Cracked Bleeding Knuckles Novels & Stories

He sought us everywhere we went and now he finally caught up. My fingers poked my ankle and a slight whimper escaped my chapped lips in a painful moan. My ankle has gotten worse due to the absence of medicines to aid in healing. My throat was extremely dry as my fingers rubbed my throat softly and moved towards my hair and I felt the brittle wispy strands. It has been smudged from sleeping on it from the lack of pillows. Most nights I shivered when the rains fell far into the night and the cold came calling and most days the sun was so high and harsh that it had sweat dripping into my dirty clothes.

SMACK! Red, swollen welts had erupted across my skin, each one throbbing with pain. My bones ached from the countless areas where they had puffed up, and I couldn't even begin to fathom how many bruises had formed. The sight of my body was a gruesome one, and I couldn't help but wonder if there was also a slight, unnoticed trickle of blood seeping out from my battered body.

The Roots Weep Mirra knelt at the base of a gnarled elder oak, her knees pressing into damp soil. Her fingers traced the moss that clung stubbornly to the bark. Normally, the moss was lush and springy, cool with life. A comfort. A promise of the tree’s health, of the forest’s endless resilience. But today, it crumbled beneath her touch. Brittle. Dry. As if some unseen blight had brushed through, scouring away vitality in its wake.

The knuckles are swollen purple, a couple of them split open, dried blood crusted on it. “Oh my, Percy…” I whisper. He glances at it, then at me, and grins. “Looks worse than it feels?” The doctor raises an eyebrow. “How’d this happen?” “Friendly disagreement,” Percy says smoothly. She doesn’t push it. She orders X-rays, and while we wait for the result, a nurse comes in to clean and re-dress it. Percy winces once when she dabs antiseptic, but he covers it with a joke.

The sound of his joints popping was loud in the silent kitchen. "You okay?" Elion asked, his eyes snapping to Cale’s face. "Joint friction," Cale dismissed, picking up his spoon. "The humidity increases the viscosity of the synovial fluid. Or decreases it. I forget the biology." "You need to see Dr. Aris again. Maybe get a brace." "I do not need a brace. I need WD-40." "You aren't the Tin Man, Cale. You are a middle-aged man with a bad leg."

He doesn’t know whom to believe, so he believes no one anymore. Jenny’s fingers relaxed from the palm of her hand. Her nails left four crescent-shaped imprints on her palm. The skin inside these imprints turned white, while the surrounding skin turned red. Her hand hung limp at her side, and her fingertips touched the rough stone pavement. The rough surface scraped against her fingertips, producing a “scraping” sound.

The arena is silent. Ejected. Possible suspension. He doesn’t look at anyone as he skates off. He looks at me. I find him in the tunnel twenty minutes later, sitting on the concrete bench with his head back against the wall and blood dripping from his knuckles onto the floor. Knuckles split and bleeding through the wrap he did himself, badly. I grab his hands without asking and start cleaning them properly. Antiseptic. Gauze. My fingers are gentle around his swollen joints and he watches my hands work and says nothing.