Broken Blood Vessels On Shoulder Novels & Stories

Then he looked at me. "Both of you. You are actually here." "Both of us," I confirmed, moving toward him. "We got out the moment the front chaos hit. The bindings were not as tight as they thought." "Do not touch the shoulder," he said. "I have pressure on it. It is stable for now." "Let me see the wound properly. We need to assess how bad it is before we move further." "Ivan." "Let me see," I said again and he moved his hand and I looked at the wound. Entry on the outer shoulder. No exit visible from the front. The bleeding was controlled by pressure. Nothing structural based on the arm movement he had when he reached across to show me.

A weary, faint smile touched the corner of his lips. "We almost lost him twice on the table, Mrs. Vance," Dr. Aris said, his voice deep and raspy from hours of intense labor. "The tungsten round shattered his collarbone and drove ceramic shrapnel within two millimeters of his subclavian artery. We had to perform a vascular bypass and reconstruct the shoulder joint." Elara’s voice was a barely audible rasp. "Is he..." Dr. Aris stepped closer, placing a comforting, gloved hand gently on her shoulder.

My eyes burned with rage. I gripped his arm tightly and twisted with brutal force, dislocating my own shoulder in the process but freeing myself from his hold. With a sharp crack, I shoved my shoulder back into place with my other hand, the burning pain echoing through my torso. I brought my hand to the wound on my side and pressed. Hot blood seeped between my fingers, but the fury kept everything functioning.

We broke every clause, every line, every professional boundary. A sharp, throbbing ache in his left shoulder served as a grim reminder of his crash at the community rink, but the skin itself felt strangely secure. He shifted his gaze slightly, looking down out of the corner of his eye. Beneath the tangled sheets, the neat, professional matrix of black athletic tape was still perfectly intact across his collarbone—applied with the practiced, clinical precision of a hockey captain who knew exactly how to stabilize a teammate's injury.

The shoulder was exposed. Carina put the sword through Ivan's shoulder. Not the chest, she had not aimed for the chest. Shoulder, high, away from the lung. Severe. The kind of wound that ends the immediate function without ending the person. The shock of it broke the filter. Not a choice, the poison couldn't maintain its architecture against the body's involuntary response to serious physical trauma. The filter shattered the way a window shatters when the right impact hits it at the right angle. Complete and instantaneous.

My voice is hoarse as I inquire. "You cut your head pretty badly," I said. I turn to look at him. His right temple is touched by raising his hand. "Necessary sutures. Eight altogether. There were several minor cuts on your torso and face, but none were deep enough to require stitches. Most likely from the shattered glass. He places his hand on his right shoulder. "Shoulder dislocation. damaged ribs. broken wrist. one on the left. But it's getting better. bruises that have largely disappeared.

When the pain finally eases enough for me to breathe, I glance down. The heartbloom is there just as it was before. Perfect and alive. Blood-red petals are etched into my skin, with veins of green curling outward as if the flower is rooted in my flesh once more. The vines wrapped around my arm loosen slowly and reluctantly, before retreating back into the cracked stone like they were never there at all. The air rushes inward. The crack seals halfway. It is still visible, but no longer bleeding wind. I stare at my shoulder in horror.

he uttered. I didn't answer as I wrapped his arms around my shoulder, but just when we were about to leave the area, stinging pain on my shoulder made me cry in pain. I looked at my arm, and blood was gushing out of it. I was too stunned that I couldn't even utter a single word.

That’s when I feel a rush of wind on my left followed by a sharp prick in my shoulder. Looking back at my own body, I see a red dart sticking out of my upper arm. “What the fuuuu–” Everything goes black.

My shoulder begs for my attention, so finally, I go to the downstairs bathroom, shed my shirt, and look at myself in the mirror. The white tank top underneath my button-down drips red. Seb’s blood, mine, Ben’s, Andrea’s, more Russians than I can count. My shoulder oozes a fine crust of the stuff over a deep flesh wound. The bullet didn’t stick in my arm, but it looks like somebody bored a gouge from my flesh with a fat, permanent marker.