disciple (ch. 15)

by Tom Stuckey

15

“We are currently travelling at 25000 feet. The skies are clear, but I’d like you to wear your seatbelts as we are expecting turbulence,” the voice of the captain said calmly as the light came on. I tightened my seatbelt so I felt a little pressure squeezing my ever-filling bladder. The faces of the other passengers said we are safe, we are calm cows, some bravely moved their bodies with the aircraft’s jolts. A young woman, maybe 25, offered me drinks; she could see that I had been crying and that I was obviously in bad shape. “Are you OK?” I looked at her as the last visions of Rome, her empire, squeezed into a slender blue suit. “Just some nerves,” I replied with a smile that felt severe. “I understand, don’t worry. We will be there before you know it.” I took an orange juice, having given up drinking a long time ago, knowing that there was no predicting what would happen if I were to take one, and looked out of the window at the silver fossil fish-like land below. It calmed me to know that soon we would be walking through the airport’s tunnels and looking at the baggage carousels go around. The airport in Rome had not helped calm my nerves as airports usually do; things were edgy; the riots had been damaging to the stability of things. People watched, people in uniforms, armed people in a position of unlimited power - if they chose to inflict it. I used to wonder how people ended up doing the jobs they did, and now I guessed it was a simple extension of the personality; for example, a caring teacher type would not fit well in the role of police officer and vice versa. Some people just were made for that by whatever means, except in those rare cases when you can clearly see a police officer struggling as a teacher. 

The police officers that were waiting for me at the terminal exit didn’t look like your average type; they looked like a mix of police and teacher, and when the thick stocky women calmly asked me to come with her, I felt it was the part of her that wanted to educate me in matters rather than the part that wanted to incarcerate. In the security offices of the airport, things were explained to me in full, which was nice. I was to be taken into the nearest hospital for processing before possibly being transferred to a hospital closer to home. There had been reports of ‘worrying behaviour’ from the authorities in Rome, and also from my fellow passengers on the plane.   

I didn’t recognise the landscape out the window of the facility from which they brought me after processing, but I had concluded that they must have brought me to near my parents’ address, which was listed on my passport as my address also. They had been kind enough to get me a dose of my medications, which I had run out of and stopped taking a long time ago, so things were really progressing with an air of efficiency. The landscape was of the moors, and un-medicated eyes would have surlily taken this frightening scene as the end or at least that the end was close. But I felt like a veteran in these affairs, and I thought of Thomas, and the silent, thick walls that were mine again and could let loose a twisted smile of familiarity. Maybe they were making love still in Rome. Aside from a window, I had a single bed that was heavy and smooth, like a boulder, plus a toilet and a sink. There were also a desk and a wall lamp, and a stool that was bolted to the floor. The blanket on the bed was made of wool, and it would surly itch if it wasn’t protected by the stiff, brilliantly white sheet that lay in-between it and me as I got underneath and looked up at the ceiling and watched as my breath formed into vapour momentarily with every movement of my rib cage. I wondered how long it would be before I was in a different room with a man in a white coat being asked to explain Thomas and Rome and thought that I would probably have to make up a different story. I did this until I found a deep, medicated sleep. 

The room was exactly how I had pictured it, but the doctor was a young woman and as pretty as a Sunday musical. I felt a relief knowing that these days could be made pleasant by her smile and choice of dresses each day that she would put on in the mornings somewhere, maybe a cottage on the moors where she lived alone. She began, “Hello, Thomas, I’m glad to meet you. I am Victoria.” 

*Read the next instqallment of Tom Stuckey’s new novella Disciple coming on May 5, 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.