of nurture’s wildness - a novella (ch. 8)

by Tom Stuckey

VIII

Sometimes James felt alive, although it was less common these days. Sometimes the feelings of death were like his insides were of rotten meat and that he was watching a body slowly putrify. Often he could be in a room for hours on end, staring at little details of the room: creases in the wall paper, lights and shadows, carpet patterns (it was harder at night). All whilst the slow process of decay took place. So when the feelings of desire started to return, it churned something inside him, he began to notice his breath more and then his arms and legs, and then his penis. Having had it almost disappear into oblivion, and being the first body part to be lost to the disassociation process, when it began to tingle again, and grow at random thoughts of licking Glorias perk nipples or pussy, it felt like God’s light was returning to his body. James believed in God—not always—but had begun to believe when he turned 35, when all youth’s delirium had started to wear off, and real adulthood had needed the child inside to be saved and cared for through the maturation and development process that was delayed in so many like James. It was an evolutionary act, and activated by humility, then faith followed naturally. James felt shame as he thought these thoughts, and fear, looking out of his bedroom window at the slow mountain. It had stayed there perfectly still whilst all this whirled around in his head and body, was he being a coward in coming here and planning to end it and move on? Something had changed, he didn’t want to admit it yet, and it was not just Gloria, there was something about this place that had stirred him. For now, he thought, he would keep this revelation to himself.

Getting up from the bed, James walked over to the mirror. Looking at the face that was in there, he felt like another fixture or fitting of the room, only it was that the mind said 'this is James' (almost as if introducing a long old lost friend) that made the differential. It was a face that had seen and experienced a lot: wild stormy blue eyes, a lean and scared face, smooth like seal skin, all attached to an athletic and strong frame. James had always managed to stay physically strong, despite alcoholism and little food. Once you have been beaten like a dog, the dog in you learns that being weak is not an option anymore, and that the world was full of beaten dogs.

Having showered and shaved, the feeling of hot water always gave him a transcendent wake up, he decided to go and see the rest of the building, so he turned and walked to the end of the hall and opened the door to the old part of the building. Inside the light changed immediately with the crumbling, light blue paint that was everywhere. Past the chapel were some old operation rooms that still had fixed overhead lights and operating tables. It was like you could hear and see the people in their white coats hovering over a body, cold and cut and in the balance. Their knowledge, the most modern and advanced of their time, could it get anymore so? Old X-rays littered the sides: lungs, ribs, and hearts. The smell was damp but still with that hospital smell mixed in. James felt an enormous identification with these rooms, it was an exact representation of his inner world, and the best reminder that it will all return to ruin, no matter how hard you fought against it.

Walking back down the corridor, compelled, James turned into the chapel. He looked at its entirety, the light that came in through the stained glass, what more was needed he thought. Everything worked just fine, it was just the screams that had to be delt with in the dark. James got down on his knees and began to pray for the first time since he could not remember when. God, it is tiring all this Fight. I Surrender to love and fear. Your will, not mine be done. James felt embarrassed, it truly was the case that the closer he got to God, the more he wanted to fill its awkwardness with anything. Saying that though, he was now sure, even as the mind began to reassert itself, that he would go on no matter what, till the end. Just fucking help me alright.

With that James left the chapel and returned to the newer part of the hospital, the feeling of connection to something stronger disappearing as soon as the doors closed behind him. That was the problem with conscious awareness, it was constantly bargaining for first place with the world’s strongest machine, the fear-riddled mind.  

Back in the main part of the hospital it was obvious, straight away, that this was not an ordinary day; there were candles burning throughout the halls and in the ball room and also in the library. James walked through to the ball room where a few of the residents and Gloria had gathered. “Hello, James, glad you could join us,” she said with what was now a loving familiarity. “We are just about to begin with the death of Bernard.” James had heard of groups that treated death as nothing more than moments of life, but he was still a traditionalist when it came to such matters, and now with his renewed lust for life he could not gather the acceptance fully that this man before him, in his suit and combed grey hair, would cease to exist momentarily. “For those who are not familiar with Deathday, first we will have Bernard’s final call to earth, then the ceremony, and Bernard has chosen firing squad, haven’t you Bernard?” There was a brief pause whilst Bernard confirmed this. “Then the afterlife party, where the brothers Karamazov will host us. OK let’s get started.” Gloria stepped aside and Bernard took his seat up at the front, with the backdrop of the mountains behind him, and began. “Thank you for all of your attendance, well I was only really a public speaker at business functions and this is quite a lot different.” The silence was heavy, as the watchers listened intently, most of them were smoking, the cigarettes having been passed around by someone, probably Jimmy. “I guess life is a bit of a transaction and now I must pay my balance in full. I have been in no way perfect in life, and my children, well I failed them, it all seems I was made for other things. I can tell you that feeling these are my last words to leave my mouth, and seeing how you are looking so intently, listening so thoroughly, I invite you all to my afterlife.” With that Gloria picked up a little hand drum that was on the table and began to play a beat, slow but with a double beat so it made the sound of the heart, and with-it Bernard stood and followed Gloria out through the library and down the staff hall, and the audience followed, through the doors that led to the rear gardens. A fresh late snow had dusted everything, giving the trees that hung fresh, white caps. Little snowflakes fell in the still air, where Cheps stood facing the high garden walls. Bernard walked around the perimeter of the garden led by the little drum, reaching the wall and standing upright, and with a single aim of the pistol Cheps drew, aimed, and fired. The single shot rang out and echoed, as birds left their places in the trees, and the drum stopped, and Bernard fell to the ground. That was the first death James had seen. 

*Read Tom Stuckey’s next installment of Of Nurture’s Wildness on July 3, 2025, at 6PM CST.

Photo by Tom Stuckey

BIO: Tom is a writer from Devon in England.  His work can be found at A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Bristol Noir, Nut House Press, and Pulp Magazine. He is the author of The Canary in the Dream is Dead and The Sun Marches upon Us All. Learn more about Tom Stuckey at www.tomstuckey.com.