Page 29 of A Taste like Sin

The memory stings as I enter a different hospital room in the present day. God, I’ve always hated the

crisp, antiseptic smell of the sterile environment. A chill seems to permeate the whole building—no

different, no matter the state or year it’s in, apparently.

The hushed, startled faces of everyone you pass are all the same: wide eyes, mouths contorted in pity.

A hellscape of sympathy. Or perhaps an alternate reality serving as a gruesome juxtaposition to my

memories.

My father is lying in my old place, tubes snaking from his body to feed various beeping machines. He

looks so old. A frail stranger buried beneath white blankets.

“What happened?” I ask the room’s only other occupant.

“Juliana.” Diane, my stepmother, rises from a chair near the bed and swipes at her eyes with the

sleeve of her cream sweater. “It started the other day. He didn’t feel himself, enough that the doctor

kept him overnight. Then this morning…” She shakes her head and buries her face in her hands. “Oh

God, I don’t know what we’ll do if he doesn’t…”

“I’ll be in the hallway,” Damien announces, releasing me as I step forward and throw my arms around

Diane.

It’s almost funny in a sense. I thought Simon and the horrors he put me through were the worst

possible things I could face. I was wrong.

Seeing Heyworth, a man I spent more than half of my life admiring, lifeless cuts me to the core. I

despise all the lies, the deception, and the pain he put me through.

But at the end of it all, he is still my father.

And I don’t know if I can lose him for good.

“JULIANA?” SOMEONE TAPS MY SHOULDER, THEIR VOICE A WHISPER. “GO HOME, DEAR.”

“H-Huh?” I startle upright and blink to bring my surroundings into focus: a plain white room with

linoleum floors and a sterile view of the city beyond a wide window. Heyworth’s hospital room. One

glance at him, his eyes resolutely closed, and my body deflates. “I’m fine,” I murmur, returning to the

position I was sleeping in, with my face resting on my forearm. “I’m just resting for a second.”

As my eyes drift shut, the person beside me sighs. Diane. “Sweetie, it’s been two days.”

I reopen my eyes and observe my body, contorted within an uncomfortable armchair. I’m still wearing

my dress from Damien’s studio. Two days. It’s almost surreal, considering that in all that time—

punctuated by a stream of doctors and nurses flooding in and out—my father’s condition hasn’t