Bloody Drawings Novels & Stories

Besides, I think they're too impatient to do things calmly. "What do you know about this wine called 'Blood of the Wise'?" Judging Orion's expression, there's no doubt, he's willing to tell him everything he wants to know. Ah. The scent of victory.

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 2 "𝐴 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑..... 𝐴 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑚𝑎𝑛..... 𝐴 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘..." Katherine That organ in my body that pumps blood and keeps my whole blood warm somersaulted and I took a step back. Alexander Tyrone leaned on the door in all his glory.

One man dropped and another went down after Sergio’s return fire snapped through the hallway like thunder. Sergio looked back at her dubiously. "How come you are so comfortable with a gun and shooting people?" he asked her. Rosy shook her head uncertainly. "I don't understand it myself. My body is just responding to a command on its own." she replied and Sergio smirked. "Surely now you believe the De Luca's blood runs through your view now." "Doesn't prove anything." she muttered focusing on gaze on the men exchanging gunfire. Blood pooled across polished floors. Priceless artworks were torn to shreds. Smoke drifted toward the high ceilings like a prayer gone unanswered.

No words. When I returned to the cabin, Kaelen was sleeping soundly, as if nothing had happened. But the drawing was still on the table. And now there were three more beside it. Each darker than the last. One showed a crown floating above a field of bones. Another showed a wolf standing in a pool of blood. But the last— It was me. Standing alone. I saw fire behind me, and a sword in my hand. Someone kneeling before me with a blade in their back.

“But I do need to show you something.” She takes my hand and leads me to her desk. Opening a drawer, she pulls out a small stack of papers. She holds them out to me, and I take the stack. They’re children’s drawings in crayon. “I found those in Bryony’s room,” Willow explains. Our three-year-old daughter's drawing isn’t a concern. It’s the subject matter in her drawings that makes me pause. There are drawings of wolves in cages, a bloody wolf on the ground with a knife sticking out of its neck and a black sun with a smaller blue circle inside of it.

I sat on an overturned crate, opened my sketchbook, and started drawing. The lines came fast. Jagged edges of broken concrete. A single rusted fire escape clinging to the side of a warehouse like it was trying to escape. Shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. I didn’t think about Dmitri. Not consciously. But somewhere between the second and third page, I realized the figure I’d started sketching in the foreground—half-hidden behind a stack of rotting pallets—was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair falling into his eyes. I hadn’t meant to draw him. My hand had just… remembered. I stared at the rough outline of his profile, charcoal smudged where my thumb had tried to soften the line o

I flipped the next paper, and froze. I looked over at him sleeping soundly on the bed and looked back at the drawing. Why would he draw this? It was an image of a lady with a red cloak. He had colored her with red. Then she was surrounded by green bushes. There were small rocks around the area. But what caught my attention the most, was his illustration of the pool of blood on the floor and a small child drowning in it. It was definitely the nightmares. I flipped through the other papers and saw other strange but similar drawings. A red eyed owl. An old house. And the last one was a drawing of an ancient Greek symbol. I couldn't place what it was.

It was a drawing of the woman’s back, Driz concluded. The curved lines on the sketchbook page looked like a woman’s curves as she laid in bed, and a closer look at the page in Peter’s hand showed that the markings were the same but on a larger scale and red, “Where did she get red ink?” Derek asked and Peter hesitated before bringing the page up and sniffing it. “It’s not ink, it’s blood.” He informed everyone and the room went silent. Their mother really was a monster.

“Draw me.” Goldie looks at Darryl and takes the pencil. He moves the tip of the pencil on the paper and begins to scribble a couple of circles and lines. Darryl watches him with intent, The drawing highlighted some of his facial features more than the others, almost like in a cartoonish style. “Good,” Darryl nods at him, “Now, draw what they did to you in Bilibid. Did they torture you? Blackmail? Kidnapped? ”

I was a Saint to my mom and a slut to the men in my life. I grabbed my sketchbook and a charcoal stick. I didn't plan it. I just started scratching at the paper, the black dust staining my fingers. I drew myself not the pretty version. I drew a boy with his chest ripped open, screaming into a void. I drew giant, jagged hawks with Chadwick’s eyes and Miguel’s tattoos, literal pieces of my flesh hanging from their beaks. I pressed so hard the charcoal snapped, tearing the paper. It was the only way I could scream.