Drying out

People were noticing they were drinking more.
Always, when paying an impromptu visit to the flat, would there be an offer of a glass of wine. “Red or white? We’ve got both open,” he’d say. That poor, unfortunate man.
Tina, Brian’s wife, would be drinking too, cajoling him, opening another bottle for him, but she always seemed to stay pretty sober. It was like she could just drink and drink, and keep on drinking without feeling the effects of the hedonistic grape.
But Brian, Brian would get in a hell of a state. A hell of a state and he’d keep on drinking. And she’d be there, Tina, opening another bottle and pouring him another glass, and then one more.
His friends saw him pass out on numerous occasions and it was lucky that he did his heavy drinking in the comfort of his own home. They rarely seemed to go out anymore but, when the couple did, Tina seemed quite able to control their drinking. One couldn’t help but wonder if they were just saving themselves for when they got back home. Back home there was lots of wine.
Christmas and New Year had been quite a time. Full of partying and misbehaving. Lots of drinking.
On the third day of 2006 Brian woke from a prolonged stupor that had presumably lasted since New Year’s Eve. Glancing at the watch on his left forearm he was surprised to see a network of thin veins had risen up across his arm. The veins seemed full of vitality but their prominence was made all the more unusual by the slightly greenish tinge to both them and his arm. The skin pigment had lessened in terms of usual colour and had even become translucent in places.
Nausea, caused by a combination of this sight and his woozy head, made Brian attempt to stand and reach the bathroom before he threw up. His legs, though, were less than useful and seemed to flex and bow when he put weight on them. As he staggered forward he felt some pain around the knee and heard a sickening noise, like flesh tearing. He collapsed into an armchair.
Looking down at his leg he expected to see his trousers covered in blood. Instead he saw a damp patch running down his inside leg and a small puddle on the floor.
“Ah shit!” He thought he’d pissed himself.
The urine smelled sweet on the floor and the scent greeted his nostrils with a kick that brought a sharp acid reflux up to his gullet. He choked and then vomited all over himself. The sticky liquid that covered him was as clear and sweet as that which now pooled around his feet.
Confused and feeling feint, Brian gathered what he could of his brain, of his working senses, breathed deeply and cleared his head. His crotch was pretty dry, so he reached down and slowly rolled up the sopping leg of his trouser.
His lower left leg was now a beautiful fleshy green - quite the ripest looking lower leg you’re ever likely to see. And there, close to the knee joint, where the pressure from the rest of his body had caused his ankle to squash and pull at the tauter skin of the knee, was a thin tear from which was trickling this beautiful sweet juice.
Brian looked down at his leg in bewilderment, looked down at the sugary juice running into the veins of the wood floor, looked and saw another pair of feet standing next to his.
His wife was standing there with a glass of chilled white wine in her hand. Condensation dribbled down the stem of the glass.
“Nearly done Brian,” she said. “You just stay right where you are though. Don’t want anymore accidents, eh?”
“What is this? What have you done?” hissed Brian, his fat flopping tongue making it difficult to speak now, or at least be understood.
“Hush now, dear. You’ll be ready soon. Nice and ripe for tomorrow,” she said. “The family are all coming round for dinner, so you drink up your wine and be good, ok?”
In response, Brian managed an expletive and then knocked the glass from her hand. She punched him hard in the face so that he bit his tongue, which hurt a little and then seemed to deflate. His mouth filled once more with sweet warm juice and then Brian tried, but failed, to cry.
She stamped down on his foot. He heard it pop and burst, but he didn’t really feel anything.
Tina then forced his mouth closed and made him swallow everything that he could feel was in there. He looked into her eyes and saw nothing but seething rage. He was little more than a fattened pig who had bitten the farmer, come to slaughter.
Brian then passed out, his body drowned in sweetness.
They roused him, as best they could at 3pm the following day. His sticky eyes opened enough to make out the shape of his wife and her family standing around him, holding long thin straws. His mother in law smiled at him, punctured his stomach and drank deeply.
Brian’s sticky eyes meekly sealed again.

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This story has a similar premise to this piece: The Green Man

Mary's day

A broken pencil, an empty spreadsheet and three doodles completed.
She rubbed at her glasses but only wound up smearing them with the moisturiser she forgot she’d applied to her hands.
“Time for a break,” said Mary aloud. She seemed to be speaking to the computer monitor.
Mary went over to the counter and poured herself a glass of vino. She waited, her bottom perched on the work surface, as she nibbled the edge of the wine glass, as if considering whether or not to drink. She then allowed the liquid to slip down her throat in one smooth gush.
She was a pretty woman, Mary. All the men told her so, after one too many beers, whenever she went to those evening social occasions with work. She always made an effort you see, with herself, with other people. She liked people too much.
Mary’s hair was perfectly blonde. She wore a tailored suit, different shoes each day and fake tan to work. Mary worked from home.
At Powers & Fleetwood LLP she had enjoyed seven intimate relationships with work colleagues. Four of these were married and one of those was a woman.
One day her immediate boss, Peter Edgeware, called her into his office and suggested she work from home from now on. He said Mr Powers himself had made this suggestion. Mary said she could understand why he thought that and agreed.
She was offered a new job title and her salary was raised by £20,000 per annum.
Peter would ring her most days to see how she was “getting on”. Some days she would answer more quickly than others. Today when he rang she sat on her window seat and watched the men digging up the road.
Once a week Peter would phone on his mobile. He would be gauging her state of mind and she knew it. She would pretend she wasn’t drunk and that she’d been working hard and then maybe, just maybe, he’d say he was coming over. Coming over today, to see her.