making any sense and now he felt sick. Where was Rebecca, why wasn't she here to explain it all, to shower him in kisses and talk about her latest book?
In the light that flows water-like through the windows of the old bank I strip off my topmost layer. On each arm there are great purple welts that will only deepen over the coming week. Against my ghostly skin they are grotesque, but I know I am lucky not to have broken bones - then what would I do? I sigh and reach for my long sleeved top again. I look as beat up as I did in my early days of training, sparring with guys two heads taller and over twice my mass. At least they didn't go for my face, I don't need to be walking about looking like I came off worse in a fight. They aren't to know I dispatched three would be gang members in some stupid initiation ambush. I suck in a deep breath, it's been a helluva weird day.
The mud and grit had become enmeshed with raw pink flesh and was spotted with blood. One thing was for sure, it was going to be very painful to clean and Randy's money was on it getting infected too. He washed it with the water from his hiking bottle, grimacing as he rubbed. Then he limped back to camp.
There was the white jagged end of a broken bone cutting through the skin and blood ran freely in thick scarlet rivers amongst the hairs of his leg, matting them together before it soaked into his once white football socks.
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.
Tara was trying not to stare at his nose but she kept finding her eyes had diverted to it. One moment they were obediently on his red-rimmed eyes and the next they were rested on the bloody mess that had been a perfectly ordinary nose only hours before.; so ordinary in fact that she could not recall what it had looked like.
When she comes back just five minutes later I know there's a problem... and there is. From her right elbow to her hand there is no more skin, only raw and weeping flesh in various shades of pink and red. The same can be said of her knee. She moves the way people do when they're in pain and before she speaks I know this is somehow my fault.
I lay on my hands and knees as blood pools onto the floor, soaking the knees of my jeans. I sigh. If only death wasn't so afraid of me. I press a pale hand to my stomach, sealing the wound shut. But no, I have made a promise to Arwin. And though the complexities of human emotions are a mystery to us demons, we do understand one thing: how to make deals...and keep our word.
He tipped the bottle up-side-down over his head. A paroxysm of agony triggered a guttural cry from the Hunter. His hands clawed over his raw face. The bottle smashed to the ground, and chips of clear glass skated under tables and chairs. Livale gritted his teeth together and looked up. The worst of the blood had washed away, but his face was brutally gashed. The most prominent of scars travelled from his forehead to his jaw, right across his right eye. Those scars would remain with him until the day he died.
A deep wound is sliced in the flesh of my upper right arm. It's heavily oozing out blood and there's a bluish-purple bruise forming around it. I lightly press my index finger against the center of the cut and suck in a sharp breath as the pain spirals all across my body. Colorful spots contour the sides of my eyes and I have to bite my lip from the pain of it all.