Blood Stained Concrete Novels & Stories

A dim light asides the light coming from the vent by the wall shone in the room. However, I could not see the person who was seated in the chair. I took note of the crimson red colour stain on the floor and I knew it was blood. It had dried up and could be mistaken for the colour used to mix the dark cemented ground. I knew for a fact that the person there had been tortured and battered and my heart went out to whoever it was when the thought and possibility hit me that it could as well be Sabrina, my friend. I casted Sawyer and inquisitive glance demanding answers but he remained calm and collected.

she confessed. With his free hand he ran through his hair, tousling those thick locks in a way that made Leia's heart beat faster. That and the boyish blush on his cheeks which had her convinced wasn't just from the swamp heat. Her eyes returned to watch the swirl of red gravel drifting towards the storm drain. Sterling attacked the crimson stains with new vigor and bleach as an awkward silence fell between them. Neither of them will willingly to break it just yet. But unfortunately the chemicals Sterling had already poured on the blood stains had masked any scents of her wolf she might have found directly at the murder scene.

With my trembling hands, I grabbed the handle of the door, and it had just opened when Bell's scream froze us. I furrowed my eyebrows and turned back only to see her pale face with widened eyes. She covered her mouth with her hands and panicked. We followed her gaze and stared at the sink. The sight I saw sent chills down my spine. Blood was flowing instead of water from the tap, which had blown us all away. I choked in the air as she showed us the blood across her lips. "I told you, Bell. But still, you didn't listen to me."

“You should be frightened by anything that moves when it shouldn't.” “Thank you. I feel vindicated and worse.” They continued. The culvert bent left after twenty yards, and the water grew louder around the turn. Rowan slowed before reaching it. He crouched near the wall, beam pointed downward. “Blood.” Evelyn’s stomach tightened. A faint smear marked the concrete just above the waterline. It was not old enough to be brown, nor fresh enough to shine. Gabriel looked ahead. “Dragged?” “No,” Rowan said. “Handprint.”

My fingers, locked in the spasms before death, were still clutching the torn admission slip. My nails had turned a dark bluish-purple, embedded deeply into my flesh. The blood that had flowed from my temple had long dried, forming a dark red stain on the concrete. Mom walked over and nudged my stiff foot with the tip of her heel, her expression full of disgust. "What kind of act are you putting on now?" She rolled the zero-score paper into a tube and struck my shoulder with it. "You think a bit of fake blood is going to get you out of copying this paper a hundred times?"

I walk back. Not fast, just back, retracing the eight steps between the last marker and the stain, and I stand over it and look down at the concrete. The stain is dark and large and the forensic team has put a ring of markers around it, numbers eight through eleven, and photographed it from multiple angles judging by the scuff marks around the ring where they repositioned. I take my backpack off and set it against the wall. "Kira," Dante says, from behind me. "I know."

The blood on the marble never really went away. No matter how hard I scrubbed, some part of it stayed—staining the stone, staining my hands, staining the air with that iron, sick‑sweet scent. “Faster, omega.” The command cracked across the grand hall like a whip. I was on my knees in the center of it, fingers numb from cold and lye, rag clenched between raw knuckles as I worked at a stubborn, rust‑brown smear. Drops of dirty water slid down my wrists and soaked the threadbare sleeves of my dress.

This was supposed to be simple, I remind myself. Just clean up the mess. Get rid of the evidence. But as I pick up the bucket and step out of the bathroom, my legs feel heavy, like I’m wading through thick hot tar. The smell hits me before I even see the stain. It’s faint but metallic, sharp enough to turn my stomach. And when I see it—the dried blood on the hardwood floor—something inside me snaps. My knees buckle as I drop the bucket to the floor, staring at the mess. Elizabeth’s blood.

The metallic tang of blood still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of bleach as the henchmen worked tirelessly to clean the mess. Their movements were efficient, almost mechanical, but no amount of effort could erase the faint crimson stains that seeped into the cracks of the old floor.

4 o'clock in the afternoon I decide to leave the room and walk to the living room, this is where everything happened. Even though they cleaned the sofas, carpet, and left everything in order, nothing erased what happened here. I look at the table in the living room and see a rug that wasn't there before. I approach and lift the carpet, there it is, the blood stain from my body staining the tile. The memory of the horror I went through! I go to the kitchen, grab a sponge and sandpaper, go back to the living room and try to remove the stain at any cost, I just wanted it to disappear, as if nothing had happened. Looking at the stain hurt more than the scar on my body.