When did you realize your best friend was a psycho?
The Courthouse Deadline
The court date was set for 72 hours later. I had three days to prove my sanity in a legal system already primed to see me as unstable.
Marcus asking if Dia thinks she’s helping is such a good moment; it makes us wonder about Dia’s mind without making her less scary. The 3-day deadline at the end creates pressure that feels real and immediate.
I dove deeper into Dia’s family history, trying to understand the roots of her delusion. What I found was heartbreaking.
Dia genuinely believed our souls had bonded through that blood-mixing ritual when we were seven. In her family’s tradition, skin fusion would complete the spiritual connection.
Sharing Suffering
She’d been raised to believe that love meant sharing suffering and that true bonds required matching scars. This understanding forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth.
To prove assault, I’d have to use Dia’s mental illness against her. I’d have to betray the childhood promise we’d made to never call each other crazy and to always validate each other’s experiences.
The girl who’d held me through my parents’ divorce and who’d been my anchor through every teenage crisis was now my adversary in a legal battle that would destroy one of us.
The transformation from empathetic friend to strategic legal opponent was brutal but necessary. I convinced Dia’s young cousin to steal her grandmother’s journals during a family dinner, promising to return them after making copies.
Hollow Victories
The betrayal of using a child in our war made me sick, but I needed the evidence. Small victories felt hollow.
When I finally proved the contamination through chemical analysis, the triumph was overshadowed by Dia’s genuine heartbreak. In court, we both cried as our friendship died in a sterile legal setting.
Two women who’d once shared everything were now separated by restraining orders and legal documents. Dia’s counter-claim of defamation gained credibility when some of my supporters began harassing her online.
I couldn’t control everyone who believed my story, but their aggressive tactics made me look like the orchestrator of a harassment campaign. The narrative shifted again: was I the victim or the perpetrator?
The Dermatology Nurse
Everything hinged on the testimony of the dermatology nurse who’d sold Dia the supplies. She’d been granted immunity in exchange for her cooperation, but her testimony would reveal the extent of the medical fraud.
As the court date approached, I prepared for the final battle in a war I’d never wanted to fight. The truth was messier than anyone wanted to admit.
Dia was both perpetrator and victim, indoctrinated from childhood into believing that love required shared suffering. I was both victim and aggressor, driven to increasingly desperate measures to prove my sanity.
We were two women destroyed by a twisted interpretation of friendship, and only the legal system could untangle the mess we’d made.
Perception as Reality
As I sat in Kesha’s guest room the night before court, surrounded by evidence boxes and legal documents, I realized that regardless of the outcome, neither of us would emerge unscathed.
The war for my skin had evolved into something larger—a battle for truth in a world where perception had become reality. But I was ready to fight because underneath the exhaustion and trauma, a core truth remained.
My skin was my own, my body was my own, and no amount of contamination, manipulation, or twisted love could change that fundamental fact. The final phase was about to begin.
The footage from the documentary filmmaker arrived by courier the morning of the court hearing. I watched it alone in Kesha’s kitchen, my hands trembling as decades-old rituals played out on screen.
The Filmmaker’s Sacrifice
Four-year-old Dia stood in a circle of women, her tiny arms covered in rashes while her grandmother pressed herbs into the inflamed skin. The other children in the footage looked terrified, but Dia’s face showed only determination—already learning that love meant enduring pain together.
The filmmaker had included a note explaining why she couldn’t testify. Her own family belonged to the same church community, and speaking out would mean losing her parents, her siblings, and her entire support network.
She’d already risked everything by sending the footage. I understood the choice; between truth and family wasn’t one anyone should have to make.
At the courthouse, I arrived to find the parking lot divided like a wedding. Dia’s supporters were on one side, and mine were on the other.
The Divided Courtroom
The book club women wore matching scarves in solidarity. My mother stood with my father near the entrance, their faces etched with confusion and grief.
They’d chosen neutrality, which meant standing literally between the two groups, belonging to neither. Inside the courtroom, Dia had arranged childhood photos across her defense table: pictures of us at 7, 8, and 9—always touching, always together.
Her lawyer had blown up the photo from my 8th birthday, where Dia and I had matching temporary tattoos. Even then, she’d insisted we mark our skin the same way.
The chemical analysis results were presented first. The lab technician explained in clinical terms how prescription corticosteroids had been detected in my lotions, shampoo, and laundry detergent at concentrations high enough to cause the welts but low enough to avoid serious harm.
Under the Table Supplies
Dia watched the testimony while unconsciously scratching her arm in that familiar pattern: three circles, a line, and three circles. When the dermatology nurse took the stand, her hands shook as she described selling Dia medical supplies under the table.
She’d thought they were for Dia’s own use until she saw the quantity—enough needles and syringes to contaminate hundreds of products. The nurse’s voice broke when she admitted she’d needed the money for her daughter’s asthma medication.
The judge ordered a recess after the nurse’s testimony. In the hallway, I passed Dia’s mother, who grabbed my arm with surprising strength.
Her eyes were wild as she whispered about the family curse and how each generation had to pass it on or face spiritual death. Security separated us, but not before I saw the same desperate belief in her eyes that I’d seen in Dia’s.
Induced Delusional Disorder
Back in session, Dia’s psychological evaluation was presented. The court-appointed psychiatrist testified that Dia showed signs of induced delusional disorder, learned from childhood within a closed community that reinforced the beliefs.
She genuinely believed contaminating me was an act of love, that my resistance was a test of her dedication, and that success would create an unbreakable spiritual bond.
The revelation that made the courtroom gasp came from Dia’s grandmother’s journals. The practice went back six generations, each mother teaching her daughter that skin conditions were gifts to be shared.
But the most disturbing entry was recent. Dia’s grandmother had identified me as Dia’s “skin sister” when we were seven, the day our blood mixed. Everything since then had been preparation for this moment.
Heartbreaking Sincerity
Dia took the stand against her lawyer’s advice. She didn’t deny anything. Instead, she explained with heartbreaking sincerity how she’d spent months preparing my transformation.
She explained how each contamination was carefully measured to avoid real harm while encouraging my skin to “wake up.” She pulled out a calendar showing the schedule:
“Mondays for lotions, Wednesdays for laundry, Fridays for what she called direct application while I slept.”
The security footage from my apartment was played. The courtroom watched in silence as Dia entered with her copied key, wearing my pajamas, lying in my bed, and applying creams to her own skin while whispering prayers for our union.
In one video, she held my hand while I slept, tracing that pattern onto my palm over and over. My testimony came last.
