We All Rot Eventually: A Horror Novella

by Mia Ballard

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.

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

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

Fame is a fire, and I want to burn with it until there’s nothing left.