Cracked Bleeding Knuckles Novels & Stories

Pain blooms behind my eyelids and I hold my nose in my palm, feeling blood trickling from it. I lick the blood dropping my nose before cleaning it off, smearing it all over the back of my hand. "You shouldn't have done that," I warned before going after him. He had managed to climb to his feet, one eye swollen shut and one arm hanging limp by his side. I sweep his feet out from under him, and rain blows upon blows on him. I stood up, and stepped on his knee with my boot, hearing a sickening crunch as the bone cracked into two.

Hands that shook but didn't drop a single bill. I've had board members twice her age fold under less pressure. She was barefoot, wrapped in a bedsheet, standing in front of a man who could end her with a phone call. She threw the money back. I close the file and head for the bathroom. Cold water. Toothbrush. Phone on the counter, tomorrow's schedule glowing on the screen. I unbutton my shirt and pull it off. The marks are still there. Six days. I've healed cracked ribs faster. Thin pink lines across my collarbone and chest, faded but present. One runs from the left collarbone down to just above my heart, a clean line, the kind left by someone gripping, not scratching. Holding on.

Not catastrophically bad—he'd had worse, though the occasions that qualified were not ones he particularly wanted to think about—but bad in the specific way of something that was going to get worse before it got better and was going to require explanation regardless of how it ultimately resolved. The knuckles of his third and fourth fingers had swollen to a degree that made them look like they belonged to someone else. The skin over them was tight and starting to purple, and the range of motion in those two fingers specifically was limited in ways that communicated clearly that they needed ice, rest, and possibly a conversation with someone who knew more about bones than Dante did. What they

Sera My knuckles ached with a dull, heavy pulse. I looked down at my hands. The skin across my knuckles was completely split. Thick, dark blood coated my fingers, dripping slowly onto the packed dirt. It wasn't my blood. I stepped off Taya. My boots squelched in the mud we had created from frost and sweat.

The fist hit the tree again. The knuckles were already gone—not bruised, not bloodied, gone. White bone showed through where the skin had split and peeled back. The middle finger had snapped sideways on the last punch, hanging at an angle that made the stomach turn. Blood ran down the bark in thick streams, pooling at the roots, soaking into dirt that had turned black. Another punch. The crack wasn't wood breaking. It was bone. The ring finger this time, folding backward until it touched the back of the hand. The person didn't stop. Didn't even slow down.

CRASH. Kaelen was driven vertically into the stone floor of the ring. The sound that followed was grotesque… a wet, heavy thud mixed with a sharp, sickening SNAP-CRACK that echoed through every corner of the silent stadium. The stone beneath him shattered, webbed cracks radiating outward from his body like a spider's web of destruction. His left arm bent backward at an impossible angle, the bone of his elbow tearing through his sleeve, though mercifully no flesh broke through yet. Even from this distance, I could see the unnatural twist of the joint, the way his arm hung like a broken branch.

he exhaled and cracked his knuckles. Watching him more relaxed, I dared to ask, “What are these marks from? Every time I wake up, I notice my hands and ankles are purple bruised as if they were bound or restrained. Are you into fetich game you haven't told me about? I don’t mind if you have a kink, but I’d prefer if you confided in me.”

he threatened. Actually, his words this time enough to make Zack tremble. This time the well-built man stood up unsteadily. Occasionally he stepped back and forth, moving his body. He had lost strength now, not to mention that both of his fingers were now broken at their joints, it was possible that they would rot inside. According to the medical science controlled by Nicko, joint fractures must be treated by surgery or tissue termination. If left alone, of course, the wound inside will fester and spread everywhere.

Shе’ѕ wеаrіng аn armband of ѕоrtѕ tо hide thе dаmаgе, but it hаѕ ѕlірреd down аnd еxроѕеѕ еvеrу hоlе that’s been mаdе in hеr skin оvеr the lаѕt two weeks. Thеrе’ѕ a lumр rіght іn the crook оf hеr fоrеаrm. It’ѕ in the space whеrе a needle hаѕ made іt mark tоо оftеn. It’ѕ wееріng pus. Mу frіеnd isn’t just wаѕtеd, she’s sick.

I didn’t want to know how undressed she was. I walked past them both without a word, straight into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with more force than necessary. My fist connected with the wall before I could think. The plaster cracked and caved under the hit. Pain flared bright in my knuckles, but it wasn’t enough. I hit it again. And again. Until my hand went numb and I could barely feel the skin splitting. A minute later, the pain faded as the bones knitted back together, my healing mocking me for even trying to find relief that way.