Rot In The Dark
1117 Words
~ Mark ~ (Alyssas ex)
They still talk about her.
Every bloody day.
The headlines. The interviews. The photographs where she’s smiling — smiling, like she’s done nothing wrong.
Like she isn’t the liar who ruined my life.
Alyssa Rose — the survivor.
Alyssa Rose — the phoenix who rebuilt from ashes.
Alyssa Rose — the designer who inspired a generation of women.
I grit my teeth hard enough that my jaw aches.
The cursor blinks on the article in front of me — some fluff piece about her new maternity line, her “empowering message,” her picture-perfect family.
She’s everywhere.
And they all buy it.
Every time I see her face, I remember the way she used to look at me — that mix of fear and pleading, like a trapped bird.
And the thing that makes me sick — really sick — is that I miss it.
I miss that look.
She used to listen back then.
She used to do what she was told.
The room I rent now smells like rot — mould creeping up the wallpaper, old food containers stacked by the door, blackout curtains pinned shut.
The only light comes from the laptop screen and the faint red glow of a cigarette burning down to the filter.
On the desk beside me, the corkboard is covered in her — glossy magazine shots, printed press photos, screenshots from social media.
A timeline of her comeback.
A shrine of everything she’s taken from me.
“You think you’re untouchable now, don’t you?” I mutter, tracing her image with my thumb.
A picture from the charity ball — her in a deep emerald dress, hand resting protectively over her stomach.
The sight of it makes bile rise in my throat.
She’s even managed to trap someone else.
That smug bastard — Greyson Riley.
Architect. Golden boy. Perfect bloody gentleman.
He doesn’t know her.
He doesn’t know what she’s capable of.
Sometimes the flashbacks come whether I want them or not.
The first time I hit her, she didn’t even cry.
Just stared at me, stunned, one hand pressed to her cheek.
It was supposed to scare her — to make her listen.
But when she didn’t, when she still argued — that’s when it got worse.
When she started to hide the bruises under long sleeves and makeup, I told myself it was her fault.
That she made me angry.
I see it all like flickers of old film:
Her curled on the bathroom floor.
Her whispering prayers I couldn’t hear.
Her flinching when I opened a door too fast.
She was so small back then.
So easy to control.
Now look at her — untouchable, untamed, a bloody heroine.
I click open a new email draft.
Subject line: Truth About Alyssa Rose.
Recipient: The Daily Mirror — Investigations Desk.
I start typing, my fingers steady despite the shaking rage in my chest.
“The woman you’re all praising isn’t who you think she is.
Alyssa Rose is a fraud — she built her empire on lies, on stolen money, on pity.
I have proof. I have statements. I have—”
I stop.
Delete.
Start again.
No.
It has to be believable.
Measured.
Like I’m helping. Like I’m the victim.
I’ve done this before. I know how to twist the truth until it bleeds.
The laptop hums softly, the fan struggling against the heat of my obsession.
On the screen beside the email draft, security footage from the AQ break-in plays on loop — grainy and distorted, the shape of me just barely recognisable.
They caught me that night.
Dragged me out like a criminal.
And yet, somehow, she still came out the saint.
Even when the evidence was there — she had the world convinced.
She always could spin a story.
Flashback again.
Her voice — quiet, trembling.
“Please, Mark, you’re hurting me—”
I don’t want to remember.
But I do.
The way my hand left marks that bloomed purple overnight.
The way she stopped meeting my eyes.
The way she started to fade.
She should’ve stayed faded.
Instead, she rebuilt herself out of my ruin — and now everyone loves her for it.
I stand, pacing. The floorboards creak under my weight.
There’s a mirror on the far wall — cracked, dirty. My reflection barely looks human anymore.
But I don’t care.
She took everything — the money, the company, my reputation.
Now she’s got a family, a perfect little girl, a man who looks at her like she’s God’s own creation.
And I’m the villain.
I grab a photo off the corkboard — one of her and Greyson with their daughters — and crumple it in my fist.
The paper creases over their faces, distorted, ruined.
“She thinks she’s safe,” I whisper.
“She’s not.”
The plan’s been forming for weeks — ever since her PR team flooded the internet with that sob story.
The hospital photos. The medical files.
Pathetic.
No one asked what I went through.
But the beauty of the internet?
People are fickle.
They turn fast.
All it takes is one seed of doubt.
One whisper that maybe she’s not the victim she claims to be.
That maybe the truth isn’t as clear as she wants them to believe.
So I start writing again.
This time, it’s perfect.
A fake interview — a “former employee” of AQ, anonymous, claiming to have seen financial irregularities.
A leaked message thread — fabricated screenshots that show Alyssa “manipulating” investors.
And, of course, a new photo — one I doctored myself, splicing her face into a compromising image with a man who isn’t Greyson.
It’s not truth.
But it’s power.
And that’s all that matters.
When I hit “send,” it feels like a pulse — a release.
The message flies off into the void, carrying its poison with it.
I lean back in the chair, the leather groaning beneath me.
Outside, rain hits the window in uneven bursts, the sky heavy and black.
Soon, they’ll all see.
The world will turn again.
They’ll remember what she really is.
And when her perfect life starts to crumble — when her precious Greyson realises she’s a liar, when her empire starts to rot —
then maybe she’ll remember me.
Maybe she’ll finally understand that no matter how far she runs, she’ll always belong to me.
He closes the laptop. The room falls silent.
In the corner, a single bulb flickers, its glow weak and uncertain.
He smiles faintly to himself, the kind of smile that never reaches the eyes.
“Time to bring her home,” he whispers.
- Writer
