Knuckles Turning Black Novels & Stories

Underneath it all, there’s a cleaner note: pine sap and the faint, medicinal sweetness of snow. The pain fractures, then coalesces in my hands. I stare as the joints swell, fingers thickening and curling. The nails go black at the tips, lengthening into curved points. I try to flex them, but the tendons are too tight, the muscles ballooning underneath the skin. I rake them across the tile and leave deep gouges, little ribbons of linoleum curling up in the wake.

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.

“He got some punches in, huh?” “I honestly can’t remember.” Split knuckles adorned his fists, the tattoos of his fingers puckered and broken due to the swelling and bruising. “Come on,” she murmured as she rose, Colton blindly following, feet dragging along the floor until Kate settled him against the bathroom vanity. He winced, cold porcelain pressing into his lower back, jerking forward, away from the pain radiating up his spine. Kate susurrated a soft apology, reaching past him to open the mirrored cabinet. Finding the antiseptic behind a bottle of anxiety meds, she grabbed a flannel and some bandages and set to work cleaning the demolition derby that had become his hands. Licking her lip

That way no one would come back in years to come. He rendered himself unrestrained and grabbed the first man who had attacked him by the collar, throwing him in the direction of the other two men who were heading towards him. The man flew into the air and fell on both of them. Throwing them all into the floor. Nikolai didn’t wait for them to recover and stand to their feet. He twisted the rings on his fingers, turning them into brass knuckles. He punched the first man who came close to him, smashing his nose, damaging his face to the point that it was unrecognizable, and holding his head on both sides before twisting his neck. The man grew limp almost instantly and he quickly drops it and tu

I sighed and let go of the edge of the sheet, removing it from my legs, leaving only a piece on my thighs. The doctor's face didn't change, but what I saw took my breath away. Everything that came into my field of vision was purplish blue. Dirty yellow spots of bruises came out in places, but the bulk of the monstrous beatings remained frightening colors. There were healed scratches on his knees, on his fingers too, there was blood under the nails, and on his right wrist it looked like someone's imprint. Under the chest, a medical plaster stood out as a snow-white rectangle.

Not leaving. Julie stayed where she was while I walked back to the door. I noticed a silver doorknob. Uh oh. Fool me once … I used my fist to knock on the wood of the door, and again I was blown backwards onto my ass. This time my knuckles were seared. My eyes welled up with the pain. The skin on my knuckles was more tender than the skin on my palms and I saw that they were burned through to the bone. Julie's eyes turned red and she glared at the door.

It's a deep cut in-between my thumb and index finger and it's bleeding heavily. It's also bleeding from other tiny cuts on my palm. "I know you're angry but can you control your emotions and try not to be rash next time? You need your two hands to fight and beat your knucklehead brother you know!?" He says when he's done treating and bandaging my hand "I don't need my hands to fight a knucklehead. I'll beat his ass even if I'm blindfolded with my two hands tied to the back..." I reply testily

Thick veins ran along the backs of his hands and coiled around his forearms, rising beneath the skin every time he flexed his fingers. Black ink disappeared beneath his shirt cuff, climbed over his wrist, and wrapped around his forearm in intricate patterns I couldn't fully make out. His hands were enormous. Long fingers. Scarred knuckles. A thin white line cut across one of them, and another crossed the back of his hand. Those were hands that had broken bones. Maybe necks. Judging by the way he sounded earlier, mine would probably be next. His hands rested casually inside his pockets, yet somehow they looked more dangerous than the knife I was hiding beneath Alessandro's own oversized shirt