Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

My eyes flew wide open, and my body shook with overwhelming fear. These two were Miles and Ethan Xanders. They had been my worst bullies back in high school! How could they possibly be the world’s top psychiatrists? “Mr. Cole, your sister-in-law’s condition appears quite serious.” “She needs... thorough treatment.” Vengeance burned in both of their eyes. Their teeth were clenched as they spoke. I started trembling uncontrollably. I grabbed Benedict’s pant leg and held on for dear life. I looked up at him and shook my head frantically.

TW: Self Harm. I pulled myself away from the gruesome memory, my chest heaving fast and hard. As I took in a deep breath, my phone dropped to the floor with a thud. The rage. The pain. All too unbearable for me to manage. I needed a distraction. Some sort of pain to dull the one that was already ripping at my insides like a chicken being violently shredded with a fork. And so, I did the one thing that would help bring me back to my senses for a moment, at least. I reached for the glass cup beside me and squeezed it until it shattered, the tiny bits of it cutting sharply into my palms.

Jessica slowly started walking again. Later that night she sat in her room sketching. Her pencil moved softly across the page. Without thinking, she began drawing herself. She stopped halfway. Jessica stared down at the picture. Because she had accidentally drawn herself smiling. She had never done that before. Not once. She sat frozen. Looking at it. Then quietly whispered: "I don't even look like that." Silence filled the room. Rain tapped softly against the window. Then somewhere deep inside her... a tiny voice answered: Maybe you do.

My throat closed. Other side: "ROOM 412 - DAY 1" "Nico—" "I know it's stupid—" "It's not stupid. It's—" I hugged him so hard we fell off chair. My gift for him: I drew us. I'm bad at drawing. Really bad. It's us on our couch. Our plants. Our bad IKEA shelf. On back: "Day 1 to Day 180. We survived." He stared at it for long time. "Babe you drew me with 6 fingers."

she said and nudged me to look at the drawing she had just painted. Taking a closer look at the painting, I realized I was the girl in it, and I was bleeding from my wrist after cutting myself. The pair of scissors fell from my hand again. "Wh… what is that?" I whispered. "I told you I have psychic art. Sometimes I can prevent something from happening through my drawing, other times I can't, especially if it's the person's fate." "You knew I was going to hurt myself before I came here?" My voice trembled with awe. I now found her powers mesmerizing.

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. Something is coming.

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.

LISA I slammed my bedroom door shut with my foot, dropped my bag on the floor, and let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a dying cat. “Perfect” I rolled. Exactly the vibe of today. I threw myself onto the floor, ripped open my sketchbook, and let my hand move. Hard lines, sharp edges and messy strokes. I drew angrily. Fabrics. Cutouts. Slits that went so high they were practically illegal. Design after design after design…

She didn't even know about that yet, maybe it's better that she didn't know about it at all. He couldn't stop picturing her with him. The image of her naked body on another man's lips, his hands all over her, caressing her, tickling her the way she loved to be tickled. Her lips enveloped in another man's mouth, his tongue tasting her. It was poisoning him. He had to get it out of his head. The only way he knew how to do that was through a razor blade, sliced his skin, and let the blood dripped out from his body, taking away the venom that was killing him inside. It was an urge he could no longer hold back, the stinging pain would take off his mind from those horrible images. He put a bandage

I watched his friendship with Tyler bloom into something beautiful, something that actually made him happy. His obsession with Armageddon became a nuisance, so I shut him out, forcefully. He never took a pen to draw again, not even by mistake. I thought it was a good thing but now I'm wondering if I traumatized him, by singularly destroying the one thing that he loved, the one thing he was happy about doing. In one of the drawings, a valley, meant to be beautiful, like paradise was being destroyed by that same darkness, destroying everything in its sight. I knew that destroying those drawings would backfire one day, but I'd never imagined it would boomerang this way. Deep down, I knew Dean,