Writing Injuries Novels & Stories

"No, listen, you twit. There was a guy, a really sweet boy; he helped me home." "A nice boy? In London? Now I know it's a head injury." I snorted and she grinned at me. "Calm down, babes, just teasing." "Stop, I don't have the energy tonight, Bron. Really, really don't." "OK, OK. So, tell me the damage." "Bruises everywhere on my back, head, wrist. Hip too I think. Bum. Cut on my thigh. Think I have torn skin on my shoulder blades. There was a satisfying amount of blood, anyway."

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.

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.

No helpful little attempt to categorize what she has already categorized too many times. Maya stares at the page. “I know,” she says. There is a pause. LUS does not ask what she knows. Maya does not explain. She writes the tenth item. Torres: severe non-bite laceration. Closed visibly over twenty minutes. Marcus contact coincided with acceleration or control. Unknown mechanism. She reads the line once. Then again. Ten items. Not rumors. Not impressions. Not the unreliable leftovers of fear and attraction and a damp shirt she is absolutely not thinking about right now.

He was amazed to see a patient distinguishing a thing after a severe traumatic brain injury and could speak despite his condition. Harry who was having a hard time in writing due to his shaky hand still tries his best to write down what he wanted to say. Since he knows he is having a hard time speaking, he wanted to write it anyways. Despite his ugly and almost unrecognizable handwriting which seemed totally different from how he used to write before, he managed to finish what he wrote and handed it to the doctor. “What did Harry write down doctor?” Jackson quizzed. The doctor pulled his head up and faced everyone before showing Harry’s family and friends what he wrote down on the paper.

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

He gives me a tube of our healing cream and says, “They are all superficial bruises and small cuts. The only real damage I found was that she had a broken wrist, which I just bandaged, but otherwise, she is fine. With a little bit of your blood combined with the healing cream her injuries should heal in a few nights, but if the bruises and swelling don’t go away in the next few nights come and see me and we will find out what is going on… Oh, and change that bandage on her wrist at least once a night for the next week.”

I hurried upstairs with the picture of Jaxon in pains on the ice in my head. I pressed my lips together, pacing his room like a restless ghost. Get it together, Hazel. I grabbed my laptop. I knew that if Jaxon trusted me with this secret, it means that I have help him out. So I went to work, I searched relentlessly for sports injuries, shoulder strains, unhealed injuries in hockey players and recovery timelines. I clicked through articles, medical forums, watching videos from physical therapists and athletes who’d been through similar injuries. I took notes, a few screenshots, bookmarked some pages —ice therapy, exercises and several other remedies.