Novel & Cerita Self Harm Drawings

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, alcohol and drug abuse, which may be triggering for readers with lived experiences.~ “That’s excellent. Can you do it with your left hand as well?” I focused on my left side, but there was no such luck. My brow furrowed, and I tried focusing harder. Nothing worked as I tried to channel the feeling of moving my muscles and forcing them to bend to my will.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

Today was my parents death anniversary, I should be at their graves with flowers but instead I chose this. Drinking, and trying to get Rowan to fuck me. But that thought didn't stop me from touching myself while I sniffed on his shirt. My fingers worked on my pussy like a fucking slut I was as I imagined him. I didn't stop when my phone rang, or when I picked it up. I fucked my slutty pussy harder when my therapist began talking about the various forms of self harm. From the way she sounded, it was obvious Rowan had called her to complain about my attitude getting worse.