Overhead florescent lights whined and tossed green shadows over Dr. Langley’s scribbling hand. The examination rooms were miked for sound but Melinda liked to take handwritten notes. Shackled hands and feet, Tate Emerson was slumped to one side of his wheelchair as the orderly wheeled him into the room. The man’s skin was stretched tight over his skeletal frame. His closed eyes were sank deep into his skull. “Is all this necessary? He’s practically comatose,” Melinda asked. The guard glared at her and showed his heavily bandaged hand. Melinda sighed in resignation. This was her third time Emerson. The first time he was maniac, shouting gibberish. The second time Emerson was listless answering only with grunts and no’s. Emerson had been slim before but now Melinda could see he, Tate the Ate, the Haverford Hannibal, was dying. “How are feeling today Mr. Emerson?” The psychiatrist’s question was answered with snores. Melinda scribbled. Everyone knew the story from the headlines: Beloved Principal Kills, Eats Wife. Everyone followed the investigation, the trial, the verdict innocent by reason of insanity. Melinda believed there was an underlying physical component. Tall and broad-shouldered, Tate had been a big man. Thirteen months ago Tate suffered a respiratory infection severe enough to land him in hospital. Tate was never the same again. He complained of a loss of taste and increased thirst. His appetite increased while his weight plummeted. Melinda leafed through a sheaf of documents on Tate as she peppers him with questions. A rosy cheeked boy, a big boned teen on the football team, a happy wedding photo “I miss my wife. That’s what no one understands. She was delicious.” Tate lunged at the table towards Melinda. Spit sprayed her face as Tate snaps his jaws at her. Guards hurried in and wheel Tate away. Heart thumping, Melinda collected her papers. She fumbled in her briefcase for a napkin. Nauseated Melinda rushed to the restroom. After splashing her face with cool water over and over again Melinda straightened up and looked at her hungry reflection.

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Lily who loved to cook. She had a natural talent for creating delicious meals and loved experimenting with new flavors and ingredients. However, one day, she noticed that her sense of taste was starting to fade.

At first, Lily thought it was just a temporary issue, but as days turned into weeks, she realized that something was seriously wrong. She could no longer taste the subtle nuances in her dishes, and everything she ate tasted bland and unappetizing.

Lily went to see a doctor, but they couldn't find anything wrong with her. She tried different remedies and treatments, but nothing seemed to work. As time went on, Lily became increasingly frustrated and depressed. Cooking had been her passion, and now it felt like she had lost a part of herself.

One day, Lily decided to take a break from cooking and went for a walk in the park. As she strolled along the path, she noticed a group of people gathered around a street performer. The performer was juggling lemons and oranges, and the crowd was cheering and laughing.

Lily watched in amazement as the performer took a bite out of a lemon and made a face. She realized that even though she couldn't taste the sourness of the lemon, she could still appreciate the performer's reaction. She could still enjoy the sight of the colorful fruits and the sound of the crowd's laughter.

From that moment on, Lily began to see the world in a new light. She started to focus on the other senses, like the smell of fresh flowers, the feel of the sun on her skin, and the sound of birds singing. She realized that even though she had lost her sense of taste, there was still so much beauty and joy in the world.

Lily eventually returned to cooking, but with a new perspective. She started to experiment with textures, colors, and aromas, creating dishes that were visually stunning and satisfying to the other senses. She even started to teach cooking classes, sharing her newfound appreciation for the other senses with others.

In the end, Lily realized that losing her sense of taste had been a blessing in disguise. It had forced her to see the world in a new way and had given her a deeper appreciation for the other senses. She had learned that even when one sense is lost, there is still so much beauty and joy to be found in the world.

A mouth once erupted in a concoction of flavours. Sweet and savoury, bitter and tart. Now it’s numb. What started as a bunged up nose has nullified the tongue. A man whose life devoted to food has now been tarnished by this lack of sense. He had to hang up his chef whites and search for something new because what is the use of a chef who can’t taste his own food?

Food was delivered to my room morning, noon, and night. A decent helping of a balanced meal of meats and vegetables. I had no room to complain regarded my treatment. I had a beautiful room, clothes, food, and a job… if you could call it that. Ghost would summon me every morning and I’d accompany him to the Red Rooms. The same endless Red Rooms my brothers are locked up in. The same Red Rooms I will save them from, and all I have to do is be an obedient pet. Easy enough. I’d go with Ghost daily to watch as he oversaw torture or interrogations for Demetri. It’s never a normal interrogation if Ghost is called in. He’s the final line of defense, acting as agonizing torturer or reaper. I’ve seen my fair share of death, of crying crumpled bodies pleading for life, but I admit Ghosts methods even make me flinch. He’s quiet, so quiet, those skull eyes locked on the victim as he burrows into their mind until they’ve gone insane. Until they blurt out all the information they can muster and beg for death. After each room id hand him a towel. He’d wipe the blood from his mask and his leather jacket and look me over as if looking for something behind my eyes. Fear maybe? Did he want to see the terror on my face at what he had done. The indifference? The adrenaline? While fear did flicker in me at each new creative way North bore into his next victim what I truly felt was numb. A dull nothingness. Like my beating heart was slowly turning to stone. Not cold as ice or burning with flames but stone. An unmoving, unfeeling rock in my chest. The days began to blend, the meals turned to ash in my mouth, and Ghosts looming gaze and torture chambered screams became nothing but a revolving door, a rotating fan, a ticking clock. A repetition of dead movements with no where to go but circles. After the first month I stopped eating, I couldn’t bear the taste of sute in my mouth. Perhaps it was guilt or maybe a self sorry depression that made my head a more painful place to live than those red rooms but it was hell all the same. I went three days with out food, not being dumb enough to skip on water as Ghost landed us both on the patio of his skyscraper apartment. I began to walk to my room in silence as I usually did as I felt a pair of eyes on me. “Skyler.” My eyes turned to Ghost as he looked me over before sitting on the couch. “Come here.” His tone is clipped and unbudging as I step toward him. I stand in front of the sofa as he looks up at me. Despite my gaze looking down on him he still incapsulates all the power in the room. With both hands sprawled out on the couch, with one leg over the other. He tilts his mask at me in curiosity. “I admit you’ve surprised me.” “Sir?” “With the Red Rooms, I’d assumed you’d be indifferent. Raised around the torture and screaming Id assume I’d be just another day in the life for a Kingston.” I clear my throat, “It is, sir. I don’t mind accompanying you.” “You follow because I ask you to. Because of our… deal.” “Yes, sir.” “And pray tell, what would you do if I asked you, not as a command, but as a simple question. Would you still accompany me to carry out my… work?” “I’ve sworn my loyalty to you-“ “Skyler.” My heart skips a beat as his tone clips. “Tell me, you’ve acquired my curiosity.” I mulled over his question in my mind, debating how much to tell. I shouldn’t tell Ghost my thoughts but the loneliness this role has brought out makes my tongue loose. “I don’t care about the people you’re ordered to kill. They are strangers and I’m glad of it, but- but every time I watch you slit another throat or make them scream all I see is-.” I stop myself as a pang of sadness sets inside me. “See what Skyler?” “You were once ordered to kill a boy. North Carter. You wouldn’t remember his name or his face, he was just another job for you and it’s the only reason I can stomach standing here. But everytime I see you torment them I sont s

I hastily sat another bite upon my tongue. My mind, confused, searched. My tongue fell into emptiness like a foot searching for a stair in darkness. My jaw ground the rocks in my maw to gravel. I swallowed.

Nothing.

I was not sure whether my tongue or brain were betraying me. Sitting, still, I try to know whether taste ever existed at all; Whether anything ever tasted like anything. I attempted to recall what bread or meat or broth was to me.

Nothing.

It never did come back, or maybe it hadn't ever been with me.

I suppose now I only wish my memory to be more vivid- To remember what exploring each day was like when I could taste it.

I whirled the spoon around the inside of the ceramic bowl waiting for my dad to finish filling his bowl and take a seat. He walks away from the stove with the pot of soup, pulls out the chair and sits down then pulls it back close to the table. He was a religious man and so before every meal we bow our heads in prayer. In unison, we say amen and begin to eat. I fill my spoon with hot soup but before I can get a spoonful full in, my dad looks up at me fixing his eyes on mine. “Oh, how was the exam today? I know you were a bit nervous.” He held the spoon close to his mouth, waiting for my response. I didn’t want to be honest about how I felt, because I know almost for a fact I bombed it, so to spare myself the embarrassment and his disappointment I lie and tell him, “It was alright, a few of the questions tripped me up but other than that,” I pause and take a small sip of the soup from my spoon then continue, “I’d say it went well.” We share a short-lived smile. I’m taken aback because If I didn’t know this was soup I would think it was water, it was flavourless, nearly flavourless. Like water with a single grain of salt. We have eaten this exact soup many times before. I remember the flavour like the back of my hand. I pull the bowl to my lips to get a better taste, but there is nothing, so I keep drinking it, waiting for its familiar flavour. “I think I put a little too much parsley in the soup. I don’t know how that would have happened though, I always measure well. Or at least I thought I did!” He smiles at his joke and looks up at me as if he was going to continue the conversation but instead, he witnesses me chugging back the soup like it was the only liquid I’ve had in days and is stunned. “Wow! Slow down Jane, no one is trying to take it from you.” He says this as he forces a laugh. I quickly pull it away from my mouth and wipe my lips. “Yeah, I just uh..” I share the same half-fun half concerned laugh that he did. what do I say I can’t tell him it tastes like nothing and hurt his feelings. “I don’t think there is too much parsley. In fact, I think it tastes great.” I wish what I was saying was true but I still couldn’t taste a thing and I’ve finished nearly the whole bowl.

We finish up with dinner and load our dishes into the dishwasher then disperse. Dinner was weird and I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. Either he doesn’t know how to make soup anymore or I just couldn’t taste it. The thought bounces around wondering for what reason the soup was flavourless. A small tingle of anxiety traces my body. What if it was just me? Am I getting sick? But I feel completely fine, better than fine I feel good. I trot down the stairs avoiding creaks in places I know they will and make my way back into the kitchen. I open the fridge and search for something with a kick of taste, something strong. I scan the shelves from bottom to top before settling my eyes on a jar of pickles. Unfortunately, this jar was unopened which meant before I could test my taste I had to get in a fight with the jar before I could get in the damn thing. Finally, with a pop the lid twists off. I take one out and bite it with a crunch. Nothing. There was no flavour. Now the small bit of anxiety I felt before skyrockets and I begin to panic.

I find a pie in the fridge, grab a slice with my bare hands and take a generous bite. Nothing. I reach for jam and drink some straight from the jar. Nothing. Next is some chicken, milk, a raw egg, artichoke, yogurt, barbecue sauce, sausage, spinach and just about anything I could get my panicked fingers on. With everything pulled out of the fridge now spread across my counter and half of it in my stomach I move to the pantry. I go to reach for the biscuits next, but before I can I feel a stabbing pain in my stomach and my mouth salivates. Shit. I dash to the nearest bathroom and my stomach begins to churn with a stabbing pain.

All of the food I have just stuffed down my throat is now in the toilet bowl. I dry heave a few more times before thumping to the ground in pain. Although I should be worried about the fact I have just thrown up I’m more concerned because I can’t even taste the throw-up. I guess that could be seen as a blessing. I lay on the cool bathroom tiles for another 10-15 minutes, waiting for my pain to subside. finally, I get up off the floor, splash some water on my pale face and leave the bathroom. I need to clean up the disaster I’ve made in the kitchen then go to sleep and recover from the last hour. I turn the corner and to my surprise, my dad is standing in the kitchen, hands on hips, a horrified look across his face. My eyes burn and I can’t help but cry. I slump to the floor and sob. How can I explain what I’ve done?

The end.

This story is really long so I don’t expect for anyone to read I it. Anyway I’m leaving on the feedback option, so if you did read let me know how to improve. I haven’t written in SO long but I really want to get back into it but I’m really rusty right now, I usually write about really different things haha. But I have to start somewhere. If you did read it, thank you.

Edgar dragged my reluctant self into the bakery that morning. I knew I should have stayed outside and given him the coins to make a purchase but he convinced me with a wink and a firm hand tugging on my waistcoat. A mother can only make so many excuses for her child.

The bell rang as the door opened. The sight of colorful pastries and cakes lined the counter like bouquets of florals and little presents waiting to be opened. “Mommy, this one!” Edgar pointed to a cupcake with yellow frosting and a chocolate cookie sitting on of the top. The grin on the child’s face was almost unbearable as a bit of drool dripped down his cheek in anticipation.

I stood there and blinked at the child. I was deprived.

Two of my five cherished senses had abandoned me long ago. And in place like this it was an awful reminder of that fact.

Imagine diving into a lake on a chilly fall day and feeling nothing but a breeze hit your skin. Or maybe the rain has just subsided and the sun hits the droplets in the sky just right but all you see is gray. Perhaps you’re sitting in the theater watching a powered face lady with her mouth hanging open, but all you hear is silence.

The cakes smelled of fresh air. Pastries tasted of water. I had forgotten what sweet was. I was numb to the idea. With no sense of smell or taste, I gained no joy from the food I ate. I never ate out of pleasure but of sustenance for my body to continue another day.

I nodded to the boy with a thin smile on my lips. Though I would not find delight in the cakes and pastries of the bakery, the joy in my child’s eye was enough to satisfy me.

“Eat it Michael, eat the scrap.”

The hall, a table splayed out with food and noble ancestry awaits the young boy.

“But it looks yuck…”

“How will we know if it’s poisoned?”

“…”

“Right then, eat.”

He scoops the fork of baked cherries into his mouth. But, the taste was not there. It hadn’t been for so long as he had eaten every food the king or any of his other affiliates wanted to eat. Everything was bland now.

The moist food squirmed around in his mouth as his tongue tried to hold it in place; the texture was mushy and the cherries burst open like eyeballs. He squirmed and twisted in his seat.

“Good job Michael!! Everyone, toast to him for he has cleared our dessert!”

I remember when eating was fun. When I looked forward to lunch. Now I don’t see a point. Food is useless. I just won’t eat.

Beep beep, beep beep! “Ughh.” I groan. I shut off my alarm and begrudgingly get out of bed and trudge into the kitchen. I quickly make myself some chocolate chip pancakes before I head to work. Mmmm! They look so good, smell good too! I dig in and wait for the chocolate taste to hit my taste buds. Wait a second? I can barely taste it! Oh no, am I coming down with the flu?! Ugh, just my luck! Sick before an important work meeting! Ugh! I finish getting ready and head to work.

                     *Lunch time*

I order in some food from my favorite Chinese place and start to eat. Oh great, now I can’t taste anything! This sucks! I finish eating without tasting a single thing and get back to work.

                         *Dinner*

Hours later and I still can’t taste! You know what? I’m going to go get this checked out at the doctors office.

Once I get into the doctors, he runs a bunch of tests. And now we wait…

Ok, apparently I have a condition that makes me lose my taste… great. I guess I’ll just have to try and make the best of it.