When did you realize your best friend was a psycho?
My best friend since age seven mixed our blood together and declared we’d be best friends forever. Then she spent years trying to give me her eczema by contaminating my lotions with her skin cells.
When that didn’t work, she started breaking into my apartment while I slept to apply her prescription creams on me. This continued until the night she ambushed me in a parking garage with industrial allergens and a potato peeler for an emergency skin transplant.
Now she’s legally banned from coming within 500 feet of me. My best friend since childhood is legally banned from coming within 500 feet of me because she tried to give me her eczema by contaminating everything I owned with her skin cells.
And when that didn’t work, she attempted to perform a skin transplant with a potato peeler. Dia and I had been inseparable since we were seven when she moved next door covered in eczema patches and declared we’d be best friends forever.
She then proceeded to scratch her arm until it bled and pressed it against mine until our blood mixed.
Our Dermal Destiny
You see, she came from one of those freakishly traditional families where skin conditions were treated like sacred bonds. Her mother and aunts all had various autoimmune disorders and would gather monthly to apply their homemade treatments together, sharing their prescription creams like communion wine.
Her grandmother kept jars of their collective shed skin, claiming it had healing properties when mixed into lotions. Growing up, Dia practiced skincare rituals on me constantly, making me sit through hours of her applying creams and documenting every mark on my body.
If I refused, she’d cry that I was rejecting our dermal destiny. She kept photo albums of our skin, comparing moles and marks, and made me sign contracts in glitter pen promising we’d transform together when the time came.
The Synchronization Salve
When Dia’s eczema worsened at 22, she cornered me in her apartment and handed me a jar of yellowish cream. She said she’d been mixing her prescription steroids with her own skin cells for months, creating a synchronization salve.
She insisted I needed to apply it daily so my skin could learn her condition because true friends share everything, especially suffering. I refused, and she broke down sobbing, saying our souls couldn’t truly connect unless our skin matched.
The next week she revealed the spare room she’d converted into a treatment chamber. It had two medical chairs, UV lamps, humidifiers, and a refrigerator full of labeled jars containing her various skin samples dating back years.
The Campaign of Contamination
I tried to avoid her during flare-ups, but Dia was relentless. She switched my body wash with her medicated ones, hid allergen patches in my car, and demanded I use her prescription creams preventatively.
She downloaded apps to track my skin’s moisture levels and would show up with testing strips, insisting on checking my pH balance. She started stealing my pillowcases to check for skin cells and broke into my bathroom to replace all my products with her prescribed treatments.
My boyfriend found her in our bedroom photographing my back to document my progression. When he tried to kick her out, she screamed that he was preventing my metamorphosis by keeping me away from her treatments. She’d filled my closet with medical gowns labeled for when we heal together.
A Revelation at the Birthday Dinner
I still thought she’d eventually stop until she showed up at my birthday dinner glowing. I complimented her clear skin, but she laughed and said,
“This isn’t just my victory; it’s ours.”
Then she revealed what she’d been doing for the past six months. She said,
“I’ve been adding my skin cells to everything you touch. Your lotions, your makeup, even your laundry detergent. Soon your immune system will recognize my condition as its own.”
She pulled out a folder documenting everything. There were photos of her breaking into my apartment, receipts for the duplicate keys she’d made, and logs of every contamination. I ran to my car while she chased me, screaming,
“You can’t run from your true skin; it’s already changing!”
The Emergency Transformation
I got tested immediately and discovered I developed minor allergic reactions from constant exposure to her medications and skin cells. But when I didn’t develop eczema, Dia lost her mind completely.
She started showing up at my work, scratching herself until she bled, and telling customers I had the same condition but was hiding it with expensive treatments. She created fake medical records showing I had severe eczema and sent them to my insurance, trying to get me approved for disability benefits.
She called my employer, claiming I was contagious and shouldn’t be allowed to work with others. She posted photos of me online, circling normal skin variations and asking support groups to diagnose what I’m concealing.
Then she started getting desperate. She befriended a dermatology nurse and stole prescription pads, trying to fill medications in my name. She mailed my parents pamphlets about supporting children with chronic skin conditions. She even contacted my ex-boyfriends asking if they’d noticed any skin abnormalities during our relationships.
The Ambush in the Garage
Everything came crashing down when she ambushed me in a parking garage with what she called her emergency transformation kit. She had medical tools, jars of her skin samples, prescription creams, and industrial-strength allergens.
She managed to smear some compound on my arm before I could react, screaming,
“If you won’t transform naturally, I’ll help you!”
During the trial, police found her freezer contained years of dated skin samples and blood vials. She had journals detailing her contamination schedule and files of forged medical documents.
The security footage showed everything, but somehow that made it worse. The parking garage cameras captured what looked like two friends having an animated conversation, not an assault with industrial allergens.
When I tried to run, Dia grabbed my arm with both hands, her fingers digging in as she whispered those words that still echo in my nightmares. She breathed against my ear, her grip tightening as the burning started,
“Our skin is already singing together.”
The Burning Mark
The industrial-strength compound she’d smeared on her palms before approaching me was already working, creating angry red welts that spread up my forearm like wildfire. I screamed and tried to pull away, but she held on, scratching the same repetitive pattern into my skin that I’d watched her trace on her own arm since we were children.
It was three circles, then a line, then three more circles—her ritual mark. Mall security arrived within minutes, drawn by my screaming, but Dia transformed instantly.
She hid the contamination kit behind her back while tears streamed down her face. She became the concerned friend, the worried companion trying to help someone having a breakdown. Dia told the security guard, her voice trembling with perfectly manufactured concern,
“She’s having another episode. I’ve been trying to get her to take her medication, but she keeps saying these terrible things about me.”
I tried to explain, pointing at my burning arm,
“She’s trying to give me her skin disease! Look what she did!”
The Guard’s Sympathy
But even to my own ears, the words sounded insane. Who tries to give someone eczema? Who believes skin conditions can be transferred through contamination?
The security guard, a middle-aged man with visible psoriasis patches on his neck, looked between us with growing sympathy for Dia. She’d chosen her victim well, approaching someone who would understand the pain of skin conditions and who would see her as the victim rather than the perpetrator.
He asked me gently, using the same tone people use with confused elderly relatives,
“Ma’am, would you like me to call medical help? Sometimes stress can make us say things we don’t mean.”
Dia nodded eagerly, still hiding the kit, and said,
“That would be wonderful. She’s been struggling with delusions about my medical condition. She thinks it’s contagious, which is so hurtful when you actually live with eczema.”
I had seconds to decide: accept the help that would put me directly under Dia’s control in a medical setting, or run and look guilty of something I couldn’t even properly explain. As I hesitated, I noticed Dia unconsciously scratching her arm in that same pattern: three circles, a line, three circles.
