Emotional Deep Drawings Novels & Stories

She shrugs and keeps coloring. I look down at her drawing. I took an introductory child psychology class last semester as part of the pediatrics program. I remember enough about it to suspect that this child is a little depressed. All of the pictures are made with dark neutrals of blacks, browns, and greys. There’s no color anywhere. Each drawing contains a solitary person standing alone, which I recall is a sign that indicates loneliness.

Underneath it, a sealed compartment. Inside: a black file. And a child’s drawing. She crouched. The glass was bulletproof, but familiar. The kind they used in containment chambers. Lucien’s voice was low. “What is that?” “I drew it when I was seven,” she whispered. “Rafael told me to sketch the day I realized I couldn’t be normal.” Lucien frowned. “What’s in the drawing?” Ember closed her eyes. “Me. Holding a gun. Pointed at a mirror.”

Half-finished profiles, small studies of my mouth, my knuckles. He didn't just draw my hands. He drew the veins on my forearm. He drew the calluses on my fingers. He drew the scar on my left palm. I feel something in my chest lurch. This isn't a sketch book. It's an obsession, and I’m so here for it. I flip a page and my breath stills in my throat. It’s me, drawn from the side, on my knees. My head is bowed, my hands clasped behind my back. It’s not last night. It’s from a drill. But the focus he’s captured is all sex. The tension in my spine, the line of my ass.

A hollow hour, a time when secrets and fears felt most alive. I poured myself a glass of water without thinking, my fingers numb against the chill of the glass. Drawing had always been my escape—charcoal and graphite transforming panic into something tangible. Settling at the small table by the window, I opened my sketchbook and let my hand move, searching for solace. Dark lines spilled across the page, tracing angles that formed a face—a face all jagged edges, raw emotion, with an intensity that mirrored the storm brewing in my chest.

"Wow, that was so fast. I thought it was going to take hours or something. " "It's just a sketch; that doesn't take much time. " He explains as I stand a few steps away from him and Emerson turns the drawing to my view. My eyes widen at the sight of the beautiful craft he has created. He's right; it's more like a sketch but you can clearly tell which details are which and it looks so fucking beautiful. The outline of the way my hair rolls down my shoulders, the top that I slid off my shoulders to reveal the skin under and my hands on my crossed legs– everything is so fucking perfect and I can't believe Emerson Ford is capable of something like this.

But that wasn’t what he was drawing today. There was a picture of two girls—rendered crudely in crayon, but still identifiable as girls. One of them had short blond hair and the other had long brown braids. Their hands were on their faces and their mouths open in screams. David had drawn these as big black circles. A huge black shadow hovered before them, a shapeless body with red eyes and clearly defined hands. The hands looked like long silver knives. There were many drawings before this one. Lauren wondered how long David had been at it.

(HOLDER OF FLAME) “DEEP, DEEP, DEEP, I AM IN-DEPTH.” Humming an unfamiliar melody that is neither dread nor a pleasant one, but falls in the middle of those two words with the harmony like no other, yet perhaps cursing, or more like praising someone. She looks at the pile of books in front of her and the markings, symbols, and sketches that she drew and made on top of the table. Wherein she giggles drawing a Cheshire smile at the end, as she whispers.

-And you won't go out at night. -No, mother, I promise I'll take care of myself. -It's okay... -I'll be fine, really, nothing bad will happen to me. -I don't know why I keep feeling this way, but I'm going to trust that you'll be fine. -I don't understand why you're so afraid if nothing ever happened to me. -No, but you're of age now and you haven't had sex, that's something the gods like. -Mom, calm down, we've never seen one. -It's true, I'm calming down.

His eyes soften when I start to rub my thumb over the back of his palm. "I don't think your art is a joke" I say in a small voice not breaking his gaze. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It carries emotions that I couldn't explain. It shows a part of you no one sees that you put more in your drawings. Ryder I never see if as a joke"

I pull it out immediately and grab it in my hand to jerk off with almost punishing force because this is getting to serious creep level. My fantasies are getting sicker and sicker and if Kingsley ever saw this, I'm sure he would sue me. And he would be well within his rights. But I can't not do it. I need it or I'm going to explode, even though my whole body is hot with shame and mortification, I really need it. It's the only thing keeping me sane lately. My wolf partially comes out when he realizes the drawing is ready and we both work together to create a perfect image in our heads to go with my drawing.