disciple (ch. 13)
by Tom Stuckey
13
For the duration of the last week, I have been gradually enticing the hotels black cat towards my room with the aim of seeing if he will make himself at home. I don’t know if he is an official hotel cat; he looks more like a well-rounded street cat; he’s got street smarts. I can tell because he didn’t get any closer than a few meters for the first few days, sitting out on the terrace, looking down on the passers-by with a certain amount of detachment, free. Today he has decided to walk in through the little gap in the doors, take a risk for a drink of milk. I can’t be sure of why exactly, and it is not my place to question his process, just respect and allow it. My other roles include maintaining the trust we have built up, only stroking him how and when he wants, and always leaving a gap on the doors so that if he chooses to he can leave immediately. My needs are simple, and really only consists of one: to feel the presence of love in the quietude of our time together, but now we must both return to the busy streets of Rome.
I stopped in a supermarket, in what seemed to be a quiet part of Rome. Maybe everybody was at the Angelus Protest already, I thought as a violent angry crowd flashed through my mind, making me clench my teeth. Here, however, it was just me and a couple of odds milling around the empty aisles. It was peaceful, and a cool light came through some sky lights that made the produce seem to be underwater. Waiting behind the only check out that was open, I was hit by a sudden wave of sadness, brought on by a lone woman who was young, short, and morbidly obese. I looked at her a few items, that on appearance showed that she was making an effort to lose weight, but (in order for that) to do so would certainly take starvation or complete and utter dedication to exercise. Her eyes were so far behind thick layers of bulged skin that it gave her the look of a hollowed-out pumpkin at Halloween. I wanted to speak to her, hug her, tell her it was going to be alright, that I too knew how lonely it can be to feel out of place. I felt like we were the only two people in the world who got what it was really like to be alone, and making a small effort to camouflage ourselves from the pretenders, becoming pretenders, but never managing to do so and always standing out. She had chosen food and this produced excess weight, and I was heavily scarred, particularly in the face that put people on edge. We sort solace away from the crowds.
Over the radio that played in the background, I made out the word ‘Protesta’ and by the look on the cashiers face it wasn’t good, but the more and more I let go of it all the better I felt. I would go and meet Olivia’s mother, but I knew that I could not compete with a saint that I no longer needed to follow. She would continue to follow him, and she would talk about such and such miracles, especially around the holidays, such as Christmas, and this would be challenging. I was the earth on which she needed to dirty herself before returning to the purity of his loving gaze. She liked being fucked by ugly from behind and then suck the angel whilst on her knees as if drawing God into her. She knew that I was her wound to his salve. They both probably knew that I would be lost today, unable to handle the wonder of others. But there cannot be a miracle without a curse. The radio man sounded frantic, and the words ‘PAPA’ were being repeated a lot. I wondered if Thomas had finally performed his miracle in front of—or even on—the Pope; there would be hysteria no doubt, but I guess Olivia would tell us all about it at her mother’s. I sat down on a little bench inside the supermarket and took full advantage of the calmness. If they turned off the radio, it could of been entirely so. The obese woman had had similar thoughts and was eating some of the low-fat yogurts straight from the cartons. It was the first time in a while that clarity had returned; it was painfully clear, but clear all the same, and for a few moments I wondered where was I. I began to speak to her, not knowing what to say but taking the risk of saying it all the same. Luckily, she spoke English, and I realised how much I took this for granted, and felt some old colonial guilt creep in, but I wasn’t a colonialist, merely a descendent of a once vast empire, and based on this she was also a daughter of one of the largest conquerors of all time. Venice, that was her name, explained to me that in a few moments they would turn off the overhead radio, and dim the lights further, and it would be a period of quiet for the people who require less stimulus, such as the schizophrenics. She also told me she had no intension of going to the protests, that such matters did not concern her, that she saw a world that could not be explained by further screaming about things that did not involve her. I told her that I, too, was a schizophrenic and that I struggled to relate to the world, or even to really know what was real. So, we decided to describe some things that we could see, like the name brands of soap, and I told her about some famous English sweets that she might like. I asked if we could hug, and she agreed. I leant in, and she smelt of peach candy floss; she was so big and warm that I could not get my hands all the way around her, but she could, and she completely pulled me in tight to her bosom, which engulfed my entire head until it was a nice kind of suffocation. I closed my eyes and listened to her heartbeat that was like what I imagined a mothers to be in gestation. I wanted to suck on her breasts and stay this way forever; it was very quiet.
*Read the next instqallment of Tom Stuckey’s new novella Disciple coming on April 21, 2026, 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.