Knuckles Turning Black Novels & Stories

The words came out quickly and he kissed her forehead before grabbing her arm for them to head back. Back in the guest quarters, the Prince, Ella, Malcolm, and Alma were all speaking about what could be the cause for Maddie's sudden illness. Alma had placed a cool cloth on Maddie's forehead just as the Prince had mentioned and was looking over her body when she turned to grab Malcolm's attention. "Sir, come look at this," she pointed to the tips of Maddie's fingers which were starting to turn black. "What in the world?" Everyone crouched down to look closer. "What is this?" Malcolm had asked in a whisper as if asking only himself.

That’s why I have decided to go stir some trouble on my own. Besides, my time is running out faster than I expected. I glance at the lacy white sleeve, which has ridden up a little, exposing the black veins on my left wrist. After the necromancer did that shitty voodoo on me, the veins of my whole left arm turned black under my skin. I was horrified when I first saw my arm, but then it slowly dawned on me. Moon Goddess mentioned something about rotting. I assume it’s the starting stage of that.

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.

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.

His hands were hung by his sides. Something caught my eyes, a dark tan like scratch mark with dried blood on the side of his palm coming up to the top skin. The marks were made recently, causing a weird purple redness and his knuckles were red. That shouldn't happen if he hadn't fought or hit something or someone. He could not stop moving his fingers, attempting to hide them. I stopped just in front of him. The rest of the room went even quieter. "Leave us, all of you,” I said.

Desperate to hold him back, to force some sliver of humanity out of him, I reach out and violently snag his right wrist. The moment my fingers wrap around his skin, I freeze. The skin across his knuckles is completely split, raw, and horribly swollen. Dark purple bruises discolor the muscle, and thick, dried tracks of dark blood are embedded deep into the cracks of his hand. It looks like he’s spent the last four days using his body to dismantle a concrete wall.

He violently squeezed his actively tearing, bloodshot eyes completely shut and aggressively thrust his raw, completely exposed fingers directly into the thick, dark branches. A catastrophic, blinding wave of pure, white-hot agony violently exploded completely through his entire shattered nervous system. The colossal, razor-sharp wooden thorns aggressively pierced straight through his fragile, actively bleeding palms, violently tearing entirely deep into his severely inflamed muscles. The thick, rough bark aggressively scraped violently against the raw, violently exposed shattered bone of his completely inverted middle knuckle. A raw, pathetic scream of absolute, unadulterated torture violent

The crack echoes. Bark splinters under his knuckles. Blood wells, dark against skin. “Knox!” I catch his hand, turning it over, staring at the damage he’s done to himself. “I’ll heal,” he says flatly—as if that excuses it. “I know.” I let his hand go. He watches me do it. A sharp, humorless snort leaves him before his gaze lifts to mine again. I look down and something catches my eyes. A thin leather cord resting against his chest.

More veins stretched downward beneath his collar. "What is that?" I asked, rushing toward him. But the veins were spreading from the source of the injury. At the back of his neck, deep claw marks had turned a dark purplish blue. I could not even begin to understand what I was looking at.

I see his car starting to disappear into the distance. I cry out in pain , as soon as his car disappears. A stinging sensation erupts from my knuckles and flows it’s way all over my body – stopping at my heart ; the pain linking up. My fist stays against the wall – my punch did little to no damage to the wall. The wall was attacked but it was my knuckles that suffered the blow. Pulling my fist away from the wall , I stare at the blood that leaks from my knuckles. Red is pretty.