We All Rot Eventually: A Horror Novella

by Mia Ballard

All I can think is, I’ve lost ten pounds this month, and I’m still not enough.

At first, it’s the regular look—the up and down, the quick flick of his eyes that says he’s cataloging me, my skirt, my legs, the curve of my back. I ignore it. Men like him are wallpaper, always there, always leering, always thinking they have a right to the space I take up.