Saturday's Storyteller: "This used to taste like acetone - what happened?"

by Belinda Roddie

This used to taste like acetone - what happened? The odors here aren't reminiscent of hand sanitizer anymore. Everything that once was sterilized now has a different flavor. I taste bitter and salty and sweet again. My mouth seems to have been cleansed.

I sit on the edge of my bed, and the texture, somehow, is soft. For years, I learned to embrace the sensation of nails across my back. And the sun no longer blinds me - instead, it casts a warm glow across everything I set my gaze on. The walls, the ceiling, the wooden floor. I can see colors again. I can see colors.

The doctors told me I was broken - dismantled, beyond repair. But apparently now I've been rebuilt. Now I've been reborn. I take two steps on the floor, and it no longer feels like Siberian winter. I have escaped the tundra, and I no longer suffer the stench of chlorine just by breathing in air. My bones don't feel like splinters beneath my skin anymore. I am reassembled. I am humanized again.

I take another swig of water. I'm unfamiliar with the taste now. Instead of nail polish, it reminds me of something earthier, something less potent. It doesn't strip the roof of my mouth as if depleting it of its hue like it would a fingernail. I blink, and I don't hear a sound like crinkling paper anymore.

And what's this? I look down, and I am three dimensional. I was once constructed out of black lines and monochromatic shades. I bite down on my lip just so I can remember the tang of blood again. I don't mind if it scars. Scars have curves and edges. They have ridges and mountains. They have valleys and ditches.

I gather the courage to step outside. The wind rattles me, pushes against my hair, which actually flutters strand by strand. It just not blow me against the door anymore. I'm made of more solid stuff now.

And I can taste everything.

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.