Self Harm Drawings Novels & Stories

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.

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.

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."

I have been having another nightmare, the same kind that haunted my childhood. I get out of bed and take some aspirin to relieve my head of the pressure. Suddenly I feel the need to drain my mind of the noise that has become my curse. My sketchbook occupies its usual position besides my bed. I pick it up and begin to sketch, letting the pain and anger flow through my fingers onto the paper. My strokes are deft and shaky so the paper gets crumpled along the way. Finally, I am done and can feel the weight loosening in my head. I do not know what exactly I had drawn on the paper.

Hard. I looked down at my blank page again. My hand felt heavy. What do I feel? Peace? No. Pain? Not exactly. Fear? Maybe a little. Loneliness? Yes. A small, quiet loneliness. I started to draw. Slowly. A woman sitting by a window. Light outside. Dark inside. But her face… Was calm. Not broken. Just… thinking. When I finished, I stared at it. That was me. Not the old me. Not the weak girl.

“I will not let him destroy me.” I picked up my tablet and started sketching again, each design sharper, bolder, more confident than the last. My fingers moved with a mix of rage and longing, creating delicate yet fierce lines that mirrored how I felt inside. Every piece was a story: my anger, my heartbreak, my obsession, my drive.

~Trigger Warning: This story is rated 18+. This chapter contains descriptions of self-harming behaviors such as suicide, self-inflicted injuries, body harm, alcohol and drug abuse, which may be triggering for readers with lived experiences.~ For a while I just lay in bed, falling asleep when I finally cried myself into unconsciousness. Sometimes, I got up to stand in the hot water of the shower, but I’d crawl back into bed. Everything felt empty. Nothing was right, and Noah’s words echoed in my head.

I pull it out immediately and grab it in my hand to jerk off with almost punishing force because this is getting to serious creep level. My fantasies are getting sicker and sicker and if Kingsley ever saw this, I'm sure he would sue me. And he would be well within his rights. But I can't not do it. I need it or I'm going to explode, even though my whole body is hot with shame and mortification, I really need it. It's the only thing keeping me sane lately. My wolf partially comes out when he realizes the drawing is ready and we both work together to create a perfect image in our heads to go with my drawing.

I was kind of scared to walk in, what would I say to her, I failed her, I could not help. The room was turned upside down, everything was destroyed with her cries loud. Her body was red and bloody as if she had been clawing at herself. She sat on the floor, paint all over her hands, a brush and canvas held tightly to her, drawing with black ink. She kept drawing, thinking the canvas would tear into holes with how rough she was, hearing it cry out. It was her outlet, crying and drawing. I moved slowly. Her head picked up, her eyes lying on me; big and beautiful. Her tears filled her eyes again, pushing the canvas away and smashing it over and over again.