We All Rot Eventually: A Horror Novella

by Mia Ballard

Cars come and go, drivers passing like ghosts, their faces dissolving the second I try to catch them.

I watch, but I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. Something. Someone. A feeling. It’s the kind of ache that doesn’t settle anywhere, just floats under your skin, making you itch.

I scroll through the rest from that day—my face again and again, always trying to catch itself, like a dog chasing its tail. It feels like looking at someone I used to know.

Who I was before doesn’t matter. Maybe she’s still out there,

Then the car parks, and the moment breaks. The lights buzz overhead. The smell of gas curls tighter around me. And I’m still here, beaming and restless, waiting for something I don’t have a name for.

My reflection feels like a stranger who keeps asking for things I can’t give.

But it’s not enough. I suck in my stomach, tilt my chin. It’s never enough.

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

I think about everything I want and everything I don’t have and how maybe I don’t have to keep waiting for

He kisses me then, his mouth tasting like beer and sweat, and I let him. I let him because it’s easier than thinking, easier than admitting that we are not soulmates and he is not my person. His hands

Men like him are wallpaper, always there, always leering, always thinking they have a right to the space I take up. But then he

My life feels like a music video on loop. Glossy, chaotic, full of light and noise. I don’t care if it’s fake. I don’t care if it’s built on nothing. What matters is that I’m here, that I’m seen, that people are looking.

We all rot eventually. We all fall apart. Why should I feel bad about trading blood for glory?

For now, Hollywood mourns not just the victims of her violence but also the chilling revelation that its brightest stars can sometimes burn the darkest.