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Note: As this is my first creepypasta EVER, I ask of you to offer constructive criticism of my story, so I may use that knowledge to fix my problem areas and improve on future creepypastas. Much appreciated, Rahwen.
Lucy leaves for home from work as a cashier at Wal*Mart at 7:30 every Monday to Thursday. I love her, those sparkling blue eyes, that long, dark brown hair, everything about her is amazingly beautiful. I can't stand to not be with her, because when I watch her, my heart skips a beat, I go cold and numb. I daydream of us being together. When she looks at me, my legs go weak, I lose my senses of taste, smell, and sometimes hearing.
She bicycles home on a lonely, partially-paved road that winds through a forest full of tall redwoods, scraggly bushes, and soft, cool mosses. My residency isn't too far from about the halfway point of the road, and I hike out those days when she rides home, lurking behind shrubs and observing her with my binoculars. My lust for her is unquenchable. I must be with her. I've realized that I'm way too shy, and I need to talk to her more.
By the term "more", I mean that I do talk to her. Every day that she works, I go to buy something, anything, just to see her more, to talk to her, to get close enough to her. Just to be able to touch her, that's all I need, just to touch her, and let her know I love her...
I have pictures of her. And videos. I know everything about her. I observe her, study her. I know all of her likes and dislikes. I know where she lives, what she eats, what she worries about. I know her secrets and fears, everything from her grades, to what brand of shampoo she uses.
I just can't stand it. I NEED her.
I decided to arrange a special meeting with her, and a clever way to do it. So, I grabbed my hunting rifle and some bullets, camouflage gear, my boots, and my lucky locket, which has a hair of hers in it. I wait for hours, lurking behind the wild shrubbery, prepared for her visit to this stretch of the path. She rides by, her hair blowing in the light, autumn wind, against a background of stunning red and yellow leaves stirring about, and greenish-yellow shrubs. The moment may have been incredibly picturesque, but I knew it was probably now or never, so I had to do this. I took up my rifle, aimed, and nailed her with a bullet to the foot, wounding her, causing her to fall forward over her bicycle's handles, injuring her further. I sprang up from behind the vegetation, and sprinted over to her, moaning in pain on the smooth, dusty dirt.
I arrived quickly at the scene of the accident to meet her, with an energetic mood and a wide grin. It didn't take very long to figure out she was having an asthma attack, and she was able to get a word out: "Inhaler." Luckily for her, I knew exactly where it was, in the second pocket from the front of her scarlet and cerulean striped purse. I gave her a dose of her inhaler, and once she thanked me and I apologized, I injected her with a sedative, knocking her out. She came to around four days later, drowsy at first as she stirred from her deep slumber. She was all over the news, and at least two missing persons reports were filed for her. Strapped to an angled table with 4 inch thick leather bonds, she was mine at last... She was uncaring at first, and then shocked to see me staring at her, less than three feet away from her amazing face. She began to stammer. "You're... you're that guy... guy who I-"
"You're safe with me, my love. You can be with me, and I can be with you, and we can be together forever and ever and-"
"No, where am I? Why am I here? I don't want to be here! Get me out of here!" she so rudely interrupted.
"You're safe, with your one true love. We can-"
"NO! I'LL LOVE YOU, JUST LET ME GO HOME! I WANT TO SEE MY FAMILY! Don't... DON'T TOUCH ME!!! STOP! LEMME GO!" she screamed, as I tried to comfort her. I couldn't take it... this... unwanting, and so a wave of sadness swept over me, as she didn't love me, but deep down she really did. She was lying, she DOES love me. She has to, she HAS TO!
Soon followed a sense of extreme infuriation, and I slapped that girl flat across her pretty face. She was more shocked than hurt at first. She started crying, salty tears streaming down her face, and she started screaming again. I slapped her again. It felt good, she could know my pain, my misery, my feelings for her, and the feelings I have when she shows such disinterest in me. I began to beat her, and torture her, so she could know what she showed me for as long as I loved her. After a few weeks, her corpse was decomposing, so I had to throw it with the others. But what can I say? Love stinks.
"You're not sick, you're in love." -Irving Berlin