Writing Injuries Novels & Stories

The officer thanks me for my statement, then asks the doctor what the injuries are, she relays her diagnosis. “A lot of bruising mostly, possibly a fractured wrist and a chance of a cracked rib or two, but no major damage, and no sign of a concussion.” Then she turns to me, “With some rest and arnica cream for the bruising you should be just fine my dear.” I smile grateful that I escaped worse damage and Drake breathes a sigh of relief too. Max returns and they take their leave, and now I really cannot stay awake I slump back on the sofa exhausted.

Focused on the assignment. That is the plan. "Fitzgerald first or Hemingway?" Eli wraps both hands around his coffee cup. "Hemingway. Start with the war injury angle. Physical limitation and creative identity." I write it down. He is not wrong. Hemingway's relationship with the wounds he carried from World War One, both physical and psychological, runs through almost everything he wrote. The way he used writing to process what his body could no longer do. The way his public identity became both armor and cage.

"Something definitely happened for you to end up injured." "I probably cut myself on the bar stool when it splintered." I rubbed the tender area around the wound. "It stings a bit, but it's nothing major. Should be healed in a few days." Beth sighed dramatically, clearly disappointed. "Well, that means I have to scrap most of what I wrote this morning. It's a shame. You could have been front-page news."

“Miss at this time you don't need to be afraid, you just need to rest in this place. I will make sure that everyone will stay safe!” Then Dinda, who already trusted Luis, was now starting to fall asleep. It can be seen that at this time Dinda is very tired, she is running to save herself. When this woman was asleep, Luis immediately washed her feet with warm water. Luis saw a scar on this woman's leg, and immediately Luis put a plaster on this woman's wound. Now Luis only saw a poor woman sleeping very soundly. Right now it looks like this Woman is Tired, and also very scared.

I sat at the sofa, my coronary heart pounding in my chest. Jake paced the residing room like a caged animal, his brow furrowed with anxiety. I may want to feel the load of silence placing between us, thick and uncomfortable. “Sarah,” he started out, strolling a hand thru his hair, “I’m simply sorry approximately earlier. I didn’t mean to harm you.” I crossed my arms, trying to protect myself from the pain I felt. “You didn’t mean to hurt me? It felt like you probably did precisely that, Jake. You allow me see that image, and it made the entirety worse.”

The doctor was going to inform me about my injuries. "Olivia, I know even if I say I understand what you are going through I will never know, you have lost a lot of blood and there will be scars left on your body," I simply stared at her, with her every description the scene how the pain was inflicted on me flashed back. "They burnt you left wrist with acid but you can take care of it with a cosmetic surgery, there are marks on your thighs and back which will leave with passing time," I swallowed hard ather words at the name of a surgery, one as decision of choosing a wrong person in your life could you leave this position.

It helps me forget, forget the pain, and relax my sore and tense muscles. I washed my hair and body carefully due to my injuries, and then I finished. I wrapped a white fluffy towel around myself loosely. I then put on my underwear and bandaged my injuries, being extra careful on my ribs, back, knee, and shoulder. Since my knee and shoulder are dislocated and my ribs are broken. My back is whipped, so it's most probably open. I then put on some comfy clothes and covered my bruises that were visible with foundation.

''Maybe, you're just a crybaby,'' She adds. ''Excuse me?'' My eyes widen, ''Me? A crybaby? Sweetheart, look at me—I'm anything but a crybaby. You were just being too rough on me,'' I smile without looking away from her face, seeing that she's currently enjoying my disagreement as she stands up, writing something on the papers in her hand. ''So . . . I can't write?'' I ask, glancing down at my left arm. ''No, unfortunately. Not until you've fully healed which would take up to eight weeks, according to your age—people of younger age tend to heal faster.'' She answers as she glances towards my direction for a couple of seconds before looking back at the papers.

That honestly wouldn’t surprise me, but I stayed silent and let her vent! After hours and hours of this continuous tedious task, she picks a room to paint or decorate. Loyalty is never idle for more than a few minutes! After the first week of my recovery, she insists I get up and walk around the house with her. It fucking hurts, she knows it does, but still, she pushes me. While I’m distracted by the incredible amount of pain I’m feeling, she starts talking to me about the contract. “Spence, we need to start shopping around for insurance for the Hart’s employees. Can you go over the contract with me?”, she asks as I’m leaning on her as I walk.

She winked and left. All these women were giving me headaches—more difficult than files and clients. Yesterday, it was Beatrice and Tara. To be handsome and charismatic had its disadvantages. Ever since I got here, I’d been getting winks and sultry looks. Only the married ones, and the self-reserved or less confident, kept away. Last night, my mother sent another message—this time mentioning Wendy. The name made me hesitant. Women like that were a thorn in my flesh, and I couldn’t deal.