disciple (ch. 1)
by Tom Stuckey
1
It was on the 2nd of December when I first saw Thomas, although at that time I didn’t know his name. What struck me about him was his crystal-clear blue eyes; they looked as if light was coming from within. Stalker is a strong word (and one that I resent). I am so much more to him now, but I get ahead of myself. On that day, I felt inclined to follow him, like a disciple who does not yet know why he does, following on faith alone.
He crossed the road in front of me, not looking at the women who were half naked, even though it was near freezing. I remember one, her skirt so short that I think I spied a little of her pussy, but I couldn’t tell for sure. Perhaps, she was wearing skin-coloured panties. Perhaps, not. I nearly lost him there and then, but never lost sight of his large, kind head that turned the corner away from the main crowd and into the old town. I caught up but hung back enough so that he didn’t hear me on the quiet cobble stones until I saw him enter a church. The sign read, We’re open and not pushy, so I went inside.
The church was getting ready for Christmas. Police officers decorated their community tree with tape that they normally used at car accidents, stabbings, or major terrorist events, and I must say it looked pretty. Thomas walked up to the large window in the back of the church and was alone, so I sat and watched from the pews. He seemed to be holding back tears, almost embarrassed that he may start to wail and not be able to stop, which would have created a scene that would have alerted the little old woman sitting nearby, the police, and maybe even the Vicar. Thomas looked beautiful and scary at the same time; I was fascinated by him instantly, and no doubt I would dream about him—a crucifix and chains on skin all with confusion, all set in a world that exists but that no one of us can really share with another. Clearly moved, he walked back up the aisle and made a donation on the card reader and then came back down the side I was on and sat in the row in front of me. He looked briefly at the figure of Christ with a new look of rage and confusion, his eyes having become darkened, until they returned to a clear blue. Then, he stood up and walked out. Of course, I followed. I would for some time to come.
It was not easy to find out who he was—name, address, occupation, and so on—but on this fateful day, he did not go to his car, instead I followed him to the bus. Sitting behind him, I worried he would remember me from the church, but for two reasons I concluded that he wouldn’t, then or ever. The first was that he had been so wrapped up in emotion (and still was) that when he looked out at the green hills he was probably picturing a desert de-void of life. The second was that I had the most bland appearance anyone could have, unlike his face which was scarred but seemed beautifully moulded by an artist of the highest calibre. Mine was smooth, pasty, and almost a featureless putty, just two holes for the eyes that were black, mere slits for the thinnest of lips to hang on to. All I needed was his address. Once he dinged the bell to get off the bus, he walked straight up to his door and went inside, leaving me to walk past and into his life forever.
When I got home something in me seemed different; there was a kernel of purpose, extinct for many years, that had made itself known again. I cleaned the flat and not because I had an appointment with Luscious Lucy, but because I would now need space to think. When the buzzer rang, I almost didn’t answer. Had he found God? I wondered. He was surly moved by something so profound, and it wasn’t the kind of stirring that would drive to onto X, raving about it. Most likely, he would be in his house, laying on the floor, naked as God had intended, feeling every sensuous fibre and tingling nerve. After the third buzz, I snapped out of it and let her up. As soon as she was standing in front of me, everything changed. Her sex was instantly in the hallway, the pheromones almost dripping off of her and onto the floor. “Have you been cleaning for me?” she had remarked. “Yes,” I replied, because she would not understand the alternate explanation. As she contracted her pussy, forcing me to come, it suddenly hit me: COULD I FIND GOD ALSO? I mean, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Was it even out of this realm? Lucy was God, wasn’t she, although her eyes were certainly dull, but maybe that was because of the lighting. Maybe a betrayal of the quality of our sex. I was 50% of that relationship, and my 50% was in bankruptcy. I would never be able to pay it back, no matter how hard I tried.
*Read Chapter 2 of Tom Stuckey’s new novella Disciple coming on January 27, 2025, at 6PM CST.
Photo of 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.