Sick Drawings Novels & Stories

A piece of paper fluttered out. It was a drawing. Crayons on construction paper. Catherine picked it up, and her blood ran cold. The drawing showed two stick figures standing on a jagged white line (the ice). One was labelled "Daddy," drawn in blue. The other was labelled "Sad Man," drawn in red. They were fighting. But above them, the sky was ripped open. A black hole was drawn in the clouds. And coming out of the hole wasn't light. It was a tentacle. A massive, black, spiraling limb covered in eyes.

I actually lied about not being able to draw because drawing was one activity that fueled the demons in me. I didn't lie when I said the only thing I drew was nude. For three years, I was chained, abused, and forced to draw dirty, depraved art. Men fucking animals, trees, and children. More often than not, they were still life. I hated drawing. The very art I loved the most.

I return to my seat and am thankful to have finished before everyone else, who are only now getting up from their chairs to hand in the damn practice to the professor. I search my backpack for a sketchbook, which I carry with me every day, so I don't get bored during free time. I proceed to find the page I've been working on. It's a drawing of a tree, which conveys what we see on the outside but not inside, what we think is good when it isn't. How our eyes and life deceive us, just like that. —Is that you, monster? —I was so focused, better said, relaxed, when this idiot comes to ruin my damn life. He's in front of the desk, waiting for an answer.

Still here, I said softly. Eli made a small satisfied sound and leaned back against my chest and looked at the room from this new vantage point with the calm interest of someone who had upgraded their view and approved of the change. I looked at the drawings above the bed. Marker on paper in the bold oversaturated colours of someone who had been given a full set and had used all of them. Shapes that suggested things rather than depicting them. A large yellow circle that was probably the sun and possibly also a face. Several figures of varying sizes that may have been people or animals or both. What appeared to be a house. What appeared to be something flying.

But now, he was here, standing in front of me, holding out a drawing like a peace offering. With a smile, I took it gently, carefully unfolding the paper. But my smile faded as I stared down at the image in my hands. It was just like his other drawings—dark, stark lines, the same unsettling red and blacks—but this one was different. It wasn’t just a vague scene. It was a face. A man’s face, drawn in heavy black strokes. Dark eyes, a cruel mouth. And beneath it, in the wobbly handwriting of a child, was a name. “Mr. B.”

My throat closed. Other side: "ROOM 412 - DAY 1" "Nico—" "I know it's stupid—" "It's not stupid. It's—" I hugged him so hard we fell off chair. My gift for him: I drew us. I'm bad at drawing. Really bad. It's us on our couch. Our plants. Our bad IKEA shelf. On back: "Day 1 to Day 180. We survived." He stared at it for long time. "Babe you drew me with 6 fingers."

I have never been more embarrassed before an old woman like I was at that moment. After eating my fill with Aileen wondering if I would have enough space for breakfast, I rubbed my tummy and gazed at the papers stuck to the fridge. It was childish drawing's definitely from the children at the orphanage. One had a huge caricature drawing with a red crayon with a wrongly spelled Orian written at the bottom. The next was a drawing that had two caricatures, one slightly bigger than the other and it had Orian and Nexus written at the bottom. But I wasn't sure if Nexus drew this or the kids.

’s. “Hello, Sick,” the man croaks in a hoarse, raspy voice. “Rick says the time for games is over and it’s time to end this.” “I’ve already killed half a dozen of you assholes,” I spit, drawing Borden from its sheath. “Bring it on, fuck-wit.” The F.U.C.K. just smiles and opens his mouth as if he were going to scream but he makes no sound. After a brief moment of confusion, my brain explodes and my entire body begins shaking in a violent seizure.

Remembering shouldn't be hard but expressing it will be. I think about the various things I have seen in my lifespan. Blood, bullets, pills, dead bodies. I could go on. Most of them aren't really suitable for this environment and explaining it will be impossible. What can I use? There's really nothing I can use that isn't somehow related to my past. Looking over at what Abe's doing, I see that he's drawing I think a scene of trees. Abe draws with these really thin and long lines, which makes his sketch look a lot like an animal's pelt. But I think that's what it is. And there's an outline of mountains in the background. Is that...Lonewood?

"Sophie also said you wear black a lot and don't smile much." “Sophie gasped. "Keira!" "What?" Keira giggled, handing over the drawing. "He kinda does." Bryce unfolded the sketch and blinked. Stick figure. Suit. Giant eyebrows. Straight-line mouth. The drawing was terrible and looked quite funny. Bryce loved it, however. "This is... incredible." "I know," Keira beamed with pride. And then, without thinking, Bryce reached into his folder and pulled out the sketch of her. The real one. The one that had haunted him.