A Bruised Sky on the Tongue

The morning light, thin and watery through her window, bled into her mouth before it even touched her eyes. Not just a visual thing, no. For Elara, the color blue had a taste, a constant, low thrum against the back of her tongue, a cold, metallic tang that clung like forgotten copper pennies. She woke with it, breathed it, carried it through every hour, a secret, unshakeable burden. This morning, it was the pale, washed-out blue of a winter sky, sharp and brittle, like sucking on ice that had been scraped with a dull knife. She reached for her coffee, hoping the bitter black would cut through it, but it just added another layer, a murky undertow of cold. She swallowed, trying to dislodge the feeling, to scrape it off with her teeth.

Her earliest memory of it wasn’t a specific moment, but a feeling, a pervasive chill. Her father, an engineer, wore a dark blue uniform. The day he left for good, his packed duffel bag sitting by the door, the fabric of his shirt looked and tasted like old, cold steel, something left out in the rain too long. It was heavy, sorrowful, and the taste lingered for days, even after he was gone. Years later, a particularly bright, almost electric blue – the kind you saw on cheap plastic toys or certain kinds of neon signs – would taste like static, a buzzing on her teeth, almost painful. It made her jumpy, on edge, like a frayed wire.

Most people, they just saw blue. A nice color. Calming, maybe. For Elara, it was a battle. She couldn't wear blue. Couldn't eat off blue plates. Shopping for groceries was a minefield, the blue of milk cartons, the blue of certain detergent bottles, all assaulting her palate. She’d tried explaining it once, to her college roommate, a girl named Chloe. Chloe had laughed, gently, then offered her a piece of gum. 'Must be weird,' she'd said, dismissive. Elara had just nodded, a familiar, resigned ache settling in her chest. It wasn't weird; it was just how things were, a silent language only she spoke.

Today, the pervasive blue was weighing on her. She had a meeting, a big one, something about a new design project. Her desk was neat, almost clinically so, trying to ward off any stray blues. But the computer screen hummed with a faint blue light. The clock on the wall, its numbers a sterile white, was against a background that, to Elara, tasted like diluted mouthwash. She pressed her lips together, trying to trap the taste, to keep it from seeping further into her thoughts, muddying the clean lines of her ideas.

A colleague, Mark, walked by. 'Morning, Elara. You look a little... blue yourself.' He chuckled, oblivious. She forced a smile, a grimace that felt like it cracked her face. 'Long night,' she mumbled, the words tasting like dull, worn denim. He nodded, moved on. Good. No questions. The less she had to explain, the better. What was there to explain anyway? That the sky outside the window, the one Mark hadn't even noticed, was filling her mouth with something cold and metallic, making her throat feel tight, almost swollen?

She picked up her pen, a simple black Bic. A small mercy. For a moment, the world narrowed to the crisp white of the paper, the solid black of the ink. But then, her gaze drifted to the window again. The city skyline, usually a blur of grays and greens, was bleeding blue. Not just the sky, but the faint sheen on distant office buildings, the blue tint on car windshields parked far below. It wasn't the sharp, brittle blue of morning anymore. This was a deeper blue, a bruised blue, like an old wound that never quite healed. And it tasted like iron, like rust, like tears dried on a cold cheek.

Her mind drifted to the night before. The argument with her sister. Unspoken things, old hurts, all coated in a vague, unsettling blue. She’d gone to bed with that taste, a bitter aftertaste that nothing could wash away. Now, it was back, amplified by the city’s indifferent blue. She wanted to scream, to grab the blue, whatever it was, and wring it out, force it to dissipate. But it was impossible. It was everywhere. It was in her. She closed her eyes, tight, pressing the heels of her hands against them, but the taste only sharpened, growing more distinct, more insistent.

The meeting was a haze. She nodded when she was supposed to, offered brief comments, her mind elsewhere, fighting the insistent flavor. Each word out of her boss's mouth, especially when he used a blue pen to underline points on the whiteboard, brought another wave of that cold, metallic tang. Her water glass, clear, offered little comfort. The subtle blue of the light reflecting off the surface was enough. She felt a dull nausea rise in her stomach, a direct consequence of the overwhelming sensory input.

Leaving the office, the late afternoon sun was turning the sky a deep, almost indigo blue. This was the blue she hated most. It wasn't just metallic anymore; it was earthy, almost peaty, like wet clay mixed with old pennies. It was the blue of impending twilight, of solitude, of the world slowly shutting down. It was the flavor of being utterly, completely alone. She pulled her scarf tighter, even though the air wasn't particularly cold. The taste was a physical presence, a knot in her throat, a coating on her tongue she couldn’t swallow down. She just wanted to go home, to darkness, to anything but this relentless, all-consuming blue.

She walked the familiar route, her shoes scuffing against the pavement, the city lights beginning to flicker on. Each streetlamp, a small yellow island, offered a fleeting reprieve from the blue that defined her world. But then a car passed, its headlights casting a fleeting, bluish glow on the wet street. And the taste was back, strong and immediate. Elara ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to scrape away the cold, metallic film, knowing it was useless, knowing it would still be there when she woke up tomorrow.