Self Harm Drawings Mga Nobela at Kwento

My hands tremble with the need to strike, to release the pent-up fury. Instead, I grabbed a razor blade from my drawer, my hands trembling with anticipation. I took off my pants, sat on my bed, and started carving Rion’s name into my thigh. The blade bit into my flesh, and blood welled up instantly, a crimson river that flowed down my leg. The pain was a sweet release, a welcome distraction from the torment inside my head. Each letter I carved, the more I enjoyed it. The sting and the hurt were intoxicating, a perverse pleasure that made me feel alive. The blood dripped down, pooling on the sheets, a dark testament to my obsession.

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.

But I never heard those words in that house. That night, I draw while my heart was crying out. Unconsciously, I draw a person. My whole sadness and grievances were reflected in that drawing. And that was the last time I ever draw a person again. That sketchbook was like a little light in my dark days. Since the sketchbook was only limited to a few pages, I saved every paper and draw only when days were so hard and whenever I felt so suffocated. Only by drawing a page would I feel alive again.

It is one of my favorite natural sanctuaries in the city. I shove my hand into my slacks pocket, making sure my palm-sized drawing book and fine-nib ink pen are securely in place. I never step past my den doors without them because I never know when a visual fragment will strike my wolf. Since I was a nine-winter-old pup, I’ve been trapping moments of my life on paper just like this, whether the days were full of blood or completely ordinary. The daily moonmark drawings started when I was just a young, locked-in introverted boy stuck in intensive speech therapy. Sketching became my ultimate escape when my throat would lock up, leaving me completely frustrated and unable to articulate my basi

It's the weight of my mom's grief, the pain she still carries for a man I can barely remember. Turning the page to hide the dream picture, I take the pencil and let my hand move, losing myself in the lines and curves. The movements get faster, a shape starts to form on the page. A jawline. Sharp, strong. Lips, slightly parted. A hint of stubble. It's Thorne. My automatic drawing experiment where I give my brain total freedom to create and it draws him. Slamming the sketchbook shut, I swallow back bile rising in my throat. I can't keep doing this. He invades everything, not even my fucking dreams are safe.

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.

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…

CALLUM The tip of my pencil moves against the page in quick, sure, strokes as a Nine Inch Nails song blasts through my earbuds, a heavy guitar rift drilling into my skull. The eyes I’m currently drawing are etched into my memory; surrounded in a fan of long, dark lashes and brimming with sadness. I wish I’d never seen that sorrowful look in her eyes. I wish even more that I wasn’t the one who put it there. And I wish I wasn’t stuck in a masochistic loop of drawing her eyes like this over and over again, forcing myself to confront the cruel consequences of my actions.

I gave into my impulse once again and did what I felt like doing without thinking about consequences. When Liam acted harshly towards me, my mind went blank. Extreme sadness enveloped me. I knew he was upset about his father and he had every right to be. I wanted to be there for him and console him but he pushed me away. I ran back inside the room and took out the detailing knife I use to paint. I haven't cut myself in a long time because the last time I did it, my grandfather threatened me to commit me to a mental hospital. But my heart was hurting too much and I wanted to overlap the pain. I carved three lines on my arm. Not deep enough to kill me but just enough for it to hurt. As the blo