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.