In a minute or two the wound would begin to hurt like hell, but it wouldn't kill him.

I couldn't tell for sure in the dark, but it looked like the wound was already beginning to heal.

He watched as the bleeding stopped and the wound began to close.

And then, as I watched, the terrible wounds began to heal.

My one wound was beginning to make itself felt.

So I sat with those things for a while, and the wounds began to heal.

His wounds had begun to slow and weaken him at last.

The wounds in his face and chest haven't even begun to close, after all this time.

The wound at his throat was beginning to close up, skin knitting together.

As my mother touches me the wounds begin to close on themselves.