Novelas y relatos de Self Harm Drawings

Such a childish and girly tantrum. I covered my face. This was truly embarrassing. It was a good thing that I am the only person seeing this. I could not let Lucas know that I have such a habit before! This would be my secret until the day I die! "Mom, look here! I draw myself and mom!" My mother and I looked at the drawing book. There were two stick figures on the paper. The taller stick has long hair and a big smile with very long lashes that expand longer than the ears. While the shorter stick has twig tails and a small smile.

My hands shook as I shoved it back into the envelope and hid it beneath a stack of papers. By the time I reached my studio, I couldn’t contain the rage boiling beneath my skin. I sat down, forcing myself to sketch, but my hands wouldn’t steady. Line after line went crooked, the paper ruined. I ripped it and grabbed another. Then another. Soon the floor was littered with crumpled sheets, proof of my failure to escape the noise in my head. The tears came hot, spilling faster than I could stop them. I pressed my palms into my eyes, ashamed at how broken I felt. Terrified of what the world would do to my children before they even had a chance to live free of this shame.

"See what you have done to me, Zain. You are a ba****t. I will never forgive you for the emotional trauma she made me go through" I muttered and stood up to get my brush and painting equipment. It helps me deal with stress and I have been drawing a lot lately. I was home, waiting to gain admission and it will take me two to three months so what I could do to take my mind off unnecessary thoughts is to draw and paint anything, It's what I know how to do best.

As the detective carefully flipped through one, I caught glimpses of my name, Jace’s name, and chillingly detailed observations about our lives, our routines. Then I saw them. Drawings. Pages upon pages filled with disturbing sketches. Some were of Jace, idealized and romanticized. Others… others depicted me in vulnerable, intimate moments, images that could only have been captured through her hidden cameras. The violation was sickening, a cold dread seeping into my bones. And then there were the drawings that made my blood run cold. Crude sketches depicting violent scenarios, with figures that vaguely resembled me in positions of distress, and another figure, unmistakably Zara, looming over

My right leg jiggles nervously as I try to focus on the lecture. I look down at the sheet again as if I’m seeing the sketch for the first time. It’s a drawing of Julian. A side view of him, with mostly his back and the side of his face visible. I couldn’t dare to draw him facing me. My guilt and self preservation would not allow it. A tiny bit of regret niggles at me. I shouldn’t have given in to my impulses. That’s always the worst thing to do. I shouldn’t have drawn Julian at all.

The terrifying possibility that history could repeat itself. That night in the penthouse, I didn’t immediately tell Damien about the conversation. Instead, I sat at the dining table with my sketchbook while he worked nearby. For the first time, I showed him one of my private drawings not the erotic ones of us, but a self-portrait: me standing between two worlds, one side neat and orderly like my family expected, the other side wild and passionate, reaching toward light and color. Damien studied it for a long time, his expression unreadable.

After all, I was always the sick, fragile child. As a child, though Oscar and I were enrolled in almost the same activities, mine were limited to an extent because of my health condition. When my father destroyed my blue ribbon from my drawing contest, I had resorted to self harm. My heart break that day was soul crushing, till date I still feel the pain because crushed along with that ribbon was a piece of my heart, my soul. I could feel the life slipping through me as voices echoed around me. Vivid flashbacks of that day came back to me in haunting pieces. I could feel myself reliving that moment, muttering the only words that knew my lips that moment, "I'm sorry."

Something about them tugged at my memories. “Princess?” Dad squeezed my arm. “You’re shaking.” “I know those symbols.” “What?” “The graffiti.” I zoomed in on the frame. “I’ve seen them before.” Mom tried to take my phone. “That’s impossible—” “After my accident. I used to draw them in my sleep. The doctors said it was trauma response, but I never knew why I drew them.” Nick gripped me tighter. “Lila, stop. You’re working yourself up.”

Author's POV Trigger Warning: Self-harm, mature themes. The water pounded down on Melody’s pale skin, a cold, persistent drumbeat that drowned out her sobs. Her body was curled under the showerhead, knees to her chest, hair plastered against her wet cheeks. Her right hand clutched a small pen knife, her fingers twitching with desire to explore her own body.