Using you

RECOVERED DIARY FROM THE PERPETRATORS' ROOM.

Diary entry April 1st 2024:

My therapist suggested I write down my feelings. Things are getting so bad now; I don’t know where I begin and he ends. We’ve blended into one, one single creature. I have stitched us together, making one freak of a creature. My hands have become his, my eyes, my body, my mind. Everything is his; I have no escape. My body doesn’t belong to me anymore. Every day I spend picking at my appearance, transforming myself into a mirror of what he wants. I have become unrecognizable, something wretched. I cannot even look at myself in the mirror without gagging; I will never achieve the person he wants. I try and try, and it’ll never be enough for him. Sometimes he shows me people he finds attractive, and I take a mental screenshot of them. I spend hours fixating on the pictures, hours staring at myself.

It isn’t fair; I spend all my time devoting myself to him, and I get nothing in return. Nothing at all. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Is that all I am to him? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. God, I can’t stop fixating on the word. Because that’s exactly what I am. Nothing to him. I am the gum on his shoe, but he won’t get me off. No amount of scrubbing will get rid of me. He has chewed me up and spat me on the ground, and I have merged myself with his shoe. I will get in his hair if he tries to remove me from his shoe.

Diary entry April 24th 2024:

Sorry diary, I am not really good at this whole, writing down my feelings thing. That’s a lie; I am, but I am just not good at staying on top of it. I asked him today if he wanted to hang out, go to the movies, or something. He said he'd rather play GTA with his friends. I am a stupid fucking bitch. Why on earth would I think that he’d want to hang out with me? God, I made myself look desperate. I sat there for hours waiting for his response, not moving, not going an inch away from my phone. Whenever I heard a buzz, my heart lept in my chest, thinking maybe it was him. He didn’t answer till three hours later; I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.

When he texted that he'd rather play that stupid mind-numbing game with his friends, I thought about killing myself. Showing him how much he hurt me. Writing a suicide note, detailing all the ways he had hurt my feelings, that this was all his fault. All he had to do was go to the movies with me, but he didn’t, so now I am dead. I thought about taking my dad’s gun out of the safe. My dad’s stupid; he let me know the code. I thought about lining up the barrel with my mouth, wrapping my lips around it, and BOOM. I am dead; I am lying on the floor with my brains out.

But I didn’t. Instead, I cried; I cried like some weak little baby. I just curled up into a little ball and cried. Now I am writing to you, writing my woes. Writing my sorrows, like some poet.

I just want this to stop; I want this ache to be over. I want him gone; I want myself gone. I want everything gone. I just want to stop.

Diary entry May 5th 2024:

He told me he was talking to a new girl today. He texted me asking if I approve. Of course I don’t. I lied and said yes, thats she pretty. She is pretty: her long blonde hair, her light blue eyes, her tanned skin. God, I want to wear her like a suit. I booked an appointment today to get my hair bleached next week.

She’s everything I want to be. She is noticed. She takes up space. People like her. He likes her. He will never love a girl like me. Twenty-two and still living with my parents. My mom says I am not equipped to live on my own. Fuck her. Atleast this new girl has her own place. She is just the belle of the ball.

I want to gut her like she is some pig. That is all she is, a pig. She is ruining my chances with him. She is too tempting, some seductress, some Jezebel. Daughter of the whore of Babylon. He can’t help himself; if I were him, I’d pick her. She’s not as intense as me; she's prettier than me, skinnier than me. Sure, she fucks better than me. I wouldn’t know what to do. All I know is my own hands.

I hope he’s happy. That’s what I keep telling myself. It doesn’t matter what I want. He’d be so much happier if he was with me, though. Not some stupid blonde bimbo. She probably doesn’t even like him. He has so much to give, and she just wants to take it. Why can’t he see that? Is he blind???????

Stupid fucking slut. Hope she dies.

Diary entry May 10th 2024:

My therapist has been talking about hospitalizing me. I confronted her about it. I am not one of those mentally ill schizo’s that go to the mental hospital. She told me she’s not pushing me; she's just ‘suggesting’ it. She wants to lock me up, send me away. I told him about it, told him if I go I’ll give him the phone number of the hospital I get sent to. Doubt he’ll call; he’ll be too busy fucking that blonde bitch. He’ll probably be relieved that I am gone.

I just don’t get it. I am anything he wants me to be; it makes me sick. I am his dog; he leads me around on a leash and puts a muzzle on me when I am being bad. He has muzzled me recently; I have been bad. I think I scared him. We were at work, and he was talking about his recent date with that blonde girl, or Melissa. Melissa, what a shtity name. I couldn’t help myself; I couldn’t bear it. Every time her name rolled off his tongue, I just wanted to strangle him. I couldn’t help it, and I bashed my head into the counter. Full force. I started bleeding. He screamed, ‘What the fuck, Britney?’ I still have a massive bruise on my forehead.

I pretended to just laugh it off. I told him I was trying to be silly. Don’t think he believed me. Whatever, he probably thinks that I am just acting crazy again. That’s what he always says. I am just acting crazy. Not like he cares; whenever I try to vent to him, he’s always busy. Or asks why I feel such big emotions. How the fuck am I supposed to know? I can’t be mad at him though, he’s trying his best. I am a handful.

Diary entry June 16th 2024:

A lot has happened since I last wrote. I kinda forgot about this, not gonna lie. Sorry. I dropped my therapist. She kept pushing for me to go to the mental hospital. I want to get better. I really do. But I cannot get better without him. I need him; I need every fiber of his being. I just want to live inside of him; I want to be his heart; I want to be the thing that keeps him alive. I want him to ache for me as I do him. I want. I want. I need. I need. I need him. My love is ever-growing, blossoming into some flower. I am a flower, and he is Mother Earth. Without him, I cannot flourish. Without him, I do not exist. My petals are wilting the farther we are apart. I cannot wait to see him at work tomorrow, and he will water me. I am his lily, his is my gardener.

I want this to stop. I want this to be over with. I am tired of it. I am tired. Tired. Tired.

Tired.

Tired.

Tired.

Tired.

Tired.

Tired.

Tired.

I think I am going to go on a walk. I need to clear my head.

Diary entry August 17th 2024:

He and Melissa didn’t work out. I remember he came crying to me, telling me that they had a huge fight and stopped talking. I held his head as he cried. He got snot all over my shirt. I haven’t washed it. I held his head, stroking his hair as I smiled. A big, teethy grin on my face. What a relief; I am glad she’s gone. I do not have anyone in my way now. But it doesn’t stop him from looking, gazing at new fresh meat. I need to figure out how to get him to stop.

I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. I think. It’ll bring me peace. It’ll bring peace for both of us. I think. That maybe. I cannot live without him, with him, can’t live. Can’t function. Can’t do anything. I can’t stand dying without him by my side. I’d do it at night. I’d take my father’s gun. I’d do it while he’s sleeping. He’s not a night owl. He’s a heavy sleeper. One time we had a sleepover, and I was snooping around his house. Knocked over a painting. He didn’t wake. I will sneak through his window; he keeps it open, and he can’t sleep in a stuffy room. I will climb through. I will climb on top of him. Stand over him. I will kiss him on the forehead. I will make sure to wear lipstick. I will wear red, just like what Melissa wore. I will shoot him right where I kissed him. I will lie down right next to him. Cuddle up with him. I will put the barrel in my mouth, and pull the trigger. We will die together.

We will finally become one; I will finally show him the beauty he always was meant to see. When he sees me in heaven, we will unite. He will thank me for showing him the light. For showing him what life can be. Death will not do us part. God will unite us. I struggle believing in God. My mom and dad are really religious. Used to hit me while reciting bible verses. I was a wicked child, and an even more wicked adult. This will cleanse me; mom and dad will be happy that I found Jesus. I struggle with my faith. But we will unite in death; that's what I am sure.

I don’t think I have ever hated and loved someone as much as I do him. I love him more than anything. I will be anything for him. I am his pet; I am his girl. I AM HIS. But he is not mine, and I hate him for that. I hate his refusal to accept me. I hate how he laughs every time I try to flirt with him. I can’t fucking flirt anyway, to fucking retarded to. I was diagnosed with autism late in my life. He’s so normal; I am envious. I am silly to think he would want to be with a freak like me. So, I must force him. I have to force him. I am forcing him. I am forcing him to die with me. This is what his refusal gets him. Death. If only he chose me, if only he saw me.

I just want to be seen; I want someone to understand me. I want him to understand me. He can’t. But he will; he will in the end. When we reunite in heaven, he will take me in his arms and love me. He will see me. He will see me and my entirety. He will see my heart and how it beats for him. He will see my tears and how I cry for him.

This has to be done.

Goodbye diary.

I love you, Peter. This is all for you. I hope you see me.

Love, Britney.

On August 21st, a coworker visited Peter Braun’s house; he had not shown up for work that day. Inside the house, the coworker found two bodies. The bodies belonged to Britney Lutz and Peter Braun. Police were called to the scene. Both were pronounced dead from a gunshot wound.

This is the diary that was recovered from Britney Lutz's room.

A/N: Hi guys! I am on a writing kick. I haven’t written horror in forever; well, this is more of a psychological horror if anything. I wanted to try out a new style. Let me know how you like it! All my articles are named after songs. This one is by Mars Argo.