Bloody Knife Drawing Novels & Stories

The grouping of wolves that were forced to watch stayed stock-still in silence; fear and disgust holding them in place as their brother slowly withered away from the brutal disfiguration that was making their stomachs roll. Using the deadly sharp knife, Corbin cut a wound down to the waistband of Elliot’s trousers that was now large enough for a small person to climb in through and hideaway amongst the gore. He then brought the knife up to the very top of his shoulder blades and drew the knife left to right, forming a ‘T’ shape in the muscle, before letting the knife clatter to the floor as he stood up and back a couple of steps to admire his handiwork so far, ignoring the sticky blood that

Eyes paused on the three leaf clover image of the Townsend that hung on the wall. I returned to my reading. Till her voice cuts through the air. “She is doing well” she says, taking the farthest seat away from the head of the table. “I did not ask” not bothering to lift my head from the book I was reading. I needed to figure out how to extract my blood from the blade now that it is in my hands. If I could do that, the blade was a quarter of a fraction useless to my opponents. The remaining third would fall in place later.

Her eyes glistened wide and desperate as if they might shatter at any second. Her bloody hands, held a knife to my face, shaky “Please,” she whispered. “Help me.”

I stood upright and gripped the knife tighter in my hand as I heard the key in the lock of the door. The door swung open and I stuck the knife deep into his neck as he started forward shock all over his face as he saw the empty chair and the ropes on the floor. I had my arm around the back of his neck and I pulled the knife out slowly as I looked at him. I stabbed him in the neck again as his blood splattered across my face and I pulled the knife sideways severing his artery and his blood spurted out onto my chest and arms. I let him fall to the floor and took the gun from the holster on his hip. I checked the magazine, it was still full and the gun was one-up.

She turns her arm slightly, examining the marks before letting her hands fall back to her sides. Her eyes are drawn to the small table beside the mirror, where there is a box that was not there before. Yet, she knows what it contains. Next to the box lies a thin knife, its blade no larger than a letter opener. She picks it up delicately, and with no flinch and no sound, she lifts her hand and draws the blade across her palm in one smooth motion, cutting into the skin. She presses her hand to the mirror, dragging her fingers in deliberate strokes. The blood smears into shapes and curved lines. Symbols that don’t belong to any common language.

"Where's Irene? What's happening?" They were in the abandoned room with no light around. She saw a pot with a sort of chemicals nearer. Along, her gaze fell on two boys tied with ropes. Their condition was disturbing. One had lost his upper skin. The scars of injury showed they went through a rough time. There was a mark of the cat's claws all around his eye. His hands seemed to break vigorously. The blood was flowing deep down to his knees, covering them. Even his feet seemed like someone cut them apart.

But I wouldn’t give up. “So, is she dead? Is my cousin and her baby dead?” Ji’lahni asked in a broken voice. We all heard a big crash looking up we see Shadow growling half shifted. His mate jumped away from him in fear looking confused by his reaction to the question. I quickly answered the question. “No, she isn’t dead yet but she isn’t out of the woods she is still in very grave danger. But I must say she’s a fighter and so is her baby, it was very touch and go, But the issue is that whatever kind of knife was used isn’t a regular knife. It seems to be some kind of magical knife that once it enters the body or whatever it cuts won’t heal and the person would bleed to death because noth

If your father’s enforcers try to attack us, my rogues will paint these stands red with human blood. Richard reached into his jacket and pulled out a long, curved silver hunting knife. The metal blade caught the dim overhead light, gleaming dangerously. He walked over to my dad’s chair, his boots crunching against the wet ice. He grabbed my dad by his gray hair, pulling his head back brutally to expose his neck. Richard pressed the sharp edge of the silver knife directly against my dad’s throat. A tiny line of red blood instantly trickled down his skin, staining the collar of his flannel shirt.

Without hesitation I grab the penholder from the table, lofting my hands I hit hard on Riley's forehead. "My goodness," he screeches along with hisses, crouching his body a little he places his right palm on the wounded area, he moves down his hand, those pair of brown eyes widens in horror when he sees the blood. Crimson red liquid flows down at the side of his face, running my hand through my hair I look away as he gapes at me with furrowed eyebrows ,squinted dyes curiously. In a blink of an eye I snatch the pen knife on the table, seizing the second of his lost attention I use the tiny blade of the pen knife. The left sleeve of his white shirt absorbs blood the very next second.

So it did. Why be apologetic to those who were not, in essence, willing to apologize. It brought the knife down again. Into the cheek, where the flesh was soft. Into the eye, which popped like bubble-wrap, blade bending on the skull socket. Heaved the knife out. Stabbed the man in the chest. When the knife withdrew, air cooed through flesh from the deflating lung beneath. Blood ran down its face. War paint. It lurched to its feet, slipping in the gore but steadying itself against the wall and knocking more photos from their hooks. Glass tinkered across floorboards. Moments spliced from history escaping broken frames.