"Life and Death of Penny Thompson" by Marzia La Barbera

On the day of her thirty-fourth birthday, Penny Thompson would die.

She had known that for a while; she felt the tiredness in her bones, and she knew that it wasn’t her fate to live a long and happy life. It wouldn’t be an illness to take her out, however, nor would she do something stupid and take her own life only to end up regretting it.

On the day of her birthday, while the late November rain pattered on the windows, Penny simply wouldn’t wake up; and that would be the end of it.

Nobody knew, of course. Who could she tell without sounding like a crazy woman with suicidal tendencies? Surely she couldn’t tell her mother, who thought she would have a bright future, nor could she tell her best friend, who lived across the ocean and struggled every day to keep up with her appalling picture-perfect life.

Sometimes, when she was in the mood for a good laugh, Penny entertained the thought of how that conversation might go. What if she picked up the phone one day to say, “Hey, Scarlett? I think I’ll be dead by the end of the year.”

Just like that, as if it were nothing more than chit-chat about the weather or gossip about people they both knew once upon a time in school.

She always chuckled at the thought of Scarlett on the other end; that little hitch in her breath that preceded her surprised silence, and the confusion and embarrassment that would follow when they would eventually laugh about it together to break the tension. At some point, though, the laughter would fade out and Penny would turn serious again, and Scarlett would ask: “You’re kidding, right?”

And when Penny would say that no, she wasn’t kidding at all… well, that was where the problems would really begin.

Because if she told anyone that she was positive she would die, nobody would ever believe it was just a sense of foreboding and not a wish as well. The thing was that Penny Thompson had no desire to die; she simply knew that it would happen, because she felt it deep in her bones. It was stored in a part of her memory so ancient and primal, to be accessed only through meditation or deep slumber – both of which she engaged in rather often. It was never any more than that, however. No more than a vague idea of what was to come and that sense of dread, always followed by a kind of peace like no other Penny had ever known.

The first time it happened, in fact, she thought that the relief she felt was the kind of serenity that came from a particularly good dream – or in the afterglow of some amazing sex.
She still remembered it as if it were yesterday.
       
She had opened her eyes to find herself cocooned inside the soft afghan she had thrown over her body to ward off the chill that sometimes crept into her motionless limbs. Candles still burned around the room that had been plunged into darkness as the afternoon sun set outside. The incense smoke whirled in wisps around her head as she sat up languidly, feeling light and peaceful, and satisfied, for a change. But then, as she went to stand up and take note of her surroundings, the thought slipped into her mind like a worm-like epiphany.

I will die.

From that very moment, she was spiraling out of control.

The feeling of finally having a purpose in her life was intoxicating. Far from feeling disheartened, Penny discovered life as she neared the end of it. Now all she wanted was to make something for herself, to leave her mark on the world. She took risks, whereas before she had been playing it safe for as long as she could remember.

What was the worst that could happen anyway?

Would she die before her time?

At least, she could count on finding that sweet relief again at the end of the line.

It took no time for her mother to notice the change, “What’s gotten into you, honey? You haven’t looked this pretty in a long time.” Her remark was met with a wide smile and a trilling laugh that was as foreign on Penny’s lips as the bright red lipstick she was wearing.

“I’m just having a great time, Ma,” she shrugged, bright-eyed. “I’m getting published, and life is good, y’know? Life is… great.”

It was Monday, the last week of November. Soon enough, Penny would meet her family to celebrate Thanksgiving; she would tell them about how she’d turned her life around that year, about the premonitions and how they stopped once she actually started living, and she would rejoice the chance to have another great year with her loved ones and a new approach to life.
On Tuesday, Penny Thompson turned thirty-four. She woke up to the sound of the rain ticking against the window pane in the grey early morning sky, her phone pinging with notifications from people wishing her a happy birthday. And the realization hit her like a punch in the gut.

I am dead.

She rose from the bed, watching in horror as her body lay still under the feather duvet, deaf to the sound of nature and technology and to the scream that echoed from the depth of her chest as she ran to the mirror and saw nothing but empty space.

“Fuck, I’m dead.”

There was no Shangri-la, no Heaven waiting for her. Just an endless, drab existence stuck in that apartment that had been her haven and her prison for too long when she was alive.

“It’s a fucking horror story.” Her whisper was followed by a choked noise that rapidly turned into maniacal laughter, filling up the room while her corpse began to cool and stiffen.
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“Hell, I wish I’d written it myself.”

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Marzia La Barbera is an Italian fiction writer and academic researcher. She writes science fiction and horror with a little bit of romance and a whole lot of blood, and enjoys delving into the mysteries of the human monster. Her works appeared in magazines and anthologies in Italy, while her short story, Cold Cuts, was featured in the 2025 cold horror anthology Absolute Zero by Death’s Head Press.

When she’s not writing, she’s paying too much attention to pop culture phenomena and putting
together eclectic, vaguely anarchist reading lists.

She is currently based in Palermo, Italy, with her two dogs and misfit family.

Check out her Instagram @clairvoyantwriter and connect with her on X @marzia_writes.

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