Mc Blood-stained Novels & Stories

MARK Shit, my head. The room was unnervingly still, a stark contrast to the chaos erupting in my mind. I found myself in a dimly lit chamber, an oppressive silence pressing down on me. The walls, painted in a ghostly white, seemed to close in, casting long shadows that danced ominously in the faint light. The air was heavy, thick with a metallic tang that prickled the back of my throat. The source of this unsettling aura lay in the centre of the room: a large, white bed, its sheets drenched in a dark, crimson stain that seemed to spread and pulse like a living thing.

Into people. Room 209 sits half-open in front of me while I kneel on the cracked linoleum outside it with a brush in one hand and a bucket of filthy gray water beside my knee. My jeans are already damp where they’re pressing into the floor. There’s a stain spread across the carpet inside the doorway, dark around the edges where somebody tried to scrub it before giving up halfway through. Blood. Old now, turned brown because nobody bothered to touch it until my shift started.

Grey stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes wide. "Abigail, what is it?" He rushed to the side of her bed. "It hurts," she sobbed, clutching her stomach. "Grey, it hurts so much." He reached out to pull the blankets back. The moment the sheets moved, his eyes widened. Blood. The dark red stain was spreading across the white sheets. Grey’s face went paper white. His indifferent look disappeared, replaced by a man looking at his worst nightmare. "Marcus!" Grey roared. His voice shook the walls. "Get the car! Now!"

The place always stank, but tonight it felt worse; thicker somehow, like the walls were holding their breath. A small crowd had gathered outside one of the cells, a bunch of our guys muttering and shifting around. It didn’t take a genius to tell something was wrong. The second they spotted me and Tyler, the group split fast. Nobody wanted to be in the middle when I was in that mood. I pushed through and stopped dead in the doorway. There he was. Still in the fucking chair. Malcolm’s head was slumped forward, with his chin resting on his chest. The first thing I saw was the dark, wet stain soaking the front of his grey t-shirt, a bloom of crimson that looked almost black under the light. Then

' (Maxwell said before the doctor started speaking. 'I am picking up on that much as well.' (I responded back.) "Well, Your Highness," she finally started speaking as she started to take a small section of papers away from the clipboard, turning them around so she could give them to me to review at a later time, but not before continuing her statement. "She has some strange traces of a variety of different pharmaceutical compounds in her bloodstream. There was one in particular that I am really concerned about. What we found was some different pigmentation that was tarnished into a strange color. So we could discover the true nature of this particular issue, we ended up having a look at her

The glass cracked, and the starfish slowly slid back into the depths, leaving a bloody trail behind it. My breathing was coming much too fast. I should sit down and put my head between my knees but couldn’t bear to touch the damp carpet. Was it always red, or has the blood simply stained it this color? Blood pooled around my foot as I shifted my weight, and I thought I was going to be sick right there.

He hadn't stopped. My breath hitched, a sharp, shaky sound that broke the heavy, suffocating silence of the room, cutting through the oppressive stillness that clung to everything. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through me. I turned my head to the side, slowly, painfully, and that’s when my gaze landed on it. The blood. Stark against the once-pristine white sheets, a violent splash of crimson, an undeniable, horrifying stain. It was everywhere, smeared and streaked, a brutal, cruel testament to everything that had happened, to everything he had taken.

Claire always knew how to get under my skin. I went to the staff locker room. Maybe Thessara came in early and I just missed her somehow. Her locker was open. That was weird. Thessara always locked it. I looked inside carefully. Her jacket was still there. Her bag. But something else caught my eye. A piece of torn fabric stuck to the locker door. Dark red stains on it. Blood. My medical training kicked in immediately. I pulled the fabric down gently. I examined it under the light. The blood pattern was strange. Not like a normal cut or injury. The stains were in weird places. And the color was slightly off. Darker than regular blood should be.

Everything about him is precise, controlled, perfect. Something’s wrong. I crouch down, my fingers brushing the fabric, finding it stiff in places. When I lift it, straightening on my feet, sunlight catches on a clean slice through the shoulder. But it’s the blood that makes my breath catch—dark brown stains spread across the white cotton like a Rorschach test of violence. I’ve never seen him bleed before…

Rebecca: "What the hell are you talking about," I ask. "Marcus, come on! Get over here." "How," Marcus asks. He lifts his camouflage shirt and shows me his bloody chest. "Son of a bitch," I say, covering my mouth as I step back. Marcus's stab wound is worse than I expected. Even though it's wrapped, there is still blood flowing out of it. The area around the wound is black. Looking at Marcus, I finally notice him. He is barely standing straight. His body and face are drenched in sweat and he's as pale as a ghost.