Internal Bleeding In Arm Novels & Stories

I watch as she encourages her to move her arm away from the protection of her body. “Jessa, I need information on this injury. I want to cut some of these bandages off as the swelling combined with the bandages is causing compartment syndrome. Where on your arm is it located?” For the first time in several minutes she adjusts her head so her forehead sits against my neck. “The inside of my forearm.” She tells us weakly.

His entire shirt was soaked, blood warm and sticky under her palms. Axel’s bullet wound was a raw, angry gash torn through the flesh of his upper shoulder, just beneath his collarbone. The skin around it was swollen and dark, bruising spider-webbing outward in sickly shades of purple and yellow. Blood clung thick and wet to the edges, sluggishly oozing from the puncture despite the pressure he’d tried to apply. The bullet had torn through muscle—clean, but deep—and left a glistening, open cavity where flesh should have been whole. Even beneath the blood and bruises, the faint tremor in his arm betrayed the pain he refused to show.

When she saw what it was, her eyes darkened. It was a bright red arm, covered with mud, weeds, and blood. The bone was clean, with only minced meat on it, which looked extremely disgusting.

The adrenaline has finally begun to fade, and without it, the pain arrives. I start to feel how exhausted I am. My legs ache and my arms feel heavy. Every muscle in my body protests every movement I make. The wound on my arm throbs. I take a deep breath and look down, pulling my shirt up gingerly. I feel a tender bruising on my left side, and when I touch that side, my fingers come away sticky. Blood. “Wonderful,” I mutter. I sit back carefully on Evander’s bed and worry the inside of my mouth.

Startled by a sudden bump in the road, I accidentally jerked my head forward and bumped it hard right against the cold glass of the car window. Big mistake. The impact sent a white-hot shockwave straight through my injured arm, making me hiss loudly as I instinctively clutched at my shoulder with a sharp gasp. Peeking under the makeshift cloth bandage, my stomach churned. The skin around the bite was no longer just red—it had shifted into a sickening, bruised color of gray and purple, heavily caked in dried, crusty blood and badly swollen to twice its normal size. An infection was setting in, fast, and my body felt hot and feverish.

A sharp, searing line of fiery pain tore up her arm. Celine gasped, her eyes flying open as a thick, dark crimson bead of blood welled up instantly, splitting open the skin before running in a rapid, heavy stream down her wrist and splashing onto the white marble floor. The warmth of her own life began pouring out of her at an alarming rate. The room began to tilt, spinning on a sickening axis as her vision blurred and darkened at the edges. The heavy iron grip of exhaustion and blood loss dragged her down like an anchor.

Charles grinned and waved his arms as if nothing happened. Charles's arm exploded like a tree bark when his punch met Caspian's. At that moment, the skin and muscles of his forearm were all torn apart, and the bones could even be faintly seen in the wound. Moreover, blood kept gushing out, making his entire arm appear bloody. Nonetheless, Charles still clenched his fist tightly. The muscles of his arm were like tough steel bars, making a creaking sound and twisting suddenly. In an instant, the wounds on his arm started to close and stop bleeding.

Money handled most problems, but even I knew some required containment. Maya was on her back, sprawled on the brickwork, the blue dress clinging to her like the skin of a fruit that had burst. Her right arm was stretched above her head, wrist bent at a sick, mathematically wrong angle, and the upper arm was a red, pulpy disaster, blood pouring in a gutter under her biceps. At the shoulder, three raking gashes met a chunk of meat that looked chewed rather than cut—six, maybe seven inches deep. I’d seen worse, but not much. Even through the adrenaline, the metallic stink had my own hackles up.

His flesh was cool and swollen. Ralin yanked his hand away. “Hurts,” he repeated. “What is it?” Rave asked Leesa, his growing concern clear in his voice. Leesa didn’t look up, unable to take her eyes off Ralin’s arm. “I can’t be positive, but I think the particles of wall still inside his arm might be cutting off some of the circulation to his hand.” Guessing wasn’t enough for Leesa, though—she needed to know for sure. It was time to see what her bond would tell her. “Hold on a minute.”

"All right, young lady, please try to help me. If you open up to me in good faith, we'll find out more about you. Now let's take a look." She peers closer, almost putting his lips on Elmira's cheek. "Gentlemen, there is evidence of petechial haemorrhages, pinpoint, less than one millimetre on the eyelids. Then there is the lips, ears, face, and neck, consistent with lack of oxygen to the tissue." She holds up Elmira's arm to examine the flesh. "The scarring indicates a thermal injury to the left forearm and hand. Something very intense, perhaps a blast."