Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

She has spelt her evil intentions audibly for me to understand and my part is to submit to her whims. I release the grip of my teeth on my lower lip the moment the tinge got painful. I’ve been told not to self harm, it’ll be suspicious if I do. The thought of wounding myself to the point where I am hospitalised has crossed my mind several times daily, because at least in a hospital, I can choose who will have access to my room, but I can’t even hurt myself. I let out an exhale. Acting as if I’m fine when I’m not is the worst thing yet. I am not fine. In all my nineteen years of living, I have never felt so trapped and petrified like I do right now.

From the drawing, it's lunch break and students are milling about around me but I'm standing there, looking stuck and feeling exhausted from the healing process. My eyes are a muddy brown but my lips are stretched out in a wide smile. My shoulders are slumped but my nostrils are flared like I'm angry and my fists are clenched so tightly, it's like I'm trying not to go wild. Like I'm trying to rein in my demons. And I don't even remember this. “These drawings are incredible, Jeremy.” “I should know, I made them and they're called outlines.” I slap his chest playfully, “Show a little gratitude.”

It's messy but detailed — the way his hair falls, that tight mouth, the brow that always looks like it’s suppressing some cruel thought. I never show people my drawings. It’s just a thing I do. To vent, and keep myself sane. The pen suddenly stutters, ink cutting out halfway through another angry line. "Seriously?" I shake it. A weird idea suddenly pops into my head — maybe I should mail it to him, no return address, just the sketch and the words: You're the problem. Because he's technically the PROBLEM. Everything happening to me is his fault. I was normal before I join that company –

I flipped the switch, light flooding across the room in warm yellow beams. I walked to my board, fingertips trailing over the pinned sketches. Tears welled up again, slipping down my cheeks silently as I reached for a blank sheet of paper. I pinned it to the board and picked up a charcoal pencil. My hand trembled for a moment before it steadied, the weight of it grounding me. I closed my eyes, letting the grief and anger and betrayal flood through me. I let myself feel every cut, every bruise, every moment of humiliation. And then, I began to draw.

He was too handsome for an ugly person like me. I looked away from them. On my way home, I spot an elderly guy with a huge sign along the road, written, "Beware of the beast who hides in human skin that walks among us." I didn't understand why I was so frightened when I read it. Briggs, the elderly guy, was insane; he lost his mind when his daughter went missing. Nothing he wrote on that piece of cardboard was sane. Arriving home, I went straight to my room and locked myself in. I sat at my desktop and typed in the search engine, "Beast who hides in human skin."

He opened a drawer and pulled out something before walking over to me and laying it in front of me. It was a drawing pad and colored pencils. My face lit up in excitement. My body moved quicker than it needed to, causing a far amount of pain but I chose to ignore that. Bring my knees up to my chest, I flipped to the first page and held my black pencil to the page and froze. What should I draw? “What’s wrong?” Arlo asked. “Trying to think of what I should draw.” “Draw your trauma. Draw what you need to say but can’t find the words.”