Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

The air smelled of charcoal, oil paint, and the faint metallic tang of her own frustration. She held a pencil in one hand—loose, uncommitted—staring at the blank page in her lap. The last sketch of Nico lay beside her: him in boxers, arms crossed, scars on full display. The one she’d drawn after the 3 a.m. intervention. Every line captured—rough ridges, puckered burns, the way his lean muscle pulled tight over bone like he was always braced for the next hit. She’d drawn him a dozen times since.

Every hateful word, every look of disappointment, every odd silence from Sebastian replayed in her mind, a looping agony she couldn’t escape. As her pencil glided over the paper, Petal realized she wasn’t even drawing what she intended. Instead, the shapes morphed into an expression of her pain—a faceless figure hunched over, surrounded by swirling lines that seemed to threaten, suffocate. Her art, usually a source of joy, had become a canvas for her grief.

Slapping someone to get them to calm down. I slapped myself in the face hard and went to move my hand back, to do it again. But before I could, someone grabbed my arm. “You promised, Leia.” Asher growled. I turned around, forgetting I was standing in my fucking underwear. “I didn't hurt. I just needed to stop myself.” Asher sighed and let go of my arm. “Next time call me. I don’t care what time. If your thoughts get too dark. If you think about hurting yourself, call me.”

I feel so helpless. Self-harm is not the solution to get out of the problem but I seem to like that option lately. I don’t want to react the way I react when he is close to me. I don’t want to please him but I somehow do it willingly after being aroused. I haven’t done anything serious yet; just a few pinches and slaps. I want to share my thoughts with someone. I want to take advice from someone that is not Austin but there is no one to give me company in such a hard time except for the beast himself.

I can never escape the darkness. I tried to break these cycles of violence and despair, but it seems that no matter how hard I try, I am always drawn back into the abyss. I am sick, tired, and exhausted from the never-ending battle within myself. I stare at the dagger in my hand, its blade gleaming in the moonlight, a symbol of the pain and destruction I have caused. Sitting by the hill of corpses that I created, I sliced my skin open, hoping to release the inner torment that plagues me. The crimson droplets fall onto the ground, merging with the blood-soaked earth, a visual representation of the darkness that consumes my soul. But soon, just before the skin starts to heal itself, there is n

I didn't want to get hurt right now I really just wanted to run away from it all. "I need to take a shower." I said letting my body shake as I ran into the bathroom. I locked the door and turn on the shower water and letting tears escape my eyes. I reached in the drawer and grabbed my razor blade wanted my pain to desperately go away. I sat on the floor and and tightly grasped the blade trying desperately not to do it. "Don't do it Kat don't self harm again. You don't need a relapse!" I kept saying to myself over and over again. But Jack just puts me through so much!

Most of all, I hated the tiny dangerous part of myself beginning to wonder who Dante Moretti really was beneath all the control and violence. Because every now and then, I caught glimpses of something human underneath the monster. And that made him even more dangerous. I forced myself to focus on sketching again. Hours passed. For the first time in days, I almost felt normal again. My pencil moved endlessly across pages, creating gowns inspired by sharp city skylines and shattered glass. Designs filled with strength and fury and survival. Pieces of myself poured onto paper. Until reality came crashing back like it always did. Later that afternoon, Dr. Hale arrived for another check-up.

Miguel's accusation that I was pulling away. I forced myself to breathe and let my pencil move across the page. Gradually, an image began to emerge. A woman standing at a crossroads, light coming from two different directions. The shadows around her were dark and grasping, but the light offered two different paths forward. I stared at the sketch, my stomach twisting. This was too revealing. Too honest about the mess inside my head. I flipped to a new page and started again. This time I drew a window with light streaming through it, illuminating dust motes suspended in air. Safe. Neutral. Nothing that exposed the turmoil in my chest.

Until I would just think to cut my own wrist or to jump by the window. And now, I am like a creep, sitting in my bed and my mind is starting to give me reasons to give up. Like "you are a burden", it's always like that. I feel like that because I always need help and rescue. I am drowning. I took my sketchbook and started to draw meaningless things. I started to write unrhymed poems and stories that are no worth of time. I want to live and escape but I know, if I will, I will only last a day. I am really trying my best to just accept the fact that I am not normal and I will never be living a normal life like a teenager.

I’m getting stressed out with everything that’s happening to me and the only thing that relieves it is by doing this—art. But I don’t have any idea what I’m going to draw. What should I do? I sighed. I took my pencils with different shades and started drawing random lines and curves, until my art started to make sense. Why am I doing this? Bakit ko siya dino-drawing? I don’t even know about her. And . . . why am I crying now that I am seeing the woman on my sketch pad? Why am I hurting like this? Who is she?