Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

And I just stand there, looking at him blankly. Tearing the pages from the drawing paper...he picks up a piece of charcoal, to scribble something on it. His long hair falling down his face as he crazily kept drawing something on it. While mumbling to himself. "You ...lo...ved me...you always...did...but I hurt you ..I didn't trust you .....I...." "I killed you..." "I killed you..." "I killed you...." I see his trembling hands moving vigorously as he was trying to draw something.

My breaths came in quick gasps as I leaned against the door, pressing my forehead to the wood, trying to calm myself. Why couldn’t they just listen? Why couldn’t they see how exhausted I was? I didn’t want the spotlight. I didn’t want a grand party. I didn’t want to wear a mask and pretend everything was fine when my world was quietly shattering behind the curtains. And Ryder… Ryder. His words still echoed in my ears. Cruel, cutting, calculated. It was like he enjoyed tearing me apart, piece by piece, and watching me try to hold myself together. I wiped angrily at my tears and walked over to my desk, opening my sketchbook. My hands moved on their own, charcoal sliding across the page, formin

I hate the fact that my dreams can turn even people I trust against me. I massage my hand, trying to soothe the aches. I still remember the day my stepfather stepped on it. It's probably why I sucked at drawing. My hand wasn't steady like it was when I was younger. It's damaged, permanently. Yet another thing he's stolen from me. I shoved my face into my knees, curling into a ball. "Don't think about it," I said, rocking myself. I went to the bathroom and washed my face in cold water. I grabbed my medication and poured some into my hand, gulping it down.

“As you can see… This sketch portrays a figure behind bars, their body language exuding despair and emotional imprisonment. The person’s face is partially obscured by their hands, which are pressed against their head in a gesture of deep distress, as if overwhelmed by inner turmoil. The bars in front of them symbolize literal or metaphorical confinement, adding a layer of entrapment and helplessness. The sketch is rendered with harsh, chaotic lines, giving the background a frenzied, almost claustrophobic feel, enhancing the sense of being trapped. The rough, aggressive shading further intensifies the emotional weight of the image, highlighting themes of repression, isolation, and the suffoca

But the moment I shut my eyes, he returned, his breath on my neck, his weight pressing into me. I flinched and shut off the tap. Get a grip, Liana. Wrapped in a towel, I stormed out, pulled my sketchbook from the drawer like a lifeline. I needed to draw. I needed to bleed this ache onto paper. My pencil moved in frantic strokes, lines connecting, curves forming. Skin, shoulders, abs, that signature smirk. My vision blurred, but I kept going until the image was complete. Maxwell. Naked. As I remembered him. I stared at the drawing, breath hitching.

A hollow hour, a time when secrets and fears felt most alive. I poured myself a glass of water without thinking, my fingers numb against the chill of the glass. Drawing had always been my escape—charcoal and graphite transforming panic into something tangible. Settling at the small table by the window, I opened my sketchbook and let my hand move, searching for solace. Dark lines spilled across the page, tracing angles that formed a face—a face all jagged edges, raw emotion, with an intensity that mirrored the storm brewing in my chest.

Drawing would be a good way to kill time, and it would help her relax. Crystal smiled as she went into the living room. She sat on the couch, pulled out her book and a pen from the coffee table’s drawer, and began to draw. She had only been drawing for a short while, though, before the cut on the back of her hand split open. She bit her lower lip as searing pain ran up her brain. Luckily, the wound was covered, so she did not bleed on her book, but red roses pressed through the cotton. Fu*k it! - she thought, and she kept on drawing.

No wonder Killian couldn’t look me in the eye this morning. I reach for the sketch pad Elara left by the nightstand. My fingers tremble, but I grip the pencil like it’s my lifeline. I don’t even think, I just draw. Symbols. Circles. Eyes with fire spilling from them. A wolf with a shattered spine. A crown that burns. A clock with no hands. My hand stops only when I notice the paper trembling beneath my touch. Not from me. From the floor. A low vibration hums through the wood. Like a warning.

I smiled, "And you're mine." I laid in bed with her while she slept. I couldn't help but watch her sleep. She is beautiful with her long hair covering her entire pillow. I was just about to go to the bathroom, when she started thrashing around on the bed. She reached for something on the nightstand and grabbed another one of her pencils. She made a motion like she was raising it above her head, and I grabbed the pencil out of her hands before she could start stabbing. She started acting like she was stabbing herself, and I held her close. This made her calm down a lot, because the sparks were flowing through both of us. I started moving her hair out of her face and kissed her on the forehead

I pulled out a book for school and started trying to read, but I couldn’t get my vision clear enough to see the small printed text. Instead I moved over to the desk and pulled out a fresh paper and my charcoal pencils and started to draw. I tried to draw anything that wouldn’t remind me of Michael or how much pain I was in. I tried to think of something calm and peaceful, but all I could think of was Michael’s face. My hand started moving without my control as I started to sketch an image of him. I started to make him darker and more menacing than he truly was. It hurt to see him like that, but it also relieved some of the anger I was feeling.