"Your character wakes up with a neurological affliction that causes them to hear colors (or smell them.) The very act of opening their eyes in the morning bombards them with sensory confusion. Write how they cope with it long enough to get to the hospital.
Are you bad at writing first-person narrative? Write it in first-person. You want the reader to smell the colors. What does the color red sound like? It's your job to figure it out and explain it to me."
I am sensing something new, it tastes metallic, smooth, and bloody. Fear is gripping my mind, and I can’t tell if I’m actually waking. The redness leaves my mouth and is replaced by something pleasant, it’s warm and lingering. The clock reads 7:30 A.M., and yellow sunlight washes my face in a glow. The flavors in my mouth intensify as I run my tongue across my lips. The sound of sirens grows stronger, and as I watch the firetruck rush past my window, I realize I’m tasting it.
Panic has set in. I close my eyes trying to regain calmness, but it doesn’t work. The blackness is sweet with an earthy aftertaste. Finally, it all starts to come together, I can taste individual colors. Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with curiosity. I begin to wonder what everything I have ever seen might taste like. I shift my gaze up to the white celling above me, and my face twists from the unexpected blandness bombarding my palate. I cast my eyes across the room, finding the brown wood floor salty.
My mind is now overactive with thoughts of my gained power. It’s Monday morning, and as much as I might like to ponder my state for a bit longer, I know that I need to get out of bed, and continue on with my day. I also understand that as unique and interesting as my current situation is, it is not practical or even the slightest bit sensible to possess.
I’ve decided to go to the hospital, although I imagine I won’t savor the experience. After my prior experience of tasting white, I can only think of how awful silver would be, and the dreadful combination that the two would produce.
I can’t help but wonder if this is similar to how Gregor Samsa must have felt, of course where I could taste colors, he was a bug. But, what we shared was a sense that our new conditions were more hinderances than anything else.
Already I’m realizing the difficulty of my trek to the hospital, yet I’m barely to my kitchen. Walking into this usually enjoyable room, I’m dizzy and lightheaded. Great!..., sensory overload, another perk to this crazy affliction. Finding a chair, I sink into it. I’m desperately trying to ignore all the different flavors mixing in my mouth. At least when I close my eyes, the darkness is saccharine. I can deal with that.
Worry floods my body. How in the hell am I going to make all the way across town, to the hospital, if I can barely make it to my own kitchen? Why did this have to happen to me, a young, working college student? I probably would have enjoyed this more as some 90 year old crone who’d lost all her senses. Now, it’s just irritating.
Crying isn’t helping the flavor confusion in my mouth, but it makes the rest of me feel better. I’m losing hope and am wondering if the hospital is even going to be able to help me. At best I could beg them to knock me out, or put me on some fancy medication. If call 911 and have an ambulance come I won’t even have to deal with the outside world for very long. Would they even believe me? I can hear myself trying to explain this to an overworked and underpaid operator, who thinks I’m either tripping on acid or making a prank call.
I’m nauseous from the multitude of colors invading my taste buds. This shouldn’t be happening. None of this. I don’t want to be here, this isn’t my life. It’s someone else’s bad nightmare, and I just happen to wake up in the middle of it.