Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

As long as he left me alone, it meant that the chances of his assault reoccurring were low. Strapping on a top and a long skirt, I made my way into the closet and fished out the box of drawing materials. At least Tom hadn't found this yet. If he destroyed them as well, I would lose my mind for sure. I hugged the box close to my chest, feeling immense relief course through me. If I searched for escape from my reality, this was it. This was my escape. I cleared the desk in the bedroom, laid out my drawing paper and grabbed a drawing pencil. Swiping through my phone for a drawing video online, I tried to get lost in mimicking the artist's steps and trying to draw up what I could.

It’s funny to watch their ego take a dive when a girl knows more than they do about cars. Today we are doing self portraits with charcoal. I put my AirPods in and get engulfed in what I am doing. Art is the only thing I can be emotionally honest in. I put all my sadness into my work, but this time it’s like my hand doesn’t want to listen to me. I find myself drawing the wolf I had seen in my backyard with me laying on it’s chest. For some reason I have drawn myself asleep and I look peaceful for a change. The wolf’s eyes stare at me from the page, piercing into my soul.

His abdomen and left arm still hurt badly but thanks to the medication, he was getting better. He picked up a pen from the table and sketched down something on a sheet of paper. He stared at what he had sketched in thoughts for a few seconds before folding the paper aggressively and throwing it towards the bin. The paper missed the bin by a small meter and fell on the floor beside it. He stared frustratedly at the different pieces of folded paper that littered the floor. He had tried about six sketches so far that evening and all of them went bad. One went successfully into the bin while the rest fell on the floor.

She said and I smiled. “I made it a five years ago, that was when I concentrated on drawing.” I said, she smiled. “And it means that everyone I truly loved is gone, it signifies the pain I’d had to go through that year.” I said, she looked so shocked for a while. She flipped the next page and it was a drawing of a man drowning, she touched it calmly. “Let me guess, he is drowning in his misery.” She said and I nodded with a chuckle, she was right, that was what the drawing actually meant.

My hands shook as I shoved it back into the envelope and hid it beneath a stack of papers. By the time I reached my studio, I couldn’t contain the rage boiling beneath my skin. I sat down, forcing myself to sketch, but my hands wouldn’t steady. Line after line went crooked, the paper ruined. I ripped it and grabbed another. Then another. Soon the floor was littered with crumpled sheets, proof of my failure to escape the noise in my head. The tears came hot, spilling faster than I could stop them. I pressed my palms into my eyes, ashamed at how broken I felt. Terrified of what the world would do to my children before they even had a chance to live free of this shame.

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.

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

“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