Creepypasta: Her Routine

    Every night, Diane begins her routine at 6:24 P.M. with a light dinner, watching a romantic movie. She thinks of everything in her life, and how there's nothing in her life that matches the film she watches. Sometimes it's a comedy, sometimes it's a thriller, and on the rare occasion, an Erotic film. She always had a problem with outright porn, but if it's a steamy film where tension and passion played before her, she could handle the sex scenes well enough. But as long as the romance is there, she enjoys whatever is before her. Which most would consider a shame, because she is of the mindset that there really isn't that much to her life.

She's a pretty girl. She's 23, she's got a business degree, works at a local credit union. She's got full blonde hair, eyes like the color of the sky in the early morning, and blessed with looks that don't need makeup. If she matched her features, she would be a bright, cheery, outgoing person. The world would go out of it's way for her, just for the subtle warmth of her smile. But she only smiles politely, and her eyes hide clouds that she just can't seem to clear away. An interminable sadness that shaded every friendship, every suitor's attempts, and every single joy she could have had. She chooses to remain hidden, because she feels that's the only thing in her life that is real.

As she finishes her meal around 7:22, she quickly washes her dishes, with the film playing loudly to cover the sounds of her tears as they get washed down the drain. A meal is meant for more than one person, she tells herself, and no one would love her enough to break bread with her. More tears fall, as she realizes how hard she is on herself, and that just drives the feelings deeper into her heart. She finishes her scant few dishes, and rushes back to the TV. She curls herself into a ball, covers herself with a blanket, turns on a light, and finishes whatever film she's watching.

By 8:20, the film usually finishes, and with a groan, she lifts herself out of her seat, and proceeds to her bedroom in her apartment, quickly changes into her exercise clothes, grabs her iPod filled to the brim with somber sonatas, and longing arias and ballads, and begins to run around the block until 9:35. By 9:39, she has stripped herself, and started to prepare her bath, hot as it can get, but just before pain meets her godliness. When she climbs in, she plays more songs of romance and loss, sets the timer on her phone, and lies in the tub, pondering what to do with her sense of despair and longing.

She closes her eyes, and imagines the sight of her father's body, flensed open, intestines and other organs lovingly piled onto the floor, to make room for her mother's head, and the corpse of her sister, positioned in a way to promote a sense of violation by their father. And with each stroke of the loofah, she tries desperately to wash away the images that she knows will haunt her for the rest of her life. The sense of revulsion, still present in her mind after five years of cleaning and isolation. The taste of her bile, rising in her throat with each reminder that she could do nothing to help them otherwise. The pain in her heart, that wells up in her throat with each choking sob. And when the timer goes off at 10:16, she opens her eyes, sees the bleeding marks where she scrubbed too hard and too long, rinses herself with the shower head, and proceeds to get dressed.

At 10:34, she heads to the kitchen for her ritualistic pre-bedtime snack of popcorn and cocoa, goes to the living room, pops in another film, usually something lighter hearted than what was played earlier, and slowly spends her time attempting to forget her life. But every time she begins to lose herself to something she enjoys, the flashes of her family's bodies, splayed out on her bed, rushes to her mind's eye, and spoils the mood she thought to allow herself some respite in. When she finds herself finished with her snack midway through the film, she rushes to wash the dishes, hurries to her seat, wraps up in her blanket, and finishes the film at 12:15, even sitting through the credits.

By 12:26, she has changed her clothes, turned off all the lights, locked every door and window, heads to her bedroom, and programs her charging phone to set off an alarm to wake her at 7:30 AM. Then she climbs into bed, and stares at the ceiling, with only one image burning into her brain. The image of words, written in blood, above the corpses of her loved ones, in large, unmistakable letters, that has robbed her of any sense of love or feeling of connection for 5 years.

I LOVE YOU, DIANE. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

It's been 5 years since that day, and she spends every last waking moment counting the days towards her birthday, and every moment of that day in fear and isolation. She believes that whoever did this will appear again, and the next time they do, it will be at her cost, and more of a display than what happened to her parents. Then, she rolls onto her right side, counts the change of the day, and by 1:00 AM, closes her eyes, and falls asleep.

Another day of a beauty trapped in her own tower, afraid of the Prince that will come for her. And I smile to myself, as I longingly stare at her through the window as she sleeps, like I do every night for over 5 years. Her birthday is in a couple days. I really should do something to surprise her, like last time.