Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

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,

I was a Saint to my mom and a slut to the men in my life. I grabbed my sketchbook and a charcoal stick. I didn't plan it. I just started scratching at the paper, the black dust staining my fingers. I drew myself not the pretty version. I drew a boy with his chest ripped open, screaming into a void. I drew giant, jagged hawks with Chadwick’s eyes and Miguel’s tattoos, literal pieces of my flesh hanging from their beaks. I pressed so hard the charcoal snapped, tearing the paper. It was the only way I could scream.

She looks unhappy and scared. I feel like I'm losing my mind. What am I doing wrong? Am I going to die? What's wrong with my body? I hurt everywhere. From the inside out. My skin itches me all the time. I've been scratching like crazy to get rid of this annoying feeling, but it seems like I'm not getting anywhere. This feeling was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I'm very worried. She stuttered and kept cutting herself and drawing blood. No one could ever understand how scared she is right now.

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

He opened it with a knife, slow and careful, like he was diffusing a bomb. Inside was a sketchbook. Not just any sketchbook. His sketchbook. One he thought he’d thrown out six months ago. The pages were bent, some torn, but the contents were unmistakable. Smudged charcoal drawings, messy ink outlines, harsh cross-hatching that mirrored his worst nights. Drawings he’d created during the week of his lowest spiral. He had ripped them out. Crumpled them. Tossed them into the dumpster behind his building. He hadn’t even told his therapist about all of them.

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains depictions of ongoing captivity, domestic abuse, trauma, and mentions of past suicidal ideation/self-harm. Reader discretion is advised. It's easy to just give up and die. It's easy to just leave the pain here, to just vanish to feel free. It is such an easy thing to do for people who are completely exhausted by life, like me. I only wish I had just died from blood loss or an infection from the nail I saw. With that, I'll escape all the sufferings.

I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration as beads of sweat rolled down my body. "Aaaaaaaaaaaa!" I screamed as my body shook with emotions, and I burst out crying uncontrollably. I ran to the punching bag again, kept punching in anger, removed my gloves, and continued. "That's enough; you'd end up killing yourself!" I heard a familiar voice, and I snapped my head in that direction. "At least I would be relieved of this pain," I said and lit up a cigarette. "Self-harm is not advisable. You're bleeding on your knuckles."