Open Wounds Book Novels & Stories

Cautiously touching the spot where the exposed gash had been, my jaw drops in confusion when my uncomprehending eyes cannot fathom what I’m seeing. To my stricken amazement, I run my fingers over the remnants of my wound when no agony awakens upon my caress, appearing to have nearly healed itself. Widening my eyes as the gathering pool of blood trickles down my arm, I feel myself grow faint while the clumsily created cut mends its broken and torn self before me—tightening as it reseals, defying time and logic like they no longer held a grasp upon reality. Freaking out, I gulp down before unknowingly holding my breath; growing nauseous from the unnatural sight—astonished by what I’m witnessin

Dan hoped his ability to regenerate would help him prove to Norma that the wound was indeed superficial and did not pose a great risk to him. When they got to his apartment, he quickly went into the bathroom, took a small first aid kit and took out a piece of gauze with which he began to dry the blood that flowed from his wounds. He also applied some alcohol to disinfect it and almost howled in pain. The wounds were still very open, despite the fact that the regeneration process had begun.

the doctor informed them, "but it's nothing serious, fortunately. You shouldn't let the wounds come into contact with water until they heal, and you must apply the medicine every day." "Will there be any long-term effects?" Jackson asked. "The wounds are all skin-deep," the doctor replied. "No nerves or muscles were affected, though the wounds might leave some scars in the future." Jackson's eyebrows knitted. Once her hands were bandaged, Serenity desperately tried to clasp the photo album against her chest as if it was her precious baby. Seeing this, Jackson pursed his lips tightly, before once again gathering her up in his arms and striding out of the emergency room to take her back to the

the Pack Doctor suggests after cleansing my wound and applying ointment. I stared at my wound. Usually, my wound shouldn’t look as raw and red as it is now; my wolf should have kicked in already and healed my injury. The fact that my wounds would need stitches to heal just goes to show how weaker I had become. It’s like my wolf is not even there to heal me. My eyes squinted as I felt the needle and thread pass through my skin. It was such a weird feeling, almost tickling, but the pain overpowered it more every time the Doctor tugged the needle and pressed my skin together.

Against all odds, I actually won. A broken smile tugged at my lips but the sharp stab of pain from my injuries quickly pulled it away. My body screamed with every breath. The wounds it left me with were stubborn, sluggish to heal, just like the smile it gave me before. These new ones would take time to heal. More time than I wanted to admit.

That he’d sent them to me… like this. He was Damien cold, calculated Damien and yet this was warm. Too warm. Too dangerous. I picked up the note again, re-reading it. My hands trembled slightly. No. This wasn’t okay. We hadn’t even spoken about anything that happened. Not last night. Not the week before. Not what he did, not what I said. There were wounds still open between us, gaping holes we were pretending didn’t exist. And now he was sending me designer gifts like everything was just… normal?

“We saw nothing wrong with him, Serena.” “So he’s okay?” I had to verify since all four of them looked as if someone had died. Cora sighed, shaking her head, and I clenched my hand in exasperation. “His wounds won’t heal by itself. Doc Austin gave him medicine, but as you know, our body temperature burns.” “Why were his wounds not healing?” I reiterated, pinning an accusing glare at Cora and Alpha Oren. “You saw him. His wounds should have healed by now.”

I clarified in a gruff. He grinned at me, although weakly. Amidst the fact that his roguishness was still intact, at least with his weak grin, I know that he was still not feeling his normal self. For the meantime, he becomes my patient and that means I ought to give him TLC in words and in deeds. “Well now, as far as my first aid knowledge can give me, burn wounds are supposed to be dressed with a low-adherent dressing with antibiotic effect. Yours is still not covered. Do you want me to?”

The injury looked recent; the edges were still raw. Dean’s heart skipped a beat, panic flooding his chest. He immediately called the butler, urgently requesting that a doctor be sent over. The doctor arrived swiftly, and after a thorough examination, he spoke with a grim expression. "The wound has reopened and become infected. On top of that, he hasn't rested properly and has been drinking, which triggered the fever. Make sure he doesn’t drink again and avoid any strenuous movements. If the wound opens up further, it could become much worse."

As the hot water hit my skin, I bit down on the back of my hand. Not because of the heat. But because the wounds were emerging from the steam like ghosts. Fingerprint bruises. Scuff marks. Massive blooms of purple and sickly yellow where boots had met ribs. Thin, jagged lines from blades—some healed into ugly white keloids, others weeping from repeated infections. They were everywhere: my waist, my inner thighs, beneath my shoulder blades. New wounds over old ones. A map of my suffering. There were no herbs in the dungeon. I was a healer; I knew exactly what these injuries needed. But for three years, all I could do was press my fingers to the skin and pray it wouldn't turn septic.