Bloody Finger Story Novels & Stories

I sigh and pick up the large hunting knife. "How much do you like your fingers?" I ask him. His hands are retrained to the arms of the wooden chair so I could easily take a finger off. He doesn't answer so I grab his hand a force his little finger out, pressing the sharp edge against the skin until a drop of blood forms. I can see him trembling but he doesn't speak, so I push the knife down quickly and slice clean through his finger. He screams again and there is more blood but he still won't talk. "This is just the beginning unless you talk to me."

There’s nothing worse than exhaustion from too much exposure to the cold. This coming from someone who used to think that the torture methods used in Dad’s–and every other organized crime group–was bad. For instance, having your finger chopped off in order to get information out of you, sucked. I was ten years old when I walked in on Dad and his men sitting in the kitchen, not thinking much of it. Until I noticed a man sitting amongst them, crying, and clutching a bloody hand to his chest. It took a few seconds for me to comprehend why a massive, grown-ass man would be sobbing like that. Then I spotted the severed finger on the kitchen table.

The dripping of blood down his finger seemed to form a rhythm as the peeled skin and mutilated flesh hung low over the pincers. It was almost difficult to pick up but I could hear him begging under his breath now. Pleading won't help, I only want the name of the person who hired him. I wanted to make this last as long as possible but I am also getting bored so I got straight to business and broke the bone, cutting off the finger completely. Blood continued to pour out of the hole in his hand. His scream of agony rented the air again as the finger dropped on the table. I picked it up and looked at it, not quite impressive but there's more from where that came from.

The head priest would die of shock if he ever heard someone say that. House Silverclaw sent us a severed index finger in a box. It looked like it belonged to Sully. The skin color was the same. So was the small scar that Sully got when she accidentally cut her hand in a sharp blade; the wound was deep and took a long time to heal, leaving a scar as a reminder.

SLICE. White-hot agony shot up my arm as he severed my pinky finger clean off. I screamed. Blood sprayed across the table. My finger rolled off and landed in a puddle of whiskey and dirt. Scarface leaned in close, his breath rancid. "You have twenty-four hours," he whispered. "Bring me the girl... or I kill you, your whore mother, and your useless father. Then I'll find your little sister and fuck her until she breaks." He kicked my severed finger across the floor.

A scream ripped from my throat as blood poured from the stump where my finger had been. "I swear I didn't!" I shouted, tears blurring my vision. "Hmmm," Damien mused, walking in a slow circle around me. "Maybe you didn't. Perhaps," he said, stopping directly in front of me, "you told someone about it." "No!" I gasped, shaking my head frantically. "I didn't-" Before the words were fully out of my mouth, another searing jolt of pain shot through me. I glanced down in horror to see my second finger rolling across the dusty floor.

" she said and tied their mouths..after tying up she took hand of one of them, grab his middle finger and cut it into two pieces with the speed of light..and did the same with all of them.. They were trying to shout and resist as much as they could but everything looked like a failure to them.. Rose went behind them and opened their mouth.."Now tell me, who was it??" "We really.."one of them tried to say but was interrupted. "Just know that you still have 19 fingers left.."she smiled devilishly. "His..his..Uncle." One of them shouted. Arthur who was shocked from the cruel scene of finger cutting in front of him was dumbfounded and couldn't hear a thing at all.

"So, I have a theory that something malicious happened inside our school that made the blind man that angry... to the point he was ghosting the school." My head suddenly ached, feeling the same spinning sensation before. I saw the blind man lying down the library as I have dreamed of. There was only him who's left inside. There was a gun. Probably mom's gun she left. The blind man's right hand hardly tried to reach the gun. A couple of trials and attempts made, until he successfully reached the gun and held it tight. He was bathing in his own blood, as he tried picking up a book placed on the floor. It was old and big. He tried to sit, hardly moving because of his blood lost.

The thoughts made her get her baby blades, and the first place that got cut were Sancho's fingers. The fingers he held the guns with to shoot her parents, those f**king fingers! His cries flew into the night sky, sending signals to the birds and flies, he's in the 99th hell as she cut off the fingers of his second hand too, picturing how he shot the gun in her head. The fingers fell on the ground like raw grains of rice, and she went for his arms next, cutting them off completely at once. "F**k!" Sylvester spat as he witnessed the arms going down.