Cassandra O’Sullivan Sachar is a writer and associate English professor in Pennsylvania. A member of the Horror Writers Association, her horror writing has appeared in publications including The Horror Zine, The Stygian Lepus, Wyldblood Magazine, and Tales from the Moonlit Path. She holds a Doctorate of Education with a Literacy Specialization from the University of Delaware and an MFA in Creative Writing focusing on horror fiction from Wilkes University. Her dark suspense novel, Darkness There but Something More, debuted in March 2024 from Wicked House Publishing, and her short horror story collection, Keeper of Corpses and Other Dark Tales, is forthcoming from Velox Books later this year. She has acted as the fiction editor at River & South Review and will soon take over as the creative prose editor of Pennsylvania English.
Read her work at https://cassandraosullivansachar.com
ROTTEN
by
Cassandra O’Sullivan Sachar
Smiling at her reflection, revealing two rows of straight, white teeth, Allison adjusted her Tiffany & Co. diamond necklace.
There. Perfect.
She loved how glamorous she looked in bright red lipstick, like a movie actress from Hollywood’s Golden Age. Even though her lips felt a bit dry and cracked, likely from the onset of colder weather, an extra swipe of Rouge Dior hid the damage. In her job as a pharmaceutical sales rep, she sought to exude an aura of confidence and success. Appearance was paramount.
But what was that smell? Allison crinkled her nose at the cloying, almost sweet aroma of decay pervading the restroom. Maybe a rat or something had died in the wall. She’d have to let the office manager know. This wasn’t a gas station, for God’s sake, and Brenda wasn’t paid to sit on her fat ass all day.
Settling herself at her desk, Allison plunged back into work. Monday was the only day of the week she spent in her own workplace rather than out on calls promoting products in doctors’ offices and hospitals, so she carefully regimented her time. She opened the email she had been avoiding, ready to tackle this complaint as she had countless others before.
But there it was again—a putrid whiff. It must have leached into her hair and clothes, anointing her in stench. And did John just grimace as he walked past? Darting her eyes around, checking the proximity of her coworkers lest anyone think the rot emanated from her, Allison pulled out her travel-size Chanel No. 5 and spritzed her wrists. For good measure, as well as for masking, she dabbed a spot underneath her nose. That would have to do for now.
Side effects… lawsuit… misinformation. Allison allowed the familiar words of the furious email to swim over her as she straightened her back and cracked her neck. She must have slept in a weird position the night before—she had been stiff and uncomfortable all day, but she couldn’t let that distract her. She hadn’t become the number one sales rep in the company by taking it easy on herself.
No, she needed to handle this problem before it began to fester.
***
That night, trying to relax on the couch, Allison sighed. Something wasn’t right—she couldn’t escape that stink even though she’d showered and changed her clothes. And it wasn’t in her head, either; the Starbucks barista had practically recoiled when she approached the counter earlier. Allison was the kind of woman who inspired envy and awe, not revulsion.
The odor was only part of the problem. Along with the aches in her body, the waistband of her sweatpants seemed to cut into her taut and toned stomach. She hadn’t altered her eating habits lately, sticking to her rigid calorie limit, so she shouldn’t feel so bloated.
Maybe she needed to go to a doctor. Allison brought her hand to her forehead. Instead of hot, it felt cool to the touch, almost like she was made of marble.
She was fine, probably just sick with worry over the lawsuit, but she’d gotten herself out of other tight scrapes in the past. Then again, Allison had never been named in litigation before—only the drug companies whose products she’d represented had been brought to court. Her sales company kept a lawyer on retainer, so she’d give him a call tomorrow.
Allison trudged off to bed. Maybe all she needed was a good night’s sleep.
She winced at the mirror while brushing her teeth. Her normally porcelain complexion appeared jaundiced and even splotchy. Peering closer, Allison could make out a web of broken capillaries on her face.
Since she wasn’t getting any younger, she’d find a better dermatologist and get more serious about her skin care routine.
Even her arms looked discolored, almost bruised. She poked one of the larger marks with trepidation, wondering when she might have injured herself, but it wasn’t sore.
But something was wrong. Feeling her nose drip, Allison wiped it with the back of her hand. She must be coming down with a sickness. After popping a sleeping pill—the good kind, not one of the knockoff brands she peddled—she lay down in bed.
***
Allison woke the next morning to the buzzing of a fly and a dull pinch on her face. Slapping the pest away, she peeled herself out of bed to start her morning rituals, trying to ignore the crackles her body made along with the smell that seemed even worse now. It had graduated from a weak undercurrent to a revolting funk, one she could no longer pretend came from elsewhere.
She was the source of the stench.
As Allison stared at her reflection once more through clouding eyes, she spotted the rip in her cheek where the fly had bitten her skin, yet it wasn’t raised or bleeding. She stopped fighting gravity and let her jaw fall slack.
Pressing into the wound with her fingernail, gently at first but then digging harder, past rubbery skin and muscle, Allison felt almost nothing as she pierced through her pliant, yielding flesh and touched her drying tongue. The squelching sound was comforting, somehow, softening her lonely silence.
She twisted her finger, watching the blackening, viscous blood seep from the cavity in her face. No amount of Botox or filler could repair this.
Allison rubbed at the foam dribbling from her nostrils. Placing two fingertips on her wrist, she checked for a pulse, but there was nothing.
Rotten. That’s what the plaintiff had called her for having pushed the product that hastened his wife’s death. He didn’t even know what all Allison had concealed about the test results from the drug trials.
Rather than waiting for the meat to decompose from her bones, rather than seeing how long her body could uphold some level of function despite the blood no longer coursing through her veins, Allison lay down on her bed.
And she lit a match.