*
"Fuck me," he groaned, rubbing his face and scowling at the morning.
"Nice to see you're still you," said a close male voice.
Donald was tall and pencil thin, with a kind face, courteous manner and sandy hair curling about the ears. Donald followed his older brother to the new world and embraced his adopted land, becoming a successful dentist and Corporation of the United States franchisee. Hard work and good choices earned him an exclusive apartment in Patriot Towers, and a swanky business in the heart of Manhattan.
"You're all paid for," he said, glancing up at his brother's clock. Donald's once thick Scottish accent was non-existent, having discarded his heritage somewhere over the Atlantic. "How do you feel?”
Taylor peered at the ticking clock. Donald's charity had him currently sitting on 124 minutes of healthcare. The old man in the opposite bed was gone, his timer at 0, bed sheets changed and ready for the next paying customer.
Donald wore a grave expression on his young face as he sat at Taylor's bed. "I really thought you might've pulled it off this time. Doctors think you're charmed."
"Or cursed," Taylor muttered, staring at the soothing blue light of Hippocrates. "What did they do to me this time?"
"They didn't do anything, I did. When they brought you in you had a broken femur and a collapsed lung. Also..." Donald parted the buttons of his older brother's pyjama top and pointed out a fresh scar on Taylor's abdomen. "New liver. Consider it an early Christmas present."
Taylor picked at the seamless and already fading scar. "Would've preferred a good bottle."
"It's the bottle that ruined the last one."
Taylor nodded blankly and allowed Donald to button up his striped top. Once done, Donald leaned in close and Taylor knew what was coming.
"What are you trying to do to me?" Donald whispered through his teeth, his Scottish accent returning with his anger. "You want me to identify your corpse next time? Cause it's me who'll have to do it. Do you know how much crap you put me through? What maw would say? The boys ask questions I can't answer and my employees whisper about you behind my back."
Donald bit his lip and leaned back to take a breather. Taylor turned his shamed face at nurses assisting a disabled female onto the opposite bed.
"Sorry," he said, sincerely. "I'm a selfish fucking idiot, Donald. I didn't think about you or the boys. Sometimes...I only see her. I'm sorry."
Taylor then squirmed at the cold steel around his left wrist. Glancing down, he discovered a set of handcuffs attaching him to the bed rail. "What the?"
Donald took Taylor's wrist. "Leave it Ham. The authorities arrived when you were under."
"So fucking what? I'll sign whatever needs signing and send them on their way."
"Not the police," Donald stressed. "Military. There's an armed guard stationed by the elevator, said he'd be speaking to you as soon as his superior arrived. The only thing I know is that you're not under arrest. They just want a quiet word."
Donald shook his head as Taylor quizzically examined the handcuffs.
"Old fashioned, no codes or electronics," he said, amused. "I guess they really want me to hang around."
"Here," Donald added, passing him a yellow envelope. "Your particulars. The watch still works despite your late night swim."
"Come on Don, get me out of these cuffs. You know they can't hold me anyway."
"Brother my best advice would be to hear what they have to say and to keep your mouth shut. If such a thing is possible."
Taylor turned over the contents of the envelope; a wedding band and a vintage 1980’s Casio wristwatch dropped onto his crotch. He placed the ring on his middle finger and wrapped the watch over his right wrist. "Donald, the military don't come to see any washed up suicide case. Something stinks here. Get me out of these cuffs and I'll do the rest. I promise you won't get in any trouble."
Donald squeezed his brother's knee. "Don't be so paranoid. I'll come see you later with some things from home." He drew away. "Just tell them what they want to hear. Bullshit them if you have to, you know...be yourself."
"Don!" Taylor pleaded, tugging the cuffs at the rail.
Turning his back, Donald hurried out of the Unit as Taylor raised his voice.
"Donald for fucks-sake!"
Every patient and nurse glared back. Even with society in decline, swearing in a hospital had remained a cultural faux pas.
"What?" Taylor barked at them. "You lot can fuck right off!"
They returned to their own business leaving Taylor to frown at his bare feet and curling toes. His eye then wandered to the bed at his left side, occupied by a pot bellied middle-aged man with a multitude of coloured tubes leading in and out of his body. At the foot of the patient's bed was a folded up parka and a pair of ragged black leather boots.
"Here mate, what shoe size are you?”
The man stared at the heavens with a drooling smile, both hands gripping a stuffed pink elephant.
After clicking his fingers for attention, Taylor removed his old Casio and waved it at the dopey man's eyes. "You want it?" he whispered. "Best of gear!"
The man bobbled his head, excitement causing him to fill a urinary catheter bag at the side of the bed.
Any potential trade was suddenly interrupted by a stern-faced nurse stood at the end of Taylor's bed. Overweight, overworked and underpaid, she wasn't in the mood for any bullshit.
"Nurse!" Taylor hissed. "Be a dear and help with these cuffs? I realise it looks bad, but I'm an honest man talking to a good lady."
The nurse crossed her arms so Taylor tried harder. "You ever watch Jungle Fever? You want an autograph? A picture for the kids at home? What do you say?"
The nurse replied in an accent Taylor couldn't decode, but whatever she did say didn't sound too promising. She snatched Taylor's bed curtain and pulled it along the rail on her way out of the Unit.
"Fine," Taylor growled, impatience filling him with energy. "I'll do it myself!"
Working fast and through gritted teeth, he peeled back the bandage over his IV line, exposing the needle piercing the vein of his left hand. He yanked out the needle without a wince, squirting blood over his bed sheets.
"Warning!" blared Hippocrates. "Warning! Warning!"
"Shut the hell up!"
Taylor covered the open wound with the used bandage then inserted the needle into the handcuff lock. After a bend, twist, turn and jiggle, the cuffs clicked open and Taylor was free from the bed. He threw on the parka and shoes then gathered up his bloody bed sheets. Hurrying to a nearby window, he slid it open and averted his face from the morning sun. "It's okay," he added, to another heavily medicated patient, "they'll expect it from me."
Taylor squinted at the traffic some 60 floors below. The fall would kill him, but suicide wasn't on his mind - this afternoon maybe, but not this morning. With a quick look over his shoulder, Taylor spread the sheet over the window ledge.
Hearing the warning, the surly nurse returned to the Unit. A young soldier, armed with a rifle and dressed in camo fatigues, arrived at her side as she pulled Taylor's privacy curtain across the rail.
"What have you done with him?" the soldier yelled at the empty bed. The dumbfounded nurse suddenly shrieked when she noticed the window and bloody sheet blowing in the gale. They hurried to the scene while Taylor slipped out from underneath his neighbours bed, the man beaming giddily as he fondled an antique Casio wristwatch.
— CHAPTER TWO —