Amputee Fiction Stories Novels & Stories

A homeless man had been forcibly ejected from the train by the police for sleeping in the carriage. The poor man had been publicly humiliated, and as he was restrained and forced from the carriage, he’d turned to the apathetic onlookers and in a deep gravelly voice, and said, “What do you want from me? Just because you don’t want to see it, it doesn’t mean it’s not happening. I’m just going to be homeless somewhere else!”

your Owner says calmly gesturing toward you with pride, “This my bunny. She's a quad amputee. Fresh from surgery a couple days ago. As you can see No arms, no legs. Completely dependent." The bearded one steps closer.He reaches out and pokes one of your arm stumps with a finger. You flinch and a small whimper escapes the ring gag. “Jesus Christ… look at these stumps. She really can’t move at all?”

“The bullet caused heavy bleeding and fractured the femur. We are trying to repair the damage and restore blood flow. If the surgery does not work, we may have to amputate the leg.” The word amputate hit like a blow to the head. “No,” I said. It came out small. “Please.” “We are doing everything we can,” he said. “We will update you when we know more.” He turned and went back through the doors. They closed again with a soft thud. I bent forward and pressed my palms to my eyes. Heat filled my face. Tears pushed through my fingers anyway. My shoulders shook. I felt sick. I pictured Ethan walking. Running. Lifting Lucas. Climbing stairs two at a time. I could not place that picture next to a mi

Zoe’s POV “What? You remember that?” I asked, my voice hitching. Arman looked away coolly. “Look, a coffee shop. Let’s have that coffee and then talk.” He opened the car door and climbed out on his own. He walked as gracefully as one could while struggling with a crutch. I wasn't surprised he didn’t need a wheelchair; only one leg had been injured, and he had healed remarkably well. The nurses had taken excellent care of him while he was in the coma.

" I glanced through the proposal, which was quite detailed and professionally done. The rehabilitation was meant for those who were wounded and those who lost partial mobility due to earthquakes. Some of them were amputees, some had spinal cord injuries, while some others suffered nerve damage in their legs, just like I did. I agreed to do it, not because of Kenneth but because of the victims. It was because I understood that physical recovery wasn't the most challenging part after crawling out of the rubble. The most difficult part of it all was learning to believe that they could get back up on their feet once again.

Now, he was a shell of himself, and she moved to the seat at his side, wiping a tear off her cheek. “You look like shit,” she whispered to him and earned a smile. “I feel like it,” he whispered back, “I heard one of the doctors say something about amputating my leg. Don’t let them take my leg.” “Sonny, this is why you don’t fuck around with diabetes and wounds.” “Look at us, a pair of babies,” he muttered and reached a weathered hand to wipe a tear off his own cheek. “Ruthie would have beaten me into the dirt,” he admitted sadly.

"They're — he talked about you like—" "Like I wasn't a person," I said. "I know. I've read them many times. It stopped hurting after the second reading and started being useful after the third." Amara looked at me for a long moment. "I want to write this story," she said. "All of it. The payments, the financial collapse, the messages. The full picture." "I know," I said. "That's why I called you." "It will be significant," she said. "This won't just be a Detroit story."

"Hendrix, do you even know what kind of condition I'm in right now? I got into a car accident. That car ran right over my legs. But you know what the funny thing was? "There were so many bystanders around at the time, yet not a single one was willing to take me to the hospital. By the time I found someone to take me there, it was already too late. I had to have my legs amputated, and my wound got infected after the surgery. "So, I'm stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. Now tell me, Hendrix—are you happy with this outcome?" Nathan's voice began to tremble as he spoke, the hatred within it unmistakable.

I always felt fine being here, shutting out the world and its politics. “Can I look at that?” I ask the gamma whose arm was amputated two days ago. When we broke the news to him, he didn’t even move, just stared at the wall, not saying anything. I wondered if that’s how he takes to pain, but when I found him crying late in the bathroom, I managed to stay with him while he broke down. I didn’t leave, just patted his shoulder. “Doc,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

My mind scrambles to catch up, to process what he’s just said. “What are you talking about?” I demand, my voice gaining strength despite the burning in my throat. The doctor hesitates, exchanging a look with the nurses before sighing. “You suffered severe injuries. We had no choice but to amputate your left arm from the elbow down. You were fitted with a biometric prosthetic to replace the lost limb.” No. No. That can’t be right. My breath hitches. My stomach churns. I lift my right hand to rub at my temples, trying to make sense of it all. Then, without thinking, I raise my left arm to touch my face—