Old Wounds Novels & Stories

He tried to jerk her hand, but she grabbed him so tight while looking at his wounds. She rubs his fingers on his wounds on the back. He closed his eyes in response for a second. "I'm fine; those are very old wounds." He said. "Then why has your wound not healed yet?" Oh yes!! There are two bullets and knife marks on his back; his wounds have healed, but the marks were very deep, due to which the scar hasn't healed yet. "It must hurt." She asked him while looking at him in the mirror. He looked at her back in the mirror, making eye contact with her.

I felt like an exhausted older woman dealing with an arrogant teenager. I walked inside my room and quickly changed into comfortable, normal clothes. I really did have to go. When werewolves fight each other, their claws and fangs leave special wounds that cannot heal on their own. Without a healer to use pack medicine, a werewolf will suffer from the open wound for days, just like a fragile human. A few minutes later, I was sitting on the wooden benches at the training ground. I watched Caius easily dodge and fight the huge Betas and Gammas in the dirt.

The guard next. He is a bigger man, older, with the weathered face of someone who has spent years outdoors and the specific frustration of someone whose body has been failing at something it should be able to do. The wound closed wrong and is infected in a way that resists the physician's treatments, and his thread reflects it — the knot I saw from the doorway is tight and hot and angry.

Lucien was quiet for a moment. She could feel him deciding whether to follow that thread or leave it alone. He left it alone, which surprised her. "Does it work on old injuries?" he asked instead. She looked up again and saw him looking at the compound. "Depends on the injury," she said carefully. "Old injuries are complicated. The body builds around them. Sometimes the pain is in the original wound. Sometimes it's in everything the body does to compensate for it." She paused. "Which one are you asking about?"

“Basically, they’ve got stab and slash wounds that aren’t healing. They’re basically stuck in wolf form.” “What happened? A slash wound should heal as soon as the wound edges come together.” “Well they aren’t.” “I brought medication for infections. I believe it will work for some poisons.” “My father’s gone too far this time.”

Only then do I allow myself to crumble, sinking to the floor as the weight of everything crashes down on me. I’d thought I was past this. Past him. Past the pain of his rejection. But tonight, as his words replay in my mind—Our arrangement served both our purposes—I realize that some wounds never truly heal. They just scab over, waiting for the right moment to reopen and bleed all over again. And once again, I’m left wondering if I’ll ever be enough for anyone.

But Asher— Every inch of him was covered in them. Dense. Spreading. There wasn’t an inch of his body that hadn’t been wounded critically. How is this even possible? What the hell has he been through to end up like this? No… who did this to him? For a second, I thought it was the holy rain. Or maybe Yandor’s attack. But no. These wounds were old. They had healed decades ago. One layered over the other, over and over again, until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.

I'd dragged the wide chair out from the receiving room and positioned it in the compound where the weak sun actually reached, and Olive had followed without being asked, pulling a low stool behind her, and now she sat with her back to me while I worked the ointment carefully across her wounds. They were healing. Slowly, unevenly, the deep ones still angry and raised, but the bleeding had stopped and Marta's ointment was doing what it was supposed to do. I worked it in with two fingers the way Marta had shown me, careful around the worst of them, and Olive sat with her spine straight and her hands folded in her lap and occasionally made a sound she immediately swallowed. "Tell me when it's to

She needed strength right now, not pity. I applied ointment to the wounds, gently checking the progress of the healing. Some of the sores were starting to close, but others... others were still raw, inflamed with the evidence of the violence she had endured. I worked quickly, trying not to prolong the moment any longer than necessary. After reapplying fresh bandages, I disposed of the used ones and made sure to wash my hands thoroughly.

I don’t know what those Blue Moon fucks did to me, but I haven’t heard from my wolf Killian since I woke up, and without him, I’ve been unable to heal properly. Three months of lying in bed, dealing with the pain of shattered knee caps, third-degree burns, broken bones, deep gashes and punctures, and disgusting infections. But the pain I can deal with; it only lasts for so long. Bones and burns would heal, and gashes would eventually close. Some things, though, would never heal. Not everything could be rectified with time.