Torn Novels & Stories

:Tears of Fury It had been four days since that day. Today, I told the girls that I could manage to move around and change by myself. I knew that they wouldn't leave until I said so, so after two hours of arguing, I convinced them to go and rest. I didn't want them to miss work or university because of me. When I checked the time, it was already six. I slowly got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. I took off my shirt and stood in front of the mirror. My body was covered in purple bruises, especially on my stomach, where it was the worst.

My ticket to something better. I could do this. No choice but to try. As I started unpacking, the sound of tires on gravel made me look up towards the window. A black shiny Alfa Romeo rolled to a stop out front. When the door opened, a tall figure stepped out. Even from this far away, there was no mistaking him. Blake Hawthorne was here. And suddenly, the air felt different. Like everything was about to change…. Like comment and share. xx

Travian’s jaw locked as he stepped forward, his battered frame placing itself between Soren and the nightmare in front of them. Every motion was a struggle against his own broken body—the tight bandages straining with the effort, the faint crimson bloom of fresh blood bleeding through the cloth like a silent reminder of wounds that had never been given the chance to heal. Yet he stood, unyielding, a shield carved from pain and sheer will. “Travian, stop—please,” Soren whispered, his trembling fingers clutching desperately at the torn sleeve of his protector. His voice cracked with fear, his chest tightening with every labored breath. “You’re not healed yet. He

Standing yet weak and wavering. That's when I noticed it. The injury. Despite his body trembling, Thorne's golden eyes were fixed on me as he leaned against the wall. His shoulder and chest were streaked with crimson, and his shirt was torn apart. He had a deep, unsightly slash over his collarbone. I screamed. "No." He gave me a faint, narrow half-smile that was twisted. "Calm down, Rin. It would take more to kill me. But I felt queasy. Was I the one with the scar?

Torn. Split. Broken. My fingers start shaking. “No…” I whisper. Liam looks over. “What?” I hold it up. He stares. I didn't understand at first. Then he does. And all color drains from his face. “That’s not…” he mutters. “It’s broken.” “Maybe after” “No,” I say. “It’s ripped.” Silence. Heavy. Dead. My heart pounds again. But not from desire. From fear. Real fear. He runs both hands over his face.

Max keeps changing it out for fresh gauze, but it keeps turning red immediately. And there's Kir. The dressings have come off for Tariq to work and I see it now, all of it, in the light. The right side of his face is a mess. The cheek torn back, the bone underneath wrong, caved where it should be whole, and the blood still coming, threading down into his ear, matting his hair. His eye on that side is swollen to a slit in a face I have kissed ten million times and can barely recognize.

For a second, I could not process what I was seeing. The torn pieces of my answer booklet fluttered down across the desk and floor. All the time I had fought for, all the work I had forced myself to complete, all the proof that I had not given up, lay in scraps at my feet. The anger I had been swallowing all morning finally broke through. "What gives you the right to tear up my paper?" I rushed forward and grabbed his sleeve. Stiazky wrenched himself free and shouted back.

But as my eyes traveled down to his torso, my stomach dropped. The pristine white bandages I had applied yesterday were completely ruined, utterly soaked through with a thick, spreading crimson. The neat, precise stitches I had meticulously woven into his flesh had violently ripped apart. Fresh, dark blood was sluggishly oozing from the deep laceration, pooling at his waistband. "Your stitches," I gasped, my fingers hovering just above the ruined wound, trembling despite my best efforts. "They're completely torn open. It's bleeding heavily. What on earth did you do?"

Then my eyes moved to the front of her shirt. Torn. Not worn or caught on something. Torn, with the specific quality of fabric that had been grabbed and pulled with force. Something settled in my chest. Cold. Precise. The particular quality of cold that preceded decisions I did not revisit. Someone had done this to her. Someone had put their hands on her, had torn her clothing and sent her running into a dark road at speed with her knees bleeding and her face carrying hours of tears, and they had done it tonight, recently, close enough that she was still running when she reached this road.

"I think I left my jacket in the back when I grabbed your bag earlier. One sec." He leaned back to grab it off the seat, and that was when I saw it ... not the whole jacket, just the sleeve, twisted and hanging half off the seat where he'd tossed it that morning. It was torn. Not ripped along a seam, the way fabric tears when it catches on something. Shredded, four long parallel lines cutting clean through the leather like something had raked claws straight through it, the edges rough and frayed in a way that didn't look like any accident I could think of.