Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

I don't want this anymore. I don't want anything anymore. I groan and keep hitting my face, harder and harder each time. When that doesn't work, I start to scratch my arms deeply, drawing blood. I go on and on, not giving my body a chance to heal. The beige carpet under my feet is starting to fill with blood and the blood there makes me remember the moment I got out of bed and saw the blood stain there. I'm seriously so fucking useless. I can't even stand up and do something to actually hurt myself, to end this like I should, I'm just sitting here hurting myself uselessly. I'm never going to die with these injuries.

Am I really living like this? My eyes catch a glimpse of my drawer. I promised Hu I would never hurt myself, and I swear I have been holding up for a week now, but I can no longer do it. I need somewhere else to channel the hurt, and it is so much easier. When my wrists bleed and hurt, then my heart can take a break. It cannot keep bearing the burden alone. I stand at once, reaching for the drawer. Then I grab the blade in it, staring at the glinting weapon. Without giving it a second thought, I bring it to my wrist, slashing it once, then twice, and again. I cry out in pain, but before I can process it, my door flies open, and I stand face to face with my mother, whose face pales out in hor

My subconscious blamed me. "You know I will not worry too much about anything." I said to myself. I pulled off my coat and sat on the couch to study the drawings. I have five beings to find and I haven't found any. The three of us had five drawings which were all the same, that made the whole thing look more real. The first, a little boy, around Kabal's age. He has a special kind of eye, it looked too white, not gray, he's a little shepard. Second, like a slave girl, I see that she works in a brothel, She has a short hair that barely reached her shoulder. Third, a male with a pet, a white wild cat. Fourth, also a male, he has a birthmark beneath his left eye. The fifth, it's hard to discern

Jessica slowly started walking again. Later that night she sat in her room sketching. Her pencil moved softly across the page. Without thinking, she began drawing herself. She stopped halfway. Jessica stared down at the picture. Because she had accidentally drawn herself smiling. She had never done that before. Not once. She sat frozen. Looking at it. Then quietly whispered: "I don't even look like that." Silence filled the room. Rain tapped softly against the window. Then somewhere deep inside her... a tiny voice answered:

It was blurred out, but I knew it was not me. I dropped the package on the floor and rolled over. The thought of self-harming crossed my mind for the first time. I stood up from the bed and went inside his bathroom. I filled the tub till the water was brimming over the edge. I search Alex's drawer for some blades and settle myself into the tub. Ripping the pack off, I run the blade on my hand, making minor cuts, then bigger. I dropped the blade on the side and dipped my head under the tub when I had enough.

But I refused to be consumed by the thought, and just like the twenty five other trashed papers littering the floor, I ripped off my current hazard and squeezed it before flinging it over to the ground again, ready to try again the twenty seventh time. I had isolated myself in the tiny basement with my usual pad, pencils, and every other materials used for drawing. It was what I liked to call stress venting in practical form. It had been my therapy for so many years and just this few months without a pen and it feels like I've almost forgotten how to draw. A few angry sketches later, I pushed away from my small wooden desk and let my head crash on the surface as I let out a heavy sigh. Getti

I feel so helpless. Self-harm is not the solution to get out of the problem but I seem to like that option lately. I don’t want to react the way I react when he is close to me. I don’t want to please him but I somehow do it willingly after being aroused. I haven’t done anything serious yet; just a few pinches and slaps. I want to share my thoughts with someone. I want to take advice from someone that is not Austin but there is no one to give me company in such a hard time except for the beast himself.

He was going to leave me anyway someday, so why bother. I would sit in my corner and just draw. My room was full of my sketches now. I would see them often now. The darkness was surrounding me, and I didn't care anymore. There would be scratches and bruises on my body, where they would touch me and trying to take me into the darkness. But I would never get far. Anthony would show up, and hold me in his arms keeping me safe. It seemed that my sadness was pulling them in. I would see them from outside my windows looking in, while the others just wait outside standing.

And that was okay. Today I was helping Micah, a thirteen-year-old with a shaved head, hoodie sleeves always tugged down over their palms, and the eyes of someone who’d seen more than they should’ve. They weren’t chatty, but they liked drawing. Their sketchbook was filled with figures that resembled comic book heroes, quiet and fierce, with eyes always cast in shadow. They were hunched over a new page now, sketching a person standing in the center of swirling chaos. The figure held a long sword in both hands, the blade resting downward, tip touching the ground. Not raised. Not slashing. Just… there.

As I passed the mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself, my eyes were puffy,pale skin, and lips pressed into a line. I didn’t recognize myself, not completely broken, but cracked in all the wrong places. I curled up on my bed and pulled my sketchbook onto my lap. It took a few minutes before the pencil moved, drawing angry lines, smudging shadows, creating a shape that was somehow both terrifying and familiar. Sharp eyes. Harsh jaw. Silas. Only this version of him was much more intense. I blinked. Where had that come from? I hadn’t even realized I’d drawn it. It looked… too natural.