Zombie Soap 2: Conspiracy

One

Taylor

The smell of antiseptics and cleaning supplies burned Taylor's nose. He slowly opened his eyes and tried to adjust to the dimly lit room around him. An IV drip was hooked into his right hand while an oximeter was clipped to his finger. His left arm was heavy from a recent cast, but the pain had finally subsided to a manageable level.

He groped for the bed's armrest until he found the right button to raise him into a sitting position. His entire body was sore as if he'd run a marathon before stretching and little sleep crusties obscured his vision. The room was mostly dark and blurry, either because he'd slept too long or the pain killers were affecting his cognitive perception.

Machines beside him beeped cheerfully as if to remind him he was alive and that for once, life was reasonably normal here. Now if only he could eat and shower off whatever this smell was, he'd be set.

Taylor groaned. Someone shifted beside him and he turned, coming unexpectedly face to face with a man he thought he'd never see again.

John Whittaker was different and the same from the last time they'd seen each other. The night he'd thrown Taylor out, John had been as skinny as a rail, sported nearly black hair, and maintained the same youthful appearance his son had been blessed with. Now, while still thin, stubble lined his jaw, his hair was salted in gray lines, especially around his sideburns, and new wrinkles creased his forehead and skin around his shadowed eyes.

John's hand quickly found Taylor's and his voice was thick with emotion. "Hello, son."

Taylor's throat tightened. He wanted nothing more than to snatch his hand away and tell John to leave him alone, but the man had just saved his life. That, and his deep blue eyes were so damned hopeful.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat and took a shaking breath. "Hi, Dad."

His voice sounded weak and tinny, as well as gravelly from disuse and not enough water. He probably also looked as bad as he sounded.

John cleared his throat and squeezed his hand. "Taylor, I...I've really missed you. I'm sorry for how things turned out between us."

It wouldn't have happened if you'd just heard me out, Taylor thought to himself. He didn't know how to respond without unleashing an entire decade of resentment and suppressed anger. Instead, he remained silent and averted his gaze, unwilling to glare at the man he owed his life to.

John reached out to hug him and Taylor flinched. He grimaced, sucking in a sharp breath, saying, "Please don't. I'm not ready. You...you rejected me."

His eyes burned at the memory that had been forever seared into his memory. John had looked at him with so much hate and disgust-all because Taylor was with another man at the time. His father had forced him to choose between family and his boyfriend, and he'd chased after the latter, only to lose him too.

"I was alone," he choked out. "If it hadn't been for my trust fund, I'd have been on the streets somewhere. I probably would have been killed for being who I am. You have no idea what it's like to want your parents to understand, only to tell you that you're wrong and...hate you for how you were born."

"Taylor, I don't hate you."

"THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE FOR ME!"

The equipment beeped in short, sharp bursts, syncing with his accelerated heart rate. A man in scrubs rushed inside, checking his vitals and studying the equipment. Taylor tried to sway him and John away, only to be deterred by his sluggish movements and the doctor's reproachful gaze. "Mr Whittaker, please. I know this is a lot to digest but belligerence and stress won't help your healing process."