Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Fuck..." What I did is wrong, but I can't stand the thought of Zoe being with Liam. The pain in my heart is unbearable. I know nothing can justify self-harm, and I would never have done it if I were in my right mind. Perhaps the alcohol, perhaps the jealousy, drove me to this extreme. Blood trickles down from my forehead where it hit the steering wheel. I feel dizzy, but the anger inside me is still raging. I take my phone out and text Zoe.

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

"All their fights are about me." My stomach dropped. "What do you mean?" I asked gently. She sniffled, reaching for something stuffed in her backpack on the nightstand. Her diary. She opened it with shaking hands and turned it toward me. My breath caught. The page was filled with a drawing—beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. Dark, swirling lines. Two large figures on opposite sides, shouting, their faces twisted in anger. And in the middle— A small girl. Curled in on herself. Alone in the chaos.

He looks so sad, the shock of being confronted with the sight, one he has always been avoiding, hardly ever looking at himself in a mirror, crushes him. There’s another drawing underneath he pulls out with trembling fingers, freezing up harshly, silently gasping as he stares at Sam face, torn with emotions; despair, devastation, grief, they all fit, memory flashes of him crying, begging Win to start over that night, popping into his mind, but the drawing looks even more painful, his true anguish showing, unveiled. His shaky fingers lose grip on the drawings, floating to the floor, his chest suddenly heaving with the onrush of his need to breathe, his eyes falling on another piece of paper, s