creepypasta origins

The trouble with women

So I wasn't alone.

And maybe I wasn't crazy after all.

"Are you crazy? You RUINED it."

Haley threw the picture on her bed and came at me, lips curled over her teeth, eyes wide.

"Stay out of my room, you little fuck."

She pushed me out head first and slammed the door.

Haley's then boyfriend was sort of a big deal. Being in a small town, having a father who was a well-respected high school science teacher and a mother who worked for the mayor was almost the same as having money or being a member of the local government.

People not only knew who you were, but took you seriously. He was popular in school, playing both football and baseball, and carried an air of importance wherever he went. He was also a fairly talented artist, as evidenced by a drawing of the Incredible Hulk he penciled and presented to Haley in a framed portfolio for her birthday. She wasn't terribly impressed, but in being a gift from his heart instead of his wallet, she was appreciative.

I, on the other hand, thought it was the coolest thing in the world.

I studied every line, every muscle, the ridge of the brow, the wide, flat nose, the frayed jeans. I tried drawing along next to it, but every time it came out looking like a fat, shirtless hobo. Drawing was one of my favorite things to do and making it look like a comic book or Mad Magazine was something I wanted more than anything since I could remember. Being six, I still had a ways to go, but that didn't keep me from trying.

I wanted to impress my big sister, but my skills being what they were, I knew I'd never be able to draw it the way I wanted to.

So I did the next best thing.

I watched the Incredible Hulk TV show religiously, and while I didn't like it quite as much as Buck Rogers, that had more to do with lack of a recurring attractive female than quality or subject matter. And in being such a fan, I considered myself somewhat of an expert on the Hulk, particularly his look and demeanor. So confident was I, it was absurd I hadn't come up with the idea before then, and when I went to my room for supplies, I was so excited I almost told Haley what I planned to do beforehand.

Almost.

I waited until I knew she wasn't home to start so it would be a surprise.

Then I got my best, sharpest crayons and set about coloring the original picture with all of the love and care a six year old can muster. I was especially careful to keep it inside the lines and make the rippled muscles and torn pants stand out with different degrees of pressure and line thickness. I couldn't understand why Haley's boyfriend hadn't colored it himself, but silently thanked him for affording the opportunity to improve upon his work as a way of showing her brotherly affection.

I knew she'd love it.

"Oh my GOD."

I knew she'd thank me.

"WHAT THE FUCK."

Maybe even do something nice in return.

"I'm gonna KILL YOU YOU LITTLE SHIT."

To see her now: lean, haunted, desperate, made me wish it was that day again. I would willingly endure her wrath a thousand times not to have to see her that way. There was something in her eyes that went beyond fear, beyond horror; a dull, vacant quality, a resignation to an un-life without joy, comfort or refuge.

She sat with me in the clothing rack, legs crossed, with me in her lap, while she held and hugged me, lips pressed to my ear, dry and scratchy, whispering every dark, unspeakable cruelty she suffered. She was crying when she finished; a silent, shuddering thing, and I cried with her. For the first time, we were the same.