Scream Drawings Novels & Stories

Kaliya’s pov ________ My hands shakingly covered my mouth as I gawked at the drawing, this was really me in tge drawing, my breasts, thighs and bum was exposed on this piece of paper, I turned and saw another one that was also covered, without hesitation I lifted it’s covering, it was another naked drawing of me, but this time I was facing away. As beautiful as these drawings were they felt wrong and somewhat exciting, I gasped when I heard Lumi’s voice call out to me, I wanted to cover the drawings up but there was no time because of how close she sounded, she should not enter this room.

Her phone was still in her hand, the last words of Selena’s call echoing through her mind like a gunshot that hadn’t hit yet. He’s a target. A big one. Her eyes drifted back to the table, to where Pearl had left her half-finished lemonade beside a napkin covered in doodles. She stared at it absently. Then her gaze dropped. A corner of white paper peeked out from the side pocket of her bag. She reached for it. Unfolded it slowly. It was a drawing—crude, clumsy, and heartbreakingly earnest. Stick figures holding hands, coloured with uneven crayon strokes. A triangle of yellow meant to be the sun, a purple heart floating between them. Above each stick figure, names were scrawled in shaky letter

Her heartbeat quickened, not with fear, but with that strange kind of anticipation that only comes when something hidden is just within reach. She knelt down, slowly this time. Gently, deliberately, she pulled the drawer open fully. Inside: more drawings. Crayon sketches on yellowed paper — childish but full of detail. Two boys under a mango tree, one taller, one grinning with front teeth missing. Another of a house, clearly the Kareem mansion, drawn with careful precision and love. The name “Rami” was scribbled in the corner of one page. Zara’s fingers trembled as she lifted an old essay from a thin folder. It was worn at the edges, but the handwriting was neat, even, and emotional. At the

Most notably, he was surrounded by discarded papers, all depicting the same thing in black and red crayon. Dimly lit rooms, with creeping shadows around the corners. Large, angry stick figures with what almost looked like baseball bats or police batons in their hands. Smaller stick figures cowering on the floor. Shuddering, I leaned over and picked up the nearest one. It looked like a closeup of a man’s face, black stubble around his mouth and his eyebrows turned down as if in fury. He had pointy teeth, the ends of which were dotted with… Red. Like blood.

She was somewhere around seven or eight, completely absorbed in whatever she was drawing, her tongue pressed to the corner of her mouth in concentration. I lowered myself carefully into a chair near her, mindful of my ribs, and looked at the paper. The drawing was full. Not in a crowded way, in a deliberate way, like she had a clear picture in her head and was working her way across the page with intention. There was a dragon in the top left, red and blocky with impressive teeth. Below it, a woman in a red cape with a pointed hat on a flying broom, carefully coloured with a orange crayon. To the right of that, something with fangs and a dark cape that I was fairly certain was meant to be a v

Unfortunately, I had to go back. Begrudgingly, I returned to the little camp, the sun nearly completely gone by this point. But between Scarlett’s heightened eyesight in the dark and the campfire’s glow, there was no mistaking the scene I found upon my return. I instantly stopped dead in my tracks. “What are you...,” I whispered, barely getting the words out. He looked up from my notebook as I spoke, apparently not even caring that I caught him. “What are these drawings? Where did you get them?” he asked, flicking through the pages. “Some of them are... strange.”

On the two stick figures. She stared. And stared. Her breathing hitched again, but differently this time. Not ragged gasps, but shallow, trembling breaths. Her small hand, lying limp in her lap, twitched. Then, slowly, tentatively, she reached out. Not for a colored pencil. Not for the new drawing. But for the grey, smudged paper – the paper that held her silent scream.

Maybe years. And then I see the drawings. Taped to the walls, scattered across tables, covering nearly every surface I can see. Sketches in charcoal and pencil, some detailed and finished, most of them half-done like he started and couldn’t bring himself to continue. All of them are the same person. A girl. Young, fourteen or fifteen maybe, with long dark hair and this smile that looks like it could light up an entire room. In some of the drawings she’s laughing at something off the page. In others she’s concentrating hard, her tongue stuck between her teeth the way kids do when they’re focused.

“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? ”

Groaning, she grabbed the pencil and started to fulfil her heart's desire. She slumped onto the couch and sketched on the first page of the notepad. She didn't realize how the time flew by, as she spent her time perfecting her sketch. She drew a serpent that was peeking out of a human skull, ready to spit its poison to the next person who dared disturb him. She was almost done with it when Frank entered the room. Gasping, she hastened to hide the notepad in the fear of angering him. She had used something that belonged to him without his permission.