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.

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 it.

Because Lars is dead, Ricky is a joke, and the only thing I know how to do is make them watch me.

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

I feel like I’ve taken up space and left a mark, like I’m something that won’t disappear the second the door closes behind me.

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.

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

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