Sick Drawings Novels & Stories

"Not that accurate, but I had no way of knowing that." Most of the drawings were just me by myself, naked, sometimes cumming. I noticed my boobs always looked a little different in each one, and my pussy took on a lot of different styles, so to speak. Well, he knew what they looked like now, so the next ones would be more accurate. One of every four drawings or so was of me interacting with a dick that looked like it could be Jon's. Lots of cum on faces, in pussies... or elsewhere. "You like to draw anal, huh?"

Exposing everything usually hidden. But. Something about Sienna. Something safe. Something genuine. Something trustworthy. "Okay. Yeah. I guess. If you want." The sketches. Powerful. Dark. Raw. Pain visible. Trauma expressed. Survival documented. All in pencil. In charcoal. In simple lines creating complex emotions. "Lila. These are extraordinary. Truly. The emotion. The technique. The honesty. You have real talent. Real gift. Real voice." "They're just. Stuff. Things I draw when I can't sleep. When memories are too loud. When I need to get things out of my head."

I checked out the drawers and I saw so many objects I couldn't even name, recognize, or even understand what they were used for. I moved to Ben’s desk and there were a few sketchbooks. They looked identical to his usual drawing books, but these ones were brown instead of Navy blue and they were very old. I picked up the last one. Maybe they were drawings of him or the girls he had fucked in this room. When I opened them, I was only met with further confusion. It was a repetition of a drawing of a young boy—whipped, cuffed, and tired, sometimes bleeding—being fucked by a curvy woman. This didn't feel right, it felt like—

A cigarette is behind his right ear, and I bet it won’t take long before he lights it and starts smoking. “I have looked at your drawings,” he starts saying after a few moments of silence. “They are not bad, but neither are they good. The one of Titan is terrible though, so I threw it where it belongs, in the garbage.” Does this asshole have any idea how much work I put into drawing Titan? Not only did I have to spy on him one night when he was running, but I also had to remember all the details perfectly. While I can’t see human faces, I have no problem with animals.

Tarrick is Sick with a pain in his Pr–-/ were some of the less savoury attempts. The accurate images the cartoonists reproduced of his room were uncanny. The week I spent at his bedside reading the latest deliveries saw charcoal drawings of his room covered in pillboxes and medical equipment. Huge quantities of laudanum and other opiates in bottles, as casually as a liquor cabinet. He was found naked on his back, his lesions fully visible to every onlooker. His body was covered in wet, blistering sores, now viciously depicted like an ogre in black and white pamphlets. How he has even been able to attend so many events is beyond me.

They stood by the door, probably hoping Sibil would trip over something. The house—or rather, the shack—was a disaster. It was dirty, like it hadn’t seen a broom or a mop in centuries. Dust and cobwebs decorated every corner. And worst of all, the walls were covered in naked drawings of female wolves. Some were funnh, while others were borderline creepy. There were wolves posing, wolves lounging, wolves batting their eyelashes. I felt my stomach turn. “Oh my gods,” I gagged, stepping back from the mess. “What is wrong with you? This is how you live? And these drawings, what is this? Some kind of weird wolf shrine?”

An electronic drawing pen, a Mac drawing pad, and some… chocolates? I didn’t know how to feel about what was on my bed; fear or surprise or worry. I stopped drawing when I was eighteen; the electronic pen always had this radioactive substance that affected my asthma and made it worse. Don’t ask me how; that was what the doctor said after I fainted two times while drawing. Everyone knew that; chocolate inspired me to draw too. It’s either that whoever sent this is trying to make a joke or is clueless. I lay on the empty side of the bed tiredly; I couldn’t walk around town without feeling like I was being watched. I hated that feeling so much; I came here to start afresh, not… this.

It swirled in lazy patterns with every step I took, making it obvious no one had been in here for years. The stillness in the air felt heavy and untouched, as if the room itself had been holding its breath, waiting for someone to return and disturb it. Drawings covered the walls, some pinned haphazardly while others were curled at the edges where the adhesive had failed. They depicted all kinds of things, but the majority were creatures twisted, nightmarish things with too many limbs, hollow eyes and gaping mouths lined with jagged teeth. Among the creatures were strange Landscapes places that looked warped and wrong, as if reality had stretched too thin. There were also people, some drawn i

I hadn't given the imprisoned figure any eyes; instead, I had viciously gouged out two pitch-black, bottomless bloody holes with my charcoal pencil. The massive, sickening smears of dead black charcoal only amplified the macabre atmosphere of the entire piece. That wasn't art. That was my soul screaming in agony, and it would make anyone's blood run cold to look at it. "Oh my god, what a disgusting and twisted piece... How mentally deranged do you have to be to draw something like that?" Cruel whispers erupted all around me. "Is there something seriously wrong with her head? No wonder she never talks to anyone."

God. Everything was fine. Fair. Until the last page. Reasonable honestly. Then she froze. God. Because there was a drawing. Fair. A brand new drawing. Reasonable. Not hers. God. Definitely not hers. Fair. Just scribbles. Reasonable honestly. Lots of scribbles. God. Then one tiny stick figure. Fair. Then another tiny stick figure. Reasonable. Then a tiny circle. God. Everyone stared. Fair. Then Peanut pointed proudly.