A dark green liquid oozed gently with the viscosity of melted glass as it poured down her chin. She wiped her mouth, gently sucking her fingers clean with a restrained desire; savouring the taste.
  Emma put down the half eaten remains of a chocolate liquor, allowing the soft centre to slowly run onto the marble mantelpiece, pooling into a sticky puddle next to the discarded treat.
  She ignored this guilty pleasure as she stood beside it, studying the mirror above the fireplace and the contents that shone in the reflection.
  Her nose nearly touched the glass, causing her short, panicked breaths to steam up parts of the mirror. Quivering fingers needled her terrified face, pushing and pulling at her cheeks with obsessive agitation.
  As she stared into the image looking back at her she didn’t hear the front door open. It was only when the door slammed shut, followed by her husband’s irritatingly cheerful, though out of tune, whistling did she take vague notice of anything other than the mirror.
  ‘Good evening, Em,’ Mark called out. 
  ‘Uh,’ came a grunt of recognition.  Her eyes remained on her own image. Her hand continued to inquisitively massage her face. ‘Don’t come in!’ she called out as he walked down the hall towards the living room.
  ‘What’s up?’ Mark asked as he put his keys back into the pocket of his suit trousers. ‘Are you okay?’
  ‘Something terrible has happened!’ she yelped.
  Mark, picked up pace as he half jogged towards her but halted as she screeched and briefly turned to face him.
  ‘Stop!’ she called with an unsettling tone of desperation.
  Her face wrinkled with an earnest expression of fear. Mark froze and his mouth began to dry.
  ‘Em? Honey? What’s the matter? What’s happened?’
  ‘Don’t come any closer,’ she spat through gritted teeth before turning her gaze back to the mirror. ‘I don’t want you to see.’
  ‘Em, what?’ Mark was lost for words or explanations. 
  ‘The chocolate did it,’ she hissed, as she leant closer to her reflection. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’
  ‘The chocolate…?’ his words sounded stupid.  Her words sounded stupid. But the terror in her voice gripped at his chest. ‘Did what, sweetheart?’
  Emma’s fingers traced the contours of her nose, stopping momentarily as she studied patches of skin, like she was looking for a spot or blemish.
  ‘Emma? What’s happened? What’s the matter with your face?’
  Mark slowly stepped forward, creeping an inch at a time so as not to upset his wife further. His hand fished into his pocket, clenching his mobile phone for some kind of reassurance.
  Emma didn’t answer, but flinched. Her hands and neck shook in uncontrolled spasms for a few seconds before she regained her aggravated composure.
  ‘What’s got you so worked up? Have the Johnsons been round again?’ Mark swallowed in an attempt to moisten his throat. ‘They only mean to help. We’re doing okay you know.’
  They weren’t doing okay.
  It had been nearly three months since Emma lost her job. A victim of the first round of redundancies, as the local supermarket began their downsizing. It didn’t matter that half the staff were likely to follow the same fate, he knew it had hurt her badly being one of the first to be let go.
  With her confidence crushed before she had even begun to look for another job, her mental state and self-worth would only sink lower. This was worsened by the screaming silence of indifference that haunted the aftermath of her job applications, and the patronising remarks of the job centre staff when she went to sign on every two weeks. They cared little for a childless, forty-five year old with no experience other than in the dying sector of high street retail.
  The couple had begun to feel the pinch of their restricted income almost immediately. Within the first two weeks they were ensuring that non-branded basics made up the bulk of their grocery shopping. By the end of the first month they’d scrapped their holiday plans and cancelled their Sky subscription. Life was changing, for the worst, and Emma had taken it hard. She was constantly blaming herself.  And whilst Mark wanted to be there for her, he had to work overtime every day to supplement his wage; meaning they only spent an hour or two together before he passed out, exhausted from a day working in the council offices handling complaints.
  Had she snapped?
  Had the days spent at home, alone with her self-imposed guilt been too much?
  ‘It’s okay you know,’ he said reassuringly.
  ‘No it’s not. It’s not okay,’ she babbled back.
  ‘It’s not your fault.’
  ‘Oh no, it’s not my fault,’ she laughed. ‘It’s the chocolate.’
  ‘It’s fine to treat yourself,’ Mark replied. ‘You don’t have to feel bad about it.’
  Emma had taken to comfort eating during the day. It was a symptom of unhappiness and boredom. One that her husband understood and accepted. He had begun noticing sweet wrappers and chocolate bar foil gradually filling the bin. New additions each time he got home, betraying her poor attempts to conceal her cravings. 
  Angry with her own addiction, Emma often stared into the mirror and complained about her growing waistline; causing her depression to spiral further. 
  It was a sight he’d seen many times. 
  But not like this. 
  This was something else.
  Mark’s face softened with sadness as he worried over the frantic state of his wife.
  ‘Come here,’ he spoke gently as he motioned towards her, holding his arms out to embrace her.
  ‘Get back,’ she screeched.
  Mark froze as he entered the living room. His mouth dropped as Emma began to sob, her secret finally revealed.
  Resting on the armchair was a box of luxury chocolates, the golden selection tray was near empty only for a few pieces. 
  Beside the armchair lay a black Labrador, its legs splayed out across the floor offering no support to its weight and its head was flopped to one side. A pink tongue hung from its mouth and trailed onto the carpet.
  ‘Bartlet!’ Mark cried in shock.
  ‘Don’t touch him,’ Emma warned.
  ‘What’s happened to him?’ Mark steadied himself against the doorway.
  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ Emma spoke through her sobs. ‘It was the chocolate.’
  ‘Oh Christ.’ Mark cradled his furrowed brow, distraught at the loss of his pet. ‘He must have ate a lot. Did he do it when you were out? Poor Bartlet. Have you called the vet?’
  ‘A vet’s no good to him now,’ she pulled at her hair and gnashed her teeth in frustration.
  An anger swelled in Mark’s stomach. How could she have been so stupid? She knew, just as everyone else, that chocolate was poisonous to dogs. He wanted to shout, to release his grief, but Emma was already in torment. This must have pushed her over the edge. That last thing she needed was a berating from him.
  He opened his arms again, and this time wrapped them around her. Drawing her close he let a tear run down his cheek. She squirmed in his embrace, struggling to be free.
  ‘You’ve got to calm down,’ he said quietly, but was ignored.
  She pulled herself from his arms and retook her place in front of the mirror; resuming her investigation, transfixed on her face.
  Leaving her for a moment, Mark knelt down next to Bartlet.
  ‘Hey there, old boy,’ he softly spoke as he patted the cold corpse. ‘How long…?’
  His question trailed off as he looked up at his wife. She was lost in her reflection, taking no notice of his words.
  A buzzing against his leg alerted him that his phone was ringing. Fishing it from his pocket he stayed crouched by Bartlet as he read the display.
  Anthony Johnson.
  Anthony and his family were friendly neighbours, but they had a habit of being too friendly. They meant well, but their sense of community and good will sometimes came across as condescending and patronising. 
  Emma was polite to them, but whenever they left she’d spend the next hour cursing their names. 
  ‘Hi, Anthony,’ Mark spoke with the practised charm he developed in his job, answering complaints on the telephone. ‘How are you? I’m good, thanks.’
  Mark looked up as Emma began to mutter again, but her words were slurred and indecipherable.
  ‘Listen mate, I’m kind of busy at the moment, can you call back later?’ Mark’s hand rubbed against Bartlet’s fur, seeking comfort. ‘Danny? No, I’ve not seen him. He’s here? No Emma didn’t mention she was babysitting for you this afternoon.’
  Cocking his head, Mark listened out around the house, but couldn’t hear any tell-tale signs of a hyperactive four year old.
  His stomach tightened.
  ‘He must be sleeping. I’ll speak with Emma and get back to you.’ 
  As he flipped the phone closed he looked up at his wife. As cold as the dog’s fur was, it was enough to give him some kind of reassurance. His fingers pushed into the animal’s black coat as he tried to force his words, unable to comprehend the thoughts that raced through his mind.
  ‘Em, uh, that was Anthony Johnson on the phone,’ he began. ‘He said you were looking after Danny for them today.’
  She grunted at her reflection, but gave no sign of response to his statement.
  ‘Where’s Danny?’
  Stroking the dog, Mark’s hand instinctively found its way to Bartlet’s belly. His fingertips grew cold as they touched liquid, making him pull away quickly, disgusted with what it might be. Examining his hand, he watched as crimson blood ran across his palm.
  Looking back to the dog he rolled the corpse onto its side. The black handle of a kitchen knife protruded from its gut, the blade hidden in the creature’s flesh; buried deep into a horrific wound. Jelly-like reams of red innards poured out as his movements accidentally opened the gash further, soaking the carpet with a split stomach and knots of animal intestine.
  ‘What did you do?!’ Mark got to his feet.
  Emma shook her head.
  ‘Where’s Danny?’ he demanded.
  ‘It wasn’t me. I told you. It was the chocolate,’ she said glancing at his reflection in the mirror.
  ‘Emma…’ he motioned towards her, but stopped in his tracks, horrified.
  He watched transfixed as his wife ran her hand up her cheek, taking hold of her own flesh and slowly digging her fingernails in. Piercing the skin, she pushed her fingers into the muscle tissue and screamed as she tore a large chunk away from her face. Throwing the bloodied globule to the floor she reached up again and pulled at the newly created wound. It was easier to find grip this time, digging her fingers into the savaged hole and raking at the exposed meat.
  Gargling with hysteria brought on by the pain, her other hand pulled at her hair, tugging it with such ferocity that pieces of scalp remained attached to the clumps as they were thrown to the floor.
  Mark stumbled backwards, trying to open his phone with unsteady hands, shaking as his body flooded with adrenalin.
  ‘You see, it’s not me,’ she cried. ‘It’s what’s inside of me.’
  He looked up again, entranced as he watched the layers of flesh underneath her skin grow darker. Blood red turned to a dark, bottle green. She smiled as she pulled at her lower lip, tearing it away from her jaw to expose a set of a teeth resting on dark green gums. A strange, thick liquid seeped from her wounds and dribbled down her neck.
  ‘It was the chocolate,’ she screeched as she turned to face him.
  Flaps of skin hung from her cheeks, swaying as she spoke whilst syrup-like slime dripped from her injuries. She tried to smile, but without lips the gesture merely exposed her teeth further like a growling dog, making her appearance even more nightmarish.
  Rational thought evaporated from Mark’s mind as he turned and ran, fleeing from the living room. His exit through the front door was blocked, but if he reached the back of the house he could climb over the fence and call the police from safety.
  He thought about running upstairs to look for Danny, but hearing her warped, shrill scream behind him, fear took hold. He didn’t dare look back. Mark hadn’t run in the best part of twenty years, and his legs felt unstable as they carried him with such speed. His breath quickly turned to laboured wheezing as he stumbled down the hall.
  The kitchen was airy and bright when he approached it. The patio doors allowed the light to pour through, causing him to squint as he stepped onto the tiled floor.
  No sooner had he entered the kitchen than he felt his feet slide out from under him. As if he’d trodden on ice, his feet flew into the air and he came crashing down onto the hard surface. He tried to sit up but his hands slipped on the water underneath. 
  It didn’t feel like water. 
  It felt thicker. 
  The flashes of red in his dazed vision confirmed his fears.
  The shadow of his wife appeared in the doorway, and as his vision slowly grew clearer so did the horrific view of Emma. She tore again at the lose skin that hung from her face, revealing further glimpses of something unnatural. In her other hand was the knife, still dripping with Bartlet’s blood.
  An electric bolt of searing pain shot through his leg as he felt the knife thrust its blade through his thigh. He tried to make out the grimacing, monstrous face that leaned closer to him, but the image twisted and spun as Mark’s giddiness returned.
  Bile stung his throat as another attack cut into his side. 
  He fell back and reached out, desperate for help, for a way to escape.
  His fingers felt the cold hand of a child, splayed out on the kitchen floor.
  Danny, he thought as he watched his wife’s eyes lose all trace of humanity.

 

Emma looked over the bleeding corpse of her husband and watched the pulsating jets of scarlet fluid soak the white kitchen units. She pulled her hand from the hole in his stomach, forcing the wound to widen as she did so. His blood mixed with hers as she raked at her own face once more, pulling at the loose skin and tearing pieces of flesh from her cheeks; exposing more of the hellish visage underneath. Beneath the remaining fragments of her human appearance, a strange, slimy secretion continued to seep from her hideous under-skin. 
  A dark green liquid oozed gently with the viscosity of melted glass as it poured down her chin. She wiped her mouth, gently sucking her fingers clean with a restrained desire; savouring the taste.