Bruised Novels & Stories

Was it blood or mud? She touched her head when she felt a sharp pain as if her scalp was raw and bruised; she bent over and moved her hair away from the bruise as she placed her index finger on the natural bruise; where had this bruise come from? She walked up to the mirror and turned around; the back of her shoulder had scratch marks as if she had burned slightly.

It had a slight scent of aged perfume mixed with something more intense — perhaps fear. Bianca stood before the mirror, her fingers gliding mindlessly across the swollen area on her cheek. Despite the thick makeup, it still hurt — a dull, pulsating ache that throbbed with each heartbeat. The foundation was heavy and skillfully applied, yet the bruise’s intense purple still risked showing through. She flinched as her fingers glided over the sensitive skin. It wasn't her most serious injury, yet it somehow felt that way. She should have just stayed.

A bruise was forming on my cheek where he had slapped me, a dark blotch on my skin that seemed to pulse with my heartbeat. I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face, hoping to wash away the remnants of the night. The cool water offered a brief respite, but it couldn’t erase the pain or the memories. I knew I had to be strong and had to find a way to endure this nightmare.

I look into the bathroom mirror and see the face of a sullen, unfamiliar woman looking back at me. My usual latte skin is now pale and sickly, my eyes are puffy and bloody shot, only made worse by the intense bruising that instead of bruising around the gash across my stitched-up forehead, has chosen to travel down and bruise all over my right eye. I don’t think there’s a cosmetic company around that makes this shade of purple. My lip is crusty, split and still a bit swollen along with the right side of my face. It’s strange though. It’s as though how I’m feeling on the inside is perfectly reflected on my face: beaten, bruised, split open and drained.

My arms show finger-shaped bruises. Instead of looking like I just had wild, crazy sex… I look like I barely survived a violent encounter. “Shit,” I whisper, turning to the mirror. My ass is red, bruised from the smacks I begged for. I loved them. But Aleksei didn’t hold back. The red won’t fade for days. My lips are swollen, bitten, marked. I shake my head. No way I’m convincing anyone nothing happened. I give up, accept my fate, and throw on a bathrobe.

Brianna shook her head. “We’ll just put a cold compress on it later to help reduce the redness a bit,” Harrison explained, then looked at me. “Brianna has somewhat sensitive skin. Lately, she’s been bruising easily because she’s lacking nutrition and sleep. It’s a good thing this didn’t become a bruise, but the redness might take a while to fade, and people who don’t know what happened might get the wrong idea.” I turned my gaze back to Brianna. “I’m sorry, baby. It was an accident. Are you upset with me?”

I found proper hair brushes and combs in the middle drawer. I look worse than I did last night. The black-blue bruises cover almost every inch of my face and neck. My bottom lip is twice its normal size. The deep gash keeps opening back up, spilling blood down my chin. It will heal. It always does. My arms are heavy, and every time I move them, they scream in pain. Especially my right arm. The one I used to hit Bruce. The memory flashes and I groan when I remember the dull crack of his skull, the warm blood spilling over my hand, the copper scent that permeated the air.

Jessica's Pov The sun hitting my face felt like a physical assault. I didn’t even remember falling asleep, but the throbbing in my left wrist was a nasty reminder that last night wasn’t just some fever dream brought on by pre med stress. I sat up, my breath hitching as I peeled back the sleeve of my oversized Property of Camblok Medical Dept hoodie. The bruise was... wrong. It wasn’t just a purple splotch. It was deep, dark, and the puncture marks were spaced out in a weird way.

The knock of someone who wasn't sure he was welcome and was giving me the chance to pretend I wasn't home. I opened it. He was leaning against the doorframe with his bag over one shoulder and his weight shifted to the left side – favouring his right ribs, which meant something had happened to the left ones. His knuckles were still raw from the equipment room door. Scabbed over but not healed, the skin pink and tight in a way that would scar. And blooming across his left shoulder, visible where his t-shirt collar shifted, a bruise the colour of a thunderstorm. Purple at the centre. Green at the edges. Fresh. "Caleb?" I asked.

I rushed to the mirror, anxiety swirling in my stomach as I prepared to see the damage. As I leaned closer, the harsh bathroom light illuminated my reflection, and I gasped softly. My lower lip was swollen and bruised, the skin split open, a stark reminder of what had just happened. The sight was disheartening, a painful testament to my reality. I took a deep breath, willing to remain calm despite the fear and hurt bubbling beneath the surface.