Knuckles Turning Black Novels & Stories

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.”

Something colder. His eyes are bloodshot, red-rimmed, sunk into hollows that weren’t there yesterday. The stubble on his jaw has crossed from rugged into unkempt. His knuckles are a horror — swollen, bruised purple and black on top of the splits from last night, crusted over and clearly never cleaned or bandaged. He’s wearing the same clothes. He hasn’t slept. Did I do this? Did my refusal to open that door kill something in him last night?

Bells rang but I felt paralyzed. Finally opening my eyes, I looked around, the sunlight was dim, it was probably evening. I tried to lift my hand up from the table without looking at it, but I couldn’t, it was numb and cold. Taking a breath, I looked at my hand. It was in a weird shape. Purple and blue bruises lingered upon my skin. My hand was swelling up. Yellowish knuckles and greenish nails. It was definitely infected like my other bruises. They had smashed the hammer until my fingers were broken. Almost ten times or maybe more.

I turned to Rue whilst Aien took the water away. “I am fine,” Rue said but did not reveal his arm. “You do not have to…” I gripped his wrist, and he cried out in pain. His fingertips were blue around the nails and cold to the touch. He did not stop me from unwinding the bandage, his eyes closing as he set his head back onto the cushions. The last layer came away sticky, peeling away the skin, and we both drew in a shuddering breath, his in pain and mine in horror. Rue’s arm had blackened along the lines of his vein whilst the blood had oozed like ink…

“Because of me. Again.” I had? Surprised, I looked at my hand holding the cup and discovered splits across my knuckles. Damn. I’d barely noticed. They weren’t bad. They’d be completely healed within a day or two. But now she’d seen them, and she’d probably notice when they weren’t there anymore. Shit. I was usually better with covering details like that. Nervously, I flapped my free hand. “It looks worse than it is. I’ll get better, you watch—”

I look back at Skinner. He hands me a small knife; I pulls up my shirt sleeve and cut a small line putting the same pressure Knuckles was and all I do is wince slightly. I wave the knife at him when I'm done. I see Knuckles smirking at me. The skin starts to tingle where I put the small cut and I feel a rush run through me.

I slam my head back, skull cracking the tile, and for a second all I see are the stars spinning in my vision. The change hits in waves. My hands seize up, fingers bending backward until I’m sure they’ll snap off. Instead, the bones lengthen, metacarpals shivering as they stretch. The ligaments go next, popping like bowstrings drawn too tight. My nails rip away and blacken, then regrow in savage arcs—curved, matte, and lethal.

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.

Please, just tell me what to do. 'You can't do anything! Get away, I told you to get the fuck away! ' he said, practically spitting out the words. Rising up onto his knees, he slammed his hand against the wall and I gasped. The tips of his fingers were all black. Even as I stared at them, it was spreading, like an oil-slick seeping over his skin, until it had crept over his knuckles. His groans were louder now, full of anguish and pain and exertion, as his fingers scratched at the wall.

Every time he breathed, his chest hitched in a way that told me his ribs were nothing but splinters under his shredded shirt. But it was his hand that made the bile rise in my throat. As he reached for me, I saw the rough gap where his pinky used to be. They hadn't used a clean blade, the skin was torn, the bone sheared off at the knuckle, wrapped in a rag that was so soaked with filth and old blood it had turned black.