Today we’re pleased to share a creepy short story from author A.P. Thayer. A. P. Thayer is a queer, Mexican-American writing cross-genre speculative fiction in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in publications such as Uncharted Magazine, Dark Matter Magazine, and Neon Hemlock anthologies, among others. Visit him online: Website | Substack | Instagram
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Brainrot
By A.P. Thayer
It’s early afternoon on a Saturday, and I’m staring off into space while my mind is a clusterfuck of screaming voices. I’m in a too-tight t-shirt and too-loose swim trunks, supposed to be on my way to a pool party. My friend’s birthday, filled with their friends, their coworkers, their acquaintances … people I don’t know. My stomach churns, and I filter through all the screaming to pluck out the usual excuses.
I don’t feel well. I have too much work to do. I have errands I need to run.
Battery acid bubbles up my throat. I can’t. I’ve said no too many times. I’ve skipped too many things.
The screen on my phone dims, and I tap it to bring it back to life. The Lyft app is open, the destination is already punched in, and “Request ride” is waiting for my confirmation. My thumb hovers over the button.
Just press it.
It takes me three lifetimes, and the moment I do, relief and dread flood me in equal measures. Relief, because there’s no going back. The plan is in motion. I’m going and my friend won’t be angry with me. Instead, I begin to deal with the mental exhaustion of facing a crowd of half-known people, forcing a smile, and being too aware of what my body is doing. Why did it have to be a pool party? Could I squeeze a drink in before going? Maybe I could have a drink … no, I finished the bottle last night. Do I have any CBD gummies left? Those ran out a week ago.
My phone buzzes. The driver is ten minutes away.
I breathe deep, letting that galloping panic ride off into the sunset with the knowledge that I’ve set things in motion I can no longer stop. Instead, I open Instagram to scroll reels. Nothing numbs me out like tiny hits of dopamine.
A text comes in. It’s my friend.
“Are you on your way yet?”
I reply ‘yes’ and continue watching videos. Well, not watching. Scrolling through them. My thumb dances up and down the screen, flicking videos away after only seconds, never getting to the end. What am I hoping to find? Am I even looking for anything?
No. This is just brainrot.
A new video slides onto my screen, and my thumb freezes. Something about the colors has jolted me out of the monotonous and infinite scroll. They are off. How can something be oversaturated and faded at the same time? I wipe my screen on my shirt in case it’s dirty. No change. I turn the brightness down, then back up. Is it some interaction with my screen protector?
It isn’t until a steel cleaver thunks into a slab of bright red meat that I realize what I’m watching.
“Use this one trick to manage your anxiety!”
The voice is disconnected from anything. A voiceover, male voice, maybe. Deep. Digital. AI-generated, I think? I’ve been fed a video on social anxiety, but something about it feels wrong. Whatever trick they’re trying to peddle has to do with … meal prep? Food? Cooking? The blade slams down again, and I flinch.
Jesus, what the fuck is this?
The camera cuts to a wider shot. A woman chops a slab of meat on one of those expensive wooden cutting boards. She’s wearing a gray dress, like what flight attendants wore in the 20th century. Her nails are painted dark green, and her lipstick is a bright red. The kitchen around her is clean. Minimal. The wall behind her is a similar dark green as her nails—like the carapace of a scarab. The splashes of color glimmer in the odd studio lighting, somehow shining brightly, though the video is fuzzy, like the lens was dirty when it was filmed. How can it be shiny and fuzzy at the same time? The green of the wall and her nails, the red of the meat and her lips … they’re painful to look at, but I can’t look away, until all other color—the woman, her dress, the cleaver—has been drained. Like a brilliant afterimage over a black and white image.
“Comment anxiety below and I’ll DM you my free, three-day anxiety course!”
The voice is a different pitch this time. One final thwack and the woman separates the two halves of the slab. One disappears—where did she put it?—while the other takes center stage on the checker cutting board. She spins the meat deftly, and the cleaver comes down again, this time with precision, slicing against the grain. The blade, parallel to the board, saws through ropey muscle fibers. The camera has zoomed in. Way in. The sharpened edge of the steel blade catches, then tears, then slices, then catches again. I can’t tell if the blade is dull or if the meat is too tough for the blade, or if she’s just torturing me by slowing everything down. Her free hand pulls at the flap as she cuts it, spreading the meat wide like she’s tearing open a wound.
“Don’t forget to like—”
Something is wrong with the meat. It’s so red. What cut of beef even is that? There is a yellow fat cap along one side but no marbling, and the bone—was there always a bone?—that sticks out from the side is too thin to be from a cow or a pig. My thoughts are jumbled between trying to figure out what the meat is—I need to know!—and the dissonance my eyes are translating into my brain.
“—and subscribe!”
It’s like watching an old Technicolor film in UHD. Or maybe it’s like watching UHD through an old CRT TV. Fuck, I’m not sure. My head is hurting.
The video loops, and I’m hooked. Every time it plays again, I notice new details. There is a blue tinge to the meat that turns a bruised purple by the fifth loop. Red stains on her fingers, I’m certain, weren’t there the last time. Streaks of gray that were never there grow thicker in her hair until there is naught but a shock of wispy, white hair on her scalp. The polished glow of her dark skin in the odd studio lighting becomes more resplendent.
Little flashes of light, bursts of sound, emanate from somewhere distantly, blocking portions of the screen, overriding the chunking flesh. I ignore them. Watching the meat is making me sick. I have to look away, but I can’t. The kitchen. Focus there.
It’s empty. No pots, no pans, no utensils. No microwave or appliances. The woman is dressed like she’s from the ‘70s, but the cleaver is made of Damascus steel, a modern trend in chef knives. The only other clue is a brass light fixture hanging from the ceiling, barely visible in frame in the wide shots. An exposed light bulb at the end of a metal tube with a pull string, like an art deco piece inspired by the bare bulbs in unfinished basements. Is it an Edison bulb or something vintage?
“—and subscribe!”
I close my eyes when the video gets to the slicing of the meat. It’s been making my mouth fill with saliva. Focus on the light instead, I tell myself. I can time it now, I know when to shut my eyes. The colors are less dizzying now. I am only looking at the bulb.
I open my eyes, and the video is wrong. It’s a wide shot, and the bulb is supposed to be visible, but it isn’t. It’s gone. The camera zooms out slowly, showing more of the kitchen than I’ve seen before. There is no light. There never was. The green wall behind the old woman is enormous, continuing on into infinity to either side of the screen. The cabinets behind the woman hang in empty space. There’s nothing on the walls around them. The woman stands facing me, one hand on the meat, one hand grasping the knife. She’s looking right at me. She lifts the cleaver, points it directly at the camera, directly at me, and then stabs it into the meat. The camera cuts, and this time, I know I am not meant to look away from the blade as it carves into the raw flesh. There is only the relentless zoom and my inability to blink as the blade saws back and forth, cutting through an interminable thickness of pink-purple meat, catching on tendons, on gristle, but unable to be stopped.
There’s a buzzing in my ear. The colors no longer look wrong. It looks real. Like it’s happening right in front of my face.
“—and subscribe!”
I have stumbled upon something I was not meant to. A forbidden corner of the internet, not safe for ordinary people. Like stumbling into a party to find you’re underdressed for a ball, maskless at a masquerade. Everyone turns to look at you through blank eye holes, mockeries of human faces locked onto your indiscretion. There’s no anger. No judgment. Only a silence weighed by predatory hunger.
I have to get out.
It’s too late to turn back, though. There’s no fixing the faux pas. I can’t leave the manor. I can’t stop watching the reel. I am—
A low battery alert severs the connection, and my screen dims to black. My living room is dark, lit only by the lights from the neighboring apartment building. I have been staring at my phone screen for hours, and the sun has gone down. I take a shaking breath. My mouth is dry.
I plug my phone into the wall and flee into the shower, not caring that I’ve already bathed today. Not caring that I’ve missed yet another of my friend’s invitations. I’m hounded, instead, by a different anxiety. A new one.
The water runs over my skin. It scalds me, and I scrub until it hurts, like I need to get cleaner than I’ve ever been. Like something is crawling inside of me, and I can feel it beneath the surface, and if I don’t get it out, it’s going to eat me from the inside. The spray of the water coming from the showerhead sounds like the slow, methodical slicing of the blade through meat. I vomit. It’s pink against the white porcelain of the tub.
I take a Xanax. A full one, I’m not fucking around with only half, and just the act of taking the pill is enough to get me to calm down some. I’ll be numb soon. It’ll be okay.
I’m back on the couch. TV is on. My phone buzzes as it restarts, and a slew of text messages and other notifications come in. I ignore them. No phone. Not anymore. Not tonight.
I put YouTube up on the TV. My recommended page is filled with lectures on anxiety, guided meditations, and video game reviews. Someone is trying out a new Minecraft modpack. I put it on and settle into the comfort of my couch, wrapped only in a robe. I will figure out what to tell my friend tomorrow. I’ll just say … I don’t fucking know. I’ll make it up to her.
A wave of nausea—the anxiety pill taking effect—washes over me, and I close my eyes, listening to the streamer talk about the mod list. Her voice is soothing. I’m not tired, but sleep takes me anyway.
When I wake, the whole world has turned green—the walls, my skin, the splashes of light coming from the neighboring apartments through the window. The television hums with a verdant glow. There is nothing on screen but the emerald kitchen wall. This must be a dream. Or hypnagogia. It’s not real. It can’t be. My limbs are frozen, completely unresponsive to me. Still deep in slumber, while my mind is awake.
Off-screen, the sound of sharpened steel cutting through flesh grows louder. It’s not coming from the television, it’s coming from behind me. Oh fuck. I want to scream, but I can’t. It gets caught in my throat and I choke. I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything.
“—and subscribe,” comes a whisper from right behind me. The green light grows brighter as the metal cuts deeper and deeper, until it severs an artery—brilliant blood splatters across the ceiling in spurts. Red on green. Then just red. Then nothing.
Content/trigger warnings: visceral meat chopping, implication of chopping human flesh, stabbing death
Fright Girl Summer 
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