Self Harm Drawings Mga Nobela at Kwento

My drawing tablet sat there, practically taunting me. I knew I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t. But I grabbed it anyway. My fingers swiped across the screen, flipping through random sketches before landing on them. The nudes. The explicit sketches of Jace—of us—doing things that had never even happened except in my head. My stomach twisted, but I couldn’t look away. I should stop. I should. But in the next minute, I was sketching again. My hand moved on its own, each line more detailed than the last. I wasn’t even thinking, just letting myself get lost in the strokes—

I tried to think of more people of the town, or even of Jacob again. Yet, as my charcoal moved over the paper and a figure began to form, I realized I was drawing Damien. I groaned, crumpled up the paper and tossed it across the room in the direction of the trash can. Even more determined now, as well as annoyed, I started another drawing on a new piece of paper. Soon, I realized that this also looked like Damien. That one also flew toward the trash can. A third. Again, like Damien. Growling now, I tore the paper into tiny pieces, so irritated with myself.

I have been having another nightmare, the same kind that haunted my childhood. I get out of bed and take some aspirin to relieve my head of the pressure. Suddenly I feel the need to drain my mind of the noise that has become my curse. My sketchbook occupies its usual position besides my bed. I pick it up and begin to sketch, letting the pain and anger flow through my fingers onto the paper. My strokes are deft and shaky so the paper gets crumpled along the way. Finally, I am done and can feel the weight loosening in my head. I do not bother to look at what I had drawn on the paper.

'Why does the theme of humanity have to be sad? He finally asked and I shrugged, staring at the drawing that was divided into four parts. The first part showed children, malnourished children with big stomach and thin legs that could barely carry the weight of their big stomach, they were in a refugee camp and they were clustered around and very very hungry. The second part showed their happy and eager faces when an NGO arrived with relief materials; food and the likes. The third part showed all of them lying on their ground, dead. And the last part showed the government building an dam on where their camp used to be.

She needed to find her anchor if she wants to survive this union, this pack that questioned her worth at every turn she took. At her desk she lit a candle, she spread open her sketchbook, and let her pencil guide her. At first the strokes had come at sharp, jagged lines etching frustration onto the page. The shapes softened as minutes passed by, it softened into wildflowers, the petals reaching upward, there were fragile but yet defiant. With each mark, her chest loosened. The only place she could take a breathe without being judged was drawing at her sketchbooks. Her drawings on the page never asked her why she didn’t have fur of her own, never whispered “charity case” whenever she passed t

Damn. Another deep breath later I shook my head then moved his sketch aside and started drawing my latest victim instead. Willing my mind to think about my latest kill, I started sketching, fast. The lines, the shape of his slouched body, and the fear show his level of stress without showing off his face. The blood dripping from his stomach made them perfectly in line with the moment his life was slipping away. My wrist moves hurriedly, line after line, shading, shaping Rudy the tattletale. The coloring comes next, then I decided to stop when my back felt too tired to continue.

he says and I roll my eyes at the nickname. But as I reach for my cup, something on his forearm made me do a double-take; deep diagonal slashes ruining his tattooed sleeve. They looked like healed cut marks. I pull my eyes away from his arm before he could notice my stare and take a sip of my coffee. Did Noah self-harm? Was his emptiness that big that he needed to harm himself in order to feel something again?

I always lock it before leaving the premises. “But I… Did I…” Brushing it off, I pull the mini door open, and yelp when a heap of papers rains on me as if waiting for me to open it all along. I stay still for a moment, just blinking at the drawings. They’re ugly exaggerated images of me; big head, messy hair, thin legs… I’m as tiny as a doll, while a big guy towers over me, his pants down, and I’m choking on his… What?! My heart drops.

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