Broken Blood Vessels On Shoulder Novels & Stories

Her hair was damp, her clothes changed into a dry gray fleece and dark jeans, but her face was still pale with residual shock. Nurse Sarah pressed her fingers gently along Cassian's collarbone, making him wince sharply, his jaw clenching tightly. "No broken bones," Nurse Sarah declared, stepping back and pulling off her latex gloves. "But you pulled the deltoid tendon right where it meets the shoulder socket. You're lucky you didn't tear it completely off the bone, Cassian. If you lift so much as a coffee cup with that arm in the next three weeks, I will personally lock you in the clinic ward."

But what caught my breath was the side of my neck. I tilted my head, pulling my collar aside with trembling fingers. Right there, on the soft skin above my collarbone, sat two distinct, dark red puncture marks, surrounded by a faint, bruised discoloration that throbbed with a strange, unnatural heat. Blood had dried in thin, dark lines down toward my shoulder. I stared at it in sheer disbelief.

Ribs—at least two cracked, maybe more. My right shoulder feels dislocated, hanging at an odd angle that sends lightning bolts of pain through my arm whenever I try to move it. Bruises bloom across my torso like grotesque flowers, purple and black and yellow, marking every place they found to hurt me. But I'm alive. Battered, broken, barely conscious, but alive. And that means I can still fight. Something feels different about my ankle, though—wrong in a way that has nothing to do with the fresh bruises and cuts.

Diego slowly lowered his hand, blood seeping through his fingers as he clutched his shoulder. When he caught the indifferent look in her eyes, a storm of malicious rage rose from deep inside him. His complexion turned ghastly pale. The black suit he wore did well to mask the growing patch of blood at his shoulder, but the crimson liquid soon crept down his arm—dripping from his long, slender fingers and tracing the contours of his hand before falling to the yacht’s deck in slow, winding drops.

I smell blood everywhere. Oh, my shoulder hurts. I'm not dressed? Why? In the corner of the room, I saw someone lying in a pile with blood pooling around his body. "Who's that?" I walked over and checked it out. "Gin?" Of course, I was shocked and recoiled in fear. At the same time, I felt excruciating pain in my shoulder. When I looked down to check, my shoulder had a hole in it. A bullet lodged there. Warm blood continued to melt from my open wound. “What's going on? What's going on here?"

“Or I’ll—oomph.” Sharp, sudden pain lanced my left shoulder and spiked its way down my arm until it exploded out the tips of my fingers before abruptly going numb. Nicolette screamed. No longer in the mood to flirt or do anything but curl into a ball and howl in agony, I tried to inspect the paralyzing intrusion that had punctured me, but when I looked down, my vision darkened at the corners. Dizziness ensued. My conscious brain flickered. “Ah, fuck,” I muttered when I finally caught sight of the long, thin shaft with a feathered end sticking out of my shoulder, right in the front tender, meaty area under my clavicle, in that empty space the rib cage didn’t cover.

Those were the two things right away and I just held that until the rest came back. I ran the inventory. Feet, fine. Legs, fine. Left side of my torso, not great. Ribs, at least two, the difference between cracked and bruised matter only in degree because the functional outcome was the same. Right shoulder, sore but mobile. Head still mostly intact, the bell starting to lose its harshest jangle. I pushed myself upright.

~Bethany~ I don’t know how much time passes before I’m brutally wrenched back to the greenhouse store room. My right shoulder is soaked and sticky with cold blood. Trying to keep my groan to a minimum in case someone is outside the room or within the corridors, I sit up and grimace at the amount of dark blood pooled around me. That’s certainly enough to kill a normal person. When I reach up, my shoulder is tender, but at least the wound is gone.

Oscar watched closely as Bo did not openly welcome touch, but rather crossed his right arm across his stomach to hold his left elbow loosely. And so, rather than watch the man’s face expectantly for permission, Oscar took instead to running his eyes over the entire man, noting each injury and the perceived severity behind all of them. The red mark on his face would bruise, and so would the massive patch on his arm that looked suspiciously like fingers. Oscar mentally compared the appearance of the man’s shoulder to previous injuries that he had seen, not that there were many. Bo’s left shoulder looked broken, or at least dislocated, but he could not be sure of which because of the sole reaso

My shoulders feel stiff, but that’s from holding still too long. I pause at my left arm and roll the sleeve back out of habit. I’ve cleaned and dressed every injury I’ve had since arriving. I would have noticed something new. That certainty is still there when my fingers stop. There’s a faint line just below my inner elbow and it's darker than the rest of me, like something pressed from beneath rather than cut from above.