Requests for this book are closed at the moment.
Inconsistent updates, but I do try my hardest. My writing isn't the best either, but again, I try my hardest.
Thank you so much to all those who vote and comment or even just read. I really appreciate...
Taylor Alison Swift. The first and only Storyteller in The Tortured Poets Department.
The placard on the door of her confinement unit stares back at you menacingly in large, polished gold Serif.
You unlock the door using the newest added key to your security clearance.
You enter, pushing forth the cart containing the various pills she'll have to take today.
She is sitting at a sterile desk to your left, her poet's vestment tight around her figure. It's obvious with the way that she barely moves that she's uncomfortable in it. You never really liked how tight the poets had to have them.
She doesn't look up from the journal she is writing in.
"0013," you say, announcing your presence.
You don't like calling the poets by their titles; it dehumanises them, reducing them to a mere number. But in Taylor's case, you think maybe it would be better if she were just 0013 in your head. Frankly, you've taken a fond liking to Taylor — an affection a scientist should not have for her subject.
Taylor glances up from her desk and turns. "Doctor."
You offer a smile and a small nod as you step closer to the poet, cart wheels rolling softly against the stark marble of the floor.
As you start to pour Taylor's multiple pills into a small cup, you can't help but steal glimpses of the poems she has been writing.
Her latest reads,
When she fell, she fell apart. Cracked her bones on the pavement she once decorated as a child with sidewalk chalk. When she crashed, her clothes disintegrated and blew away with the winds that took all of her fair-weather
It's clear that it isn't near finis*¹ yet.
"What do I have to take today?" she asks with apprehension, her piercing blue eyes trained on your face.
Taylor has always been one to ask what she must do, and you have always been one to not bullshit someone, so you sigh and, in a voice not far from a whisper, say, "Veritasyn*², Memoriphage*³, Emotrilene*⁴ . . ."
You continue to list the pills she has to take for today, and with each one, her frown seems to deepen, her expression becoming more resigned with each pill you name. You can see the weight of compliance settling on her shoulders, the realisation of another day of controlled experimentation sinking in.
"Psychotranq*⁵?" she interrupts softly, her voice tinged with apprehension.
You pause, meeting her gaze with understanding. "It's necessary for today's session, Taylor," you explain gently, though you know the explanation offers little comfort. "It's the newest addition to your regimen. We need to ensure your mind remains clear and focused."
"I don't want it," she says, clearly struggling to maintain a steady tone.
You had already put the Psychotraq pill into a cup, and she eyes it wearily, as if she's mad at it.
You've heard multiple patients complain about the taste and hurtful effects of the pill, but you know that the department has only the patients' well-being at heart.
"I understand, Taylor," you say softly, placing the cup with the Psychotranq pill on the desk within her reach. "But today's session is crucial. We need to maintain the integrity of the study."
Taylor hesitates, her fingers hovering over the cup. The conflict within her is palpable, caught between compliance with the department's directives and the desire to retain some semblance of autonomy over her own mind and creativity.
After a moment's internal struggle, she sighs resignedly and picks up the cup. With a determined expression, she lifts it to her lips and swallows the pill, her jaw tightening as she does so.
You watch her silently, your heart heavy with empathy for the internal battles she faces daily. She is more than just NS 0013 to you; she is Taylor, a person whose artistry and spirit you have come to admire despite the clinical confines that threaten to diminish her humanity.
"Thank you," you say quietly as she sets the cup back down, her gaze fixed on the desk in front of her. You want to offer comfort, reassurance that her sacrifice is not in vain, but you know the limitations of your role within the department's rigid structure.
Taylor nods faintly, a gesture of acknowledgment tinged with weariness. "I know," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just . . . Wish it didn't have to be like this."
Her words resonate with a truth that echoes through the sterile confines of the confinement unit. You share her sentiment, the unspoken longing for a world where creativity and freedom are not bound by clinical protocols and experimental imperatives.
With a final glance towards Taylor, you step back towards the door, the weight of the moment lingering in the air between you. As you exit the confinement unit and close the door behind you, the polished gold Serif of the placard catches your eye once more.
NS 0013.
Walking away down the sterile corridor, you carry with you the echoes of Taylor's voice and the fragments of her poetry, reminders of the enduring resilience and indomitable spirit that define her tenure within these walls.
okay but my hair after a bun??
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I loveee
ANW!
all pill names are made up
*1: yes, finis is an actual word. *2: similar to Veritaserum from Harry Potter (forces the drinker to tell the truth at all times) *3: alters memory and recall *4: stabilises emotional reactions *5: messes with psychological reactions and thought in general
I loveddd writing this sm!! can you believe I only wrote this within an hour?
