Novelas y relatos de Bruised

Josh woke up with new formed of bruises right onto his neck, the purple was deep in a loop where a lit of sharks were trying to swam right onto then Josh moaned. “Ouch, I pretty hate this shitty bruises.” He muttered under his breath. His own father had laid a hand that recoiled his skin into a intrusive purple layered pain. —————

I tossed the dark shirt onto the floor and focused my attention on his torso. My heart dropped into my stomach the second I saw the physical damage. The bruising was much worse than I anticipated. A massive, dark purple mark covered his left ribcage. The angry discoloration stretched from his waistline all the way up to his chest, showing the exact shape of a hockey stick shaft. The skin looked swollen and tight, indicating severe trauma to the muscles underneath. He had played a brutal practice session with this injury, and the sheer force of Silas's hit had amplified the damage.

"I'm *listening*, Mum." I pick a handful of each and crush them between two flat stones until they turn into a dark green mush. My hands shake as I lift my shirt. The bruises along my ribs have gone black and purple, like spilled ink. I wince and smear the paste over them. It's cold and sharp, and then, slowly, the ache starts to dull. I work the rest into my split lip and the scrapes on my palms. Then I sit back on my heels and breathe out.

I turned my body slightly, trying to see my waist through the mirror's reflection. "What is this?" I asked. I moved closer, then raised my hand to touch the skin on the side of my waist. The pain immediately spread when the tip of my finger touched that area. The skin on my waist was bruised purple. I remembered the incident at the restaurant earlier. Adriano pushed me hard until my back hit the wall. At that time, the pain wasn't too noticeable because I was more afraid of his threat. However, now the mark from that impact was clearly visible.

Weeks old, maybe more—no clean purple left, just the dirty yellow-brown mottling bruises leave when they’re almost gone, mixed with the thin, silvery lines of skin that’s been broken and is still finishing the job of closing. A rough patch along the outer forearm where something scraped hard enough to leave a lasting shadow. A deeper stain near the wrist that looks like it took the worst of an impact. The kind of damage that should’ve healed quieter than this, and still flinches when gripped wrong. The sight of them on her arm turns my stomach. Suddenly I’m hot inside. Boiling. Ready to tear somebody’s fucking head off. “What the hell is this?” “Let go. It hurts.” I loosen my grip but don’t

Six partially healed lacerations across the shoulder and ribs that had opened and closed and opened again. Bruised ribs, at least two. Both feet in a state she had to think about before describing — not cut so much as worn, the soles raw and split where a wolf’s pads had been raw and split, because the body does not forget what it did in the other shape. She said the word *ulcerated* and I asked her not to say it again. Bruising over most of one hip. Old blood in places that were not his. Nothing immediately life-threatening.

“Cause it kinda feels like my head’s about to explode.” “Well, it does look like you got punched in the face,” she admitted, looking at me thoughtfully, as she nibbled on her thumbnail. My shoulders slumped as that memory came back to me. “Backhanded, actually, but close.” I finally opened my eyes and took a look at myself in the mirror. Ugly, purple bruising covered my entire right cheek – from my jaw to just beneath my eye. Damn, that guy must’ve had a huge hand. I tried moving it; it wasn’t broken, but it still hurt. I reached up and grazed my fingertips across my cut and swollen lip, wincing in pain.

My face was cut and bruised, one of my cheeks distended and swollen, and I had dark circles under both eyes. My whole body, in fact, was covered in cuts, bumps, and bruises, but worst of all were my arms and legs. My hand and thigh were bandaged, so I couldn’t see the damage there, but my ribs were swollen, the area bloated and clouding into a dark purple which faded out into an unsettling shade of yellow.

I added in an almost whisper tone. “Ignoring bruises due to a tight grip can lead to further complications,” he said after a few seconds of silence. I was slightly shocked. How did he know it was due to a tight grip? “Bruises are caused by blood vessels breaking under your skin, which can cause blood to pool and form a discoloration on the skin. If you ignore bruises, they can become more painful and take longer to heal or yet, expect for the worst,” he added. And now it felt more awkward. He does really have amazing instincts. “Now, will you tell me what happened?” he asked.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was disarrayed, flowing in unruly curls down my back. My lips were swollen and pink, as were the blush in my cheeks. Staring below, I noticed a bruise that lay testament to my mate’s claim. It was tender to touch, but I relished in the pain it provided, for it reminded me of one of the most significant moments of my life. As war wounds are always cherished by a soldier, this was a wound I would proudly wear, as it reminded me of Marcus’ presence in my life.