روايات وقصص ضمن Blue Veins In Palm Of Hands Suddenly

The symptoms were exactly as Hazel had described them. All seven of them were unconsciousness, sweating and had black veins under their skin. What confused her though, was the location and spreading of the veins. Six people only had few black veins in the abdominal area, while the seventh… it was hard to find places were he hadn't any. Not that she'd seen their whole bodies herself, but the doctor, an old man with glasses, had described it to her and he had taken off the seventh man shirt to let her see.

His hands tremble, not from weakness but from the strange hum pulsing beneath his skin. Something inside him has changed. Is still changing. He keeps walking until he reaches the abandoned outpost near the ridge—a ruin swallowed by vines and time, far enough from both packs to be ignored. This is where he first bled for the cause. This is where he returns now. His fingertips twitch. There’s a sensation just under the surface of his skin, like veins stretching, straining. He yanks his glove off and stares. Black. His veins run darker now, like ink spilled under pale flesh. They curl around his wrist, moving slowly, deliberately. Like they know they’re being watched.

He unzipped a small flap at the bottom of the pod and pulled out an arm. It had an IV line taped to it, and the skin was deathly pale, covered in blotchy red spots. Hughes didn't draw blood right away. He stared at the hand, then squeezed the muscle of the forearm. The room went dead silent, save for the steady beep of the monitor. After a few seconds, Hughes's brow furrowed. His expression shifted from confusion to shock, and finally, to cold, hard fury. "Strange... very strange," he muttered under his breath.

He holds out his hand, grasping the other man’s in a friendly, peacekeeping shake that lasts less than a second. “Careful, buddy. Looks like you hurt yourself.” The man lifts his arm, puzzled to find thick red blood streaming down his pale flesh, past his wrists and into the sleeve of his suit. He seems to be unable to grasp what just happened, and I don’t blame him, because neither can I— at least, until I notice the two vertical cuts slicing his wrist. They are claw shaped. Deep. And they run parallel to the long vein in his inner arm. In fact, they barely missed it.

Tying my hair in a ponytail, I headed to the bathroom to wash up but the moment I saw my reflection on the mirror, my feet were rooted on the floor, and my eyes were glued on the dark marks on my right shoulder blade. No, no, how could these marks be here? To get a closer look and to make sure that I was not imagining things, I stepped closer to the mirror. The black marks seemed to resemble tiny veins branching out. It seemed to have started behind my neck and it stopped right on the middle of my shoulder. Could it be poison from the scratch I got yesterday? But if it was poison, I should have at least felt something was wrong in my body but I felt completely normal.

"How... are you?" "I am... adjusting," he said, the word a vast understatement. A shadow of profound disorientation flickered in his eyes. His right hand, as if with a mind of its own, drifted to his left arm. My attention snagged there, and the air seemed to grow colder. Against the pale canvas of his skin, sickly, orange-gold veins crawled and writhed with a faint glow. They were not flat marks, but a living tracery, like lightning trapped and writhing beneath the surface, a parasite etched in light. They snaked up from his wrist, disappearing under the sleeve of his tunic. I shouldn't ask. It's cruel, a part of me thought. But another, fiercer part knew I had to. I can't help him if I'm b

So why am I feeling so drained, and why does my arm throb? I pull up the soaked sleeve to inspect the area that is giving me issues and gasp out loud when I see not just a mass of dark bruising, but my veins are a deep hue of purple and angry looking. My throat goes dry when I see a small hole, no bigger than a needle, but bright red, sitting in the center of the bruising and discolored veins. What did they do to me? It’s the logical question, the only one that comes to mind. They, whoever it was that attacked me, must have caused this.

I spoke with a soft sigh; I shot my eyes tight. I felt a warm and moist feeling in my nose. With my index finger, I wiped my nose with my palms. The blood I saw this time was not the usual one, it was usually a few drops. I thought it was just the minor stress that I usually put myself through that caused it. I looked at my hand gloves, it was covered in thick red blood. they formed thick blood clots. I gasped, doing my best to stop the bleeding. My hands were shaky or maybe I was the one wobbly.

“Don’t worry, it should be normal dilated capillaries. I’ve checked myself and didn’t find any problems.” At first, she thought it might be rosacea. However, after observing it for two days, she found it was neither painful nor itchy, and it was not erythema or acne. As she spoke, she unbuttoned her pajamas, revealing a part of her smooth and fair back. Mable’s skin was very light, and her back had well-proportioned lines without excess fat. Blair stared at her back and immediately saw the red pattern on her back. His dark eyes suddenly widened! This was... He stared at the pattern on her back in disbelief, his face turning as white as paper.

My eyes darted to him, heart hammering against my ribs. His hand was still outstretched from the throw, fingers flexing slightly as if he were testing their range of motion, and that's when I saw it—thin, dark lines running down the side of his palm where he'd gripped the glass too tightly before hurling it. Blood. Fresh and crimson, welling up from what looked like multiple small cuts where the crystal had bit into his skin. It dripped in uneven trails, following the natural creases of his palm, pooling briefly at the curve of his wrist before slipping free and falling to the floor in perfect, round droplets that looked almost black in the lamplight.