When did you realize your best friend was a psycho?

The Dermal Destiny Revealed

I showed him my arm, the fading welt still visible. I told him,

“She did this with some kind of industrial allergen. She’s been contaminating my things, trying to give me eczema.”

Marcus was quiet for a long moment, then asked gently,

“Why would she do that? What would she gain from giving you a skin condition?”

How could I explain Dia’s family? The ritual of shared suffering? The belief that matching skin conditions created spiritual bonds? It sounded insane even to me, and I’d witnessed it firsthand for years.

“She’s been planning this for months,”

I said instead, showing him the medical records on my phone.

“Look, prescriptions in my name I never filled, insurance claims for treatments I never received.”

A Professional Trap

Marcus studied the screen, his frown deepening. He asked,

“How did you get into her medical portal to find these?”

My stomach dropped. In trying to prove Dia’s crimes, I’d revealed that I knew her passwords and that I’d accessed her accounts. Instead of looking like a victim, I looked like the stalker.

“She used to make me memorize them,”

I said,

“Weekly, in case of emergencies.”

But Marcus was already pulling back, the doubt clear in his eyes. He suggested,

“Maybe you should talk to someone—a professional. This whole thing with Dia, it seems like it’s consuming you.”

After he left, I sat in my locked apartment and finally understood the brilliance of Dia’s plan. Every piece of evidence I could provide made me look worse. Every attempt to prove her contamination made me seem more paranoid.

She’d created a perfect trap where defending myself only tightened the noose. My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. When I opened it, my blood ran cold.

The Sleepwalking Ruse

It was a photo of me sleeping, taken from inside my bedroom. The timestamp was from three nights ago, after I’d changed the locks the second time. The message below was in Dia’s distinctive style:

“You look so peaceful when you accept treatment. Stop fighting your true skin.”

I went to my bedroom and found it immediately: the prescription cream on my nightstand I’d never purchased, the cap slightly loose. The pillow smelled wrong—like the cologne I’d noticed before but couldn’t place.

It was men’s cologne, the kind Dia had started wearing months ago because she said it helped with her anxiety. She’d been here in my bed, applying her treatments while I slept.

I called the police, but what could I report? That my best friend was trying to give me eczema? That she’d been in my apartment applying prescription creams? Without proof of breaking and entering or evidence of actual harm, I sounded delusional.

The officer who took my report did so with the same gentle condescension I’d seen all day. He promised,

“We’ll look into it,”

But I could see in his eyes that the report would be filed under mental health concerns, not criminal activity. That’s when I realized the true horror of my situation.

Two Interpretations

Dia had been playing a long game I hadn’t even known we were playing. Every action she’d taken had two interpretations: the truth and the story she was selling. And her story was winning.

The welts on my arm had faded completely by morning, leaving no evidence of the assault. But the digital footprint she’d created would last forever.

There were medical records showing years of treatment for a condition I didn’t have and insurance claims that made me look like a fraud if I denied being sick. There was social media documentation of a mental health crisis that existed only in her carefully crafted narrative.

I was trapped between two impossible choices: accept her contamination and let her give me the skin condition she believed would bond us forever, or fight back and watch as every piece of evidence made me look more unstable.

As I sat in my locked apartment, checking every lotion and cream for signs of tampering, I finally understood why Dia had chosen this method. She didn’t need to break down my door or physically force me to transform; she just needed to make my reality so unbearable that accepting her version would seem like the only sane choice.

The War for the Skin

The war for my skin had begun, and I was already losing. The next morning brought a new horror.

Dia had started live streaming on social media, sitting in what looked like a therapist’s office with tissues in her lap. Her eyes were red-rimmed as she spoke to the camera about supporting friends through invisible illness denial.

The comments poured in, praising her patience and dedication. I watched helplessly as strangers validated her narrative, offering advice on how to help someone who refused to acknowledge their condition.

My phone rang constantly. Friends, co-workers, and distant relatives were all reaching out after seeing Dia’s posts. Each conversation followed the same pattern: concern for my well-being, gentle suggestions about seeking help, and uncomfortable silences when I tried to explain the truth.

The Digital Trail

The more I protested, the more delusional I sounded. I decided to document everything systematically.

Armed with my laptop and the determination to prove my sanity, I began compiling evidence: screenshots of fake medical records, timestamps of unauthorized apartment entries, and photos of contaminated products.

But as I worked, I noticed something disturbing in my browser history. There were searches for eczema treatments I hadn’t made and forum posts asking for advice about skin conditions posted from my accounts.

An entire digital trail suggested I’d been researching my condition for months. The doorbell rang, interrupting my work. Through the peephole, I saw two police officers standing outside.

My heart sank as I opened the door. They explained that both Dia and I had filed reports against each other and they needed to take statements from both parties.

The Ritual Mark

As I recounted the contamination attempts, I watched their expressions shift from professional interest to barely concealed skepticism. One officer kept glancing at his partner when I mentioned the skin cell contamination.

After they left, I checked my doorbell camera footage, hoping to find evidence of Dia’s break-ins. What I found made my blood run cold.

The footage from the past week showed me entering my apartment multiple times in the middle of the night, but I had no memory of leaving my bed. In one clip, I appeared to be sleepwalking, fumbling with keys while wearing pajamas.

But the way I moved and the angle of my shoulders—it wasn’t quite right. I zoomed in on one frame and saw it.

The person wearing my pajamas had a small tattoo on their wrist—a tattoo I didn’t have. It was a tattoo that matched the one Dia had gotten last year: three circles, a line, and three circles.

Her Ritual Mark

Her ritual mark was permanently etched into her skin. She’d been wearing my clothes and copying my walk, creating footage that would make any real evidence I had seem questionable.

If I claimed someone broke in, she had video proof that I was the one coming and going at odd hours. The detail about the tattoo—three circles, a line, three circles—is a clever way to reveal the deception while also hinting at some deeper meaning to Dia’s obsession.

My seven-year-old niece called me that afternoon, her voice small and confused. She asked why Aunt Dia said I was sick but wouldn’t take my medicine.

Then she added something that made my skin crawl. Dia had shown her pictures of my arms from when I was sleeping, pointing out marks and blemishes that proved I was hiding my condition.

I drove to my sister’s house immediately, but the damage was done. My sister met me at the door with a mixture of concern and weariness.

Strategic Infiltration

She’d seen the photos, too. Dia had been visiting during playdates, bringing gifts for the children while expressing worry about my deteriorating condition.

She’d even offered to teach my sister how to identify the early signs of skin disorders in case they were hereditary. Back home, I discovered something even more disturbing.

Hidden in my closet was a collection of medical supplies I’d never purchased: prescription creams, sterile gauze, and medication bottles with my name on them. The prescriptions were real, filled at pharmacies across town over the past months.

Security footage would show someone who looked like me picking them up. I spent hours going through my apartment with a black light, revealing the true extent of Dia’s contamination campaign.

There were traces of medicated cream on door knobs, light switches, and even my toothbrush. She’d been methodical, ensuring I’d have constant low-level exposure to her treatments.

The Strategy of Relationships

My best friend, Kesha, finally agreed to meet me for coffee. She listened to my story with growing alarm but then dropped her own bombshell.

Dia had been dating Kesha’s brother for the past three months. She’d integrated herself so naturally into their family gatherings that no one questioned her presence.

She’d made it seem like such a natural connection, bonding over their shared concern for me. The revelation that Dia had strategically positioned herself within my inner circle through romantic relationships made me realize how deeply she’d planned this.

Every move had been calculated to ensure she had access and credibility. I started investigating Dia’s past, hoping to find others who might have experienced similar treatment.