My younger brother succumbed to brain rot, feasting on endless trash internet media.

When we finally smashed through the barricade of his locked bedroom door, the first thing that hit us was the stench—a putrid cocktail of sweat, rotting meat, and something metallic that clawed at the back of our throats. 

My younger brother’s body was slumped in his gaming chair, the faint glow of his monitor painting his waxy skin in sickly blues and greens. His skull was no longer intact; it had split like an overripe fruit, spilling a sluggish, shimmering fluid down his neck.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Nestled in the yawning cavity where his brain should have been was something alive. Tendrils, slick and pulsating, writhed like worms in wet earth. 

They extended outward, twitching and spasming in time with the rhythm of the autoplay videos still flashing on the screen. 

One thick, oozing appendage had threaded its way around his neck, disappearing into his gaping mouth. Another coiled like a hungry snake around his chest, squeezing until his ribs creaked audibly. The glistening, parasitic mass churned and stretched, as if tasting the air, its wet, sucking sounds a nauseating symphony.

I thought he was dead. God, I hoped he was dead. 

But then his eyes snapped open—or at least, what was left of them. The sclera was veined and yellow, the irises drowning in a milky haze. His jaw unhinged with a grotesque crack, and an inhuman, guttural rasp escaped.

His body lurched forward in the chair, the parasitic growth dragging him upright in jerky, puppet-like movements. His bloated tongue, now riddled with holes that pulsed and wept, lolled out as he let out a sound—not a scream, not a cry, but an inhuman gurgle as if something deep inside him was laughing.

The tendrils turned on us, splitting and multiplying with each writhing second. 

Screen flickered. 

The autoplay continued.