Writing Injuries の小説・ストーリー

that has required several surgeries that luckily were very succesful. You have a small fracture in your left arm, a lot of small lacerations from the glass on your face, head, shoulders and chest. Only 2 of them were quite deep and will probably require a consult with a plastic surgeon. However, your husband has already been in contact with one of our country's most renoun plastic surgeons and has planned to fly him and his team in for a consult. You have 5 broken ribs; 3 on the right side, 2 on the left and as previously mentioned a punctured lung. I'm suspecting you have one hell of concussion as well but I'll withhold my verdict until I have examined you further." Oh....That explained th

I reply with a shrug. I wait for her to reply to me, but there is total muteness for a long time. I grind my teeth and wince. I inhale and exhale deliberately as I retrace my steps back in the track of testing my healing abilities. I place the blade on my wrist but I am feeling a little reluctant about it. Anyways, let me just do it. Now the valse is firmly placed ln my wrist, I yank it slowly and blood begins to pour. I frown my face and press my teeth together as I inflict injury and pain to myself, by myself.

"Don Ricardo, you're falsely accusing Isabella. There's nothing wrong with her. The real problem lies with—" But before she could finish, Lucia suddenly—and deliberately—stumbled, crashing into me. I lost my balance, and my lower abdomen slammed straight into the edge of a curbside trash can. A shriek of pain escaped me. Startled, Sophia rushed to steady me, only to see blood flowing from between my legs. When he saw that I was hurt, Ricardo's face went pale. He moved to pick me up, but Lucia suddenly screamed. "Don Ricardo! My stomach hurts so much! Our baby… Will our baby be okay?"

Humans heal faster with this kind of injury. "Hi I'm Nicole," I introduce myself. "What type of injury do you have?" "There's a fracture in my wrist," he tells me lifting his hand out to mine. I closed my eyes and hovered my hand over his injury. Suddenly the scenery changed. Smoke surrounded my view of where I was standing. Screams and yelling were heard all around me. I was seeing this from his body. He turned around fast and slammed his wrist into the base of a tree. A wave of pain spread through his body. That's how he got the injury. He growls as he turns back around and then there was a woman, her face hidden in the smoke.

I was alone in the cabin, Liam and Lucas wouldn't return for at least two hours, and my phone was—I patted my pockets with increasing dismay—still on the kitchen counter where I had left it before climbing to the attic. "Perfect," I sighed, frustrated tears threatening as the pain continued to pulse through my ankle. The injury was clearly serious—already swelling visibly, with discoloration spreading across the skin in an alarming pattern. Based on the audible crack and my medical knowledge from numerous werewolf-related injuries, I strongly suspected a broken bone rather than a simple sprain.

Logically, he should have explained how they got Jasmine into the room and why she did rehabilitation at night, but he stayed silent. Colin stopped and waited for Gavin's explanation, but Gavin pretended not to understand. We could tell there was a problem with Jasmine's alleged injuries. Colin tilted his head and glanced at Gavin meaningfully. "How's her injury?" he asked Amelia. "Ms. Jasmine had a bruise on her right ankle and a small wound on the toe of her left foot. The wound on her forehead was more serious, measuring nearly an inch on the corner, but there was no blood. The condition of her mental state and injuries are currently stable."

Laura paused, shot Mark another look. “The injuries to your – between your thighs are almost healed, Francine. As you know, it was bad bruising from him trying to assault you, and you had scratches from his fingernails. From when he scratched you – inside. We were worried about infection, but there was none. There is none. Your blood work has come back negative for anything that you might need to worry about.”

"What do you mean?" "His injury," Bastien says carefully as he sets down the chart in his hand, "doesn't match what I'd expect from combat. When an enemy inflicts a wound in battle, especially on the leg, the angle of entry follows the attacker's momentum. If someone came at him from the left, the laceration would run laterally, shallow on entry and deeper as the blade drags across, the tissue damage uneven, jagged, with bruising around the wound margins from impact force, maybe even defensive bruising higher up the limb where he tried to block." He turns to face me fully, lowering his voice.

Slowly pushing myself up while biting my lower lip, I tried to fight the pain from my aching body. I groaned when I put too much pressure on my wrist. I sighed, lifting my hand to check the wound on my wrist, which I clearly remembered, given the fact that I inflicted that myself. There was a bandage on my wrist and every jury on my body was already dressed. How come?

“You're mine to protect too.” The metallic tang of his wounds coats my tongue, but I didn't pull away. I can't. Not when his heartbeat thunders against mine. Not when his arms shake with the effort of holding back. Not when he's here. Alive. “Mine.” The bathroom light is unforgiving. It exposes everything the shadows had kindly hidden: The jagged laceration across his ribs too precise to be accidental Burn marks on his palms forming a telltale pattern restraint injuries Pupils that refuse to dilate evenly grade three concussion