Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

I try to imagine the mind of someone who could write about hurting themselves, but I can’t, especially not her. As I flip through the pages, reading bits and scraps of paper that Zara has haphazardly pasted into the book. One scrap has my name on it. The surrounding words were random, mixed in with odd glyphs that may be chemical structures or made up characters. I can’t tell the difference, but I don’t think I want to know, either. There is a page filled with tally marks, but I don’t know what they represent. I’m not sure if I should ask her or not. Disturbing drawings fill in empty areas of pages. There are sporadic lists of things that she feels like she needs to complete before she is go

She said and ended the call. I looked at the papers, squeezed them, and threw them at the far end of the room. Three pencils too, and emptied the little box. They all watched me confused. “I’m not doing the drawing. Do whatever you like, bitch!" I screamed, surprised by my sudden courage. I didn’t even care anymore. Getting killed, beaten up, or kidnapped forever, I cared less. No one has ever loved me. I wasn’t needed after all or cared for all through my life.

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 sat him right down and made him watch me cry pathetically as I drew and gave him something no one is ever supposed to see. At least not anyone I wanted alive. My drawings of men sex nude, my hidden shame and therapy. I practically exposed everything needed to truly destroy me in a night. I did all of that not to anyone else, but to the one person who already has something on me! I did that to him? Stefan! What the hell was I thinking? I couldn't help but laugh, with my hands right on my head as I knew…. Yeah, I was definitely fucked this time.

I reminded him. “Geeze. Sorry.” He shrugged and went back to his own work, but his comment made me second guess my own. I looked at it carefully. He was right. It could’ve been any girl with long hair in a cape. I looked at his drawing and wasn’t surprised at all to see that he’d drawn himself shirtless, standing with his arms up, his arms bulging with muscle, his face lifted to the sky in a menacing howl. Even though he was a human in the drawing, his inner wolf was clear. So was the darkness that had overtaken him.

And beneath it all—tucked into a leather folder—Noah’s drawings. He used to draw our family in the most honest, painful ways. Stick figures, yes, but with details that broke my heart. A tall man with a scowl. A woman with tears. And a child in the middle—arms reaching toward both. I remembered scolding myself for keeping them. But I couldn’t throw them away. It felt like erasing the truth. Now, those drawings felt like warnings I hadn’t heeded in time. I folded them up and put them away.

And the first thing that caught my eye? The drawings. The first one was dark. Black scribbles, angry strokes all across the canvas like someone tried to scratch their pain into it. In the middle, a small girl drawn in thin red lines stood alone, facing a locked door. She had no eyes. Just emptiness on her face. The second was a mess of words, written over each other—"HELP," "ENOUGH," "WHY," "PLEASE"—scattered across a shape of a woman curled up, her back to the world.

I wondered over and over if Deangelo was even thinking about me at all, even if it was just for ten measly seconds. I could not take the pain of being unnoticed and unimportant anymore. It was like a constant ache in my chest. And now, I had even started to harm myself. It seemed to be the only way I could cope with the pain. The only way I could feel anything at all. I cut myself with razors, watching the blood trickle down my arms. I burned myself with cigarettes, feeling the sting of the flames against my skin. It was a sick and twisted way to deal with my emotions, but it had always been the only thing that helps.

I frowned, realizing what I had to do. Aw fuck. I gripped the small blade tightly in my hand as I held it over my arm. I had to cut so enough blood was spilled for me to need April, but not enough that my life was actually in danger. I frowned, as I stared at my lightly scarred arm.I had tried self harm a few times. It wasn't exactly an uncommon practice amongst omegas. It didn't really do anything for me though so I quickly stopped. Still, because so many around me did it, I had a decent idea of where to cut. Carefully, I dug the blade into my forearm, going horizontally as I made sure to nick my blood vessel.

I didn’t stop walking. Upstairs, I shut my door too softly for the satisfaction I wanted. Kicking off my leggings, I grabbed a hoodie and crawled into bed. The moment the lights were out, my brain flipped the switch on its nightly torture reel. Old memories. New fears. That terrifying feeling I’d let something important unravel tonight and didn’t know how to rebraid it. I reached for my sketchpad. My safest escape. Tonight’s drawing began with a scar. A long one, slicing down a man’s cheek. His eyes were soft, though. Kind. I made him older. Mid-thirties. Ex-boxer, maybe. Wrote notes in the margin: