Your name is Jane Crocker. You should be bounding about in endless amounts of frolic and glee at playing a new game, but you can't.
If your feelings were flavors you could taste on your lips, identify with the tastes of treats and pastries that you so lovingly adore and concoct, you would first struggle to identify what this taste is. After a few minutes, when you get the sensation of feeling back, and you pull yourself out of your skull, carried away by the unhappiest of thoughts, you come to a conclusion.
Your emotions and experiences at the time would make the worst cake ever. Not even edible, to anyone possessing a tongue, a sensation of taste.
You reach over and touch a boy, not much older than you.
His name is Jake. He’s dead now. He died, not even able to really enter the game you’re playing. You never even got to tell him how you felt about him; about your stupid teenage infatuation that the back of your mind always said, “Stop. It’ll only end badly for your friendship; for you.” in regards to.
What tastes would you have associated with your feelings about him?
Your favorite flavors. The best flavors.
Your throat starts to burn, hot and stinging, just at the sight of his hair, coated with his blood. Drying. Matting. Leaving him more and more corpse-like and less Jake-like by the minute.
You jerk your head away before you start to cry. You try to pretend that he’s not next to you.
You fail miserably, due to being a human container of emotion. The tastes in your mouth become worse.
You pick up a taste of lemons. Too sour. Not sweet. Awful. Wretched.
Derse is frigid. You wonder how long you can sit on the rough ground, covered in dust from explosions that happened nearby only minutes ago.
You wonder how long the other dead boy, Dirk, will have a warm body for.
Dirk was your friend. One of your best friends. You golly sure didn’t understand what he was even saying half the time, and his words were as unfeeling as could be, but you knew that he cared. He could pretend he didn’t, but you knew. You knew his heart was grand and large and warm, and he loved all of his friends.
He especially loved Jake. You didn’t find this information out until Roxy, your only other friend, told you.
You didn’t understand at first, heck, you still weren’t even sure you understood now, but when it sunk in, it felt like your world, still bright and nice and shiny and new was capsizing.
You felt sick. Sick to your stomach; so unsettled.
You felt like dying.
Because someone else, who wasn’t you, wanted the same boy you did, from what you were told.
You didn’t want to share.
Dirk was vanilla.
Orange and mint frosting.
In the end, you couldn’t hate him.
You rustle Dirk’s hair, and look at his sad, sad face. It speaks volumes. It says, “I failed to protect one of my best friends and the boy I like. I’ve failed.”
The sobbing starts. Everything feels like acid as it drips out of your body, tears, mucus, and all.
Acidic. That’s a new taste.
You hear footsteps approach a few hours later. They’re slow, deliberate, yet scared, hesitant.
It’s Roxy. The only one left, as far as you know, as long as you aren’t hallucinating out of grief at this point.
You don’t know how to feel about her at this point.
You always thought of her as like rumcake.
A pronounced taste.
Cotton candy, little tiny pieces of it scattered about.
“Jane? Janey?” She starts, her voice, barely above a whisper; barely above a slur. “Are you oh-okay?”
You stare at her. You hate her right now. The taste in your mouth or head, you can’t tell which anymore is now licorice, black and disgusting and unappetizing.
You blame her. You blame her for not getting here sooner. For not stopping what happened. You wanted her to save the day; to save you.
She reaches out and grabs you. Holds you so tightly that you couldn’t escape, even if you tried. She mutters things, things you can’t, and don’t care about right now. They’re probably words of comfort.
Chocolate icing-covered lies.
Butterscotching up the truth.
Covering the burnt parts with more and more frosting.
But the taste is still there, no matter how much this one last friend you have tells you it isn’t. And oh, does she tell you that it isn’t, that things are fine.
In the end, all you feel about everything and everyone in this moment, this entire day can be summed up in one word.