Mc Blood-stained Novels & Stories

A small, brownish, rust-colored stain, that looks like dried blood. The blood. Reality hits me full force, violent, obscene. I never went home. I got drunk. A man brought me here. And this pain... this stain... I am no longer a virgin. I gasp for breath. The room starts spinning. Nausea rises, uncontrollable, and I lean over the bed, vomiting a mixture of alcohol and bile onto the dirty floor. My whole body trembles, shaken by silent, hiccupping sobs.

On the battered basin before him, nine bloody spikes lay in a haphazard pile, stained crimson, an unsettling testament to what had transpired. “Done,” I muttered, voice strained but steady. I reached for the crumpled piece of paper, now soaked in blood and sweat, tangled in the mess. The note had once been pristine—perhaps just a scribbled warning or plea—yet now it looked like a fragment of a nightmare.

Those wine stains won't come off easily by the way. *****

“And you’re worried about messy sheets?” I motioned to the nasty blood, recalling how a few times Robert had practically fainted if he caught sight of a few stains. It didn’t happen often. But it was a normal bodily function, and if my flow was heavier than normal, a stain sometimes occurred. “It’s gross,” I supplied apologetically.

Carla Marconi. I barely registered the gasps of the onlookers, the way some clutched their mouths in horror while others whispered frantic theories. My entire body locked up at the sight before me. Blood had soaked through the tablecloth, staining it a deep crimson, pooling around crystal glasses that had toppled over. The wine that had been poured for them now mixed with their own spilled life, a grotesque irony in the elegance of their setting.

The corridors were dim, lined with portraits of people who didn’t look entirely human — eyes too sharp, faces too still. Every time I passed one, I felt like it turned slightly to follow me. By the time I reached the study door, I caught movement through the crack of light spilling onto the floor. He was back. Malrik stood behind his desk, shirt unbuttoned halfway down, a bottle of whisky beside an untouched glass. His jacket hung over the chair. The white of his shirt was stained — not with ink. Blood. It ran in a thin line down his ribs, dark and half-dried.

Blood dripped on the carpet—dark red splatters that soaked in fast. The game wasn’t bloodier now. It's becoming personal. As it was before.

I found it weird I remembered her name unlike the other women. I glanced at Madame Calista, wondering what she was talking about. She looked at me in disbelief. “Don't tell me, you don't know?” “Know what?” I asked, watching her. “The sheets were stained last night,” Madame Calista said. “So what? Aren't they always stained?” I asked and returned to typing on my laptop. “With blood,” she said and I immediately lifted my gaze to meet hers. Blood? Why would there be blood? Was she sick? Was she injured? Oh no.

He even began to spit blood while in the air. His blood left a stain on his red clothes, which made it look extremely strange and dazzling!

The smell stuck in my throat. "Lab," she finally said, snapping her case shut. "Need to run tests." The walk there was awkward. What do you talk about with someone you've only met because of dead children and mutilated cattle? Marina walked fast, almost jogging. I kept up.. The lab was too bright after the dark outside. Marina immediately started pulling things from cabinets, slamming them on the counter. "Third shelf. Blue label. Methylene blue." I found it, handed it over. She was already bent over the microscope, adjusting knobs with the kind of focus that meant don't fucking disturb me.