Novel & Cerita Self Harm Drawings

I got up from my desk chair and head to the bathroom, I grabbed a razor and walk back to my desk. I rolled my sleeve up as I sigh, my hand shook. "Do it! No don't do it! Do it come on! No don't do that!" I drop the razor while sighing, I can't hurt myself, it won't solve anything, other than make me a psychopath. I don't wanna die maybe yes just a little bit, but still I don't want to commit suicide! I'm I crazy! What was I thinking! I sigh, while resting my head on my palm as I kept watch the videos of people getting hurt.

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.

Today was my parents death anniversary, I should be at their graves with flowers but instead I chose this. Drinking, and trying to get Rowan to fuck me. But that thought didn't stop me from touching myself while I sniffed on his shirt. My fingers worked on my pussy like a fucking slut I was as I imagined him. I didn't stop when my phone rang, or when I picked it up. I fucked my slutty pussy harder when my therapist began talking about the various forms of self harm. From the way she sounded, it was obvious Rowan had called her to complain about my attitude getting worse.

I just somehow did. I panicked she would be hurt, and grabbed her and turned. Having my arms wrapped around, though, calmed me even more. It felt weird, and I just got a sense of longing. After quickly getting changed, I grab the pad and pencil. I'm not sure why, but I always carry them with me. Finding space to sit quietly and draw often helps me control my emotions. Opening the door, Storm smiles at me. Her eyes go to the sketch pad.

His small hands still held the torn paper, which was in five bright colors. It was the drawing that Ben had made. The drawing depicted their entire family, including Bob. The soup warmer had fallen on the floor, split in two, and there was hot liquid scattered around. Someone had intentionally knocked it over. “…” Bob sat there, his dark eyes fixed on her. There was no hint of embarrassment when caught red-handed. He was tearing the drawing into smaller and smaller pieces, intentionally separating the heads, arms, and legs of each person as if he wanted to separate them completely.

ARIA (TRIGGER WARNING: The content below contains self-harm, mentions of sex trafficking, severe sexual abuse, death of an infant.) Three. Three. One. Two. Three. Three red vertical lines. Three. Three times I was assaulted. Three times I was broken. Three times parts of me were stolen. Three times I was left alone, a wrecked mess. Drip. Drip. Drip. Three drops. I dragged my gaze from the crimson lines and looked at the dark drops contrasting sharply against the white marble basin.

But that wasn’t what he was drawing today. There was a picture of two girls—rendered crudely in crayon, but still identifiable as girls. One of them had short blond hair and the other had long brown braids. Their hands were on their faces and their mouths open in screams. David had drawn these as big black circles. A huge black shadow hovered before them, a shapeless body with red eyes and clearly defined hands. The hands looked like long silver knives. There were many drawings before this one. Lauren wondered how long David had been at it.

A laughing emoji to my nudes being forwarded? I hit the marble floor with my palm, and I curled myself into a ball, crying hard. I wanted the ground to open wide and swallow me. My life has been ruined. Why do I live?!. I stayed there for minutes; I thought of harming myself, but I needed an explanation.

My thumb worked my clit in tight circles, pressure building, fast and desperate. When I came, it was violent—back arching, water spilling over the edge, a choked cry echoing off the tiles. My thighs shook. My chest heaved. And when the aftershocks faded, I was left with tears mixing with bathwater. Because it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. I climbed out, wrapped myself in a towel, and padded to the bedroom. My sketchbook lay open on the desk. I flipped to a blank page and started drawing—sharp lines, bold shadows, a man’s profile in the dark. Broad shoulders. Jaw clenched. Eyes that burned.

My throat tightened so badly it hurt. "Blair." I whispered. Something else lay beside them, a piece of paper, no, a drawing. I picked it up carefully. It was a picture of a girl standing between two stick-figure adults. All three holding hands. My vision blurred. Me. Blair. Her mother. The drawing was messy, the lines too sharp made by a tired hand, a scared hand, a child’s hand. My knees touched the floor before I even realized I’d fallen, I held the small shoe to my chest, shaking.