disciple (ch. 19)

by Tom Stuckey

19

In the dayroom, looking at Billy I thought that they must have Billy on a high dose because his expression had not changed in what seemed like weeks. We were making our way through a new season of Worlds Worst Serial Killers and Billy stared straight through the T.V. to outer space. It was either that or he was playing at it, I could not tell, but as Ed Kemper began talking about burying his mother’s head in the garden so that she would be forced to look up at him at night whilst he was doing despicable things with the severed heads of the co-ed’s, I thought I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. “You in there Billy?” I waited, and thought that a saw a wink but could not be sure. What we needed was a programme about loyal dogs with their sad faces that they pull at strangers, so I flicked through to find something of the sort. Dogs were a uniting force in the world, constant toddlers, little Buddas even - we loved them and they gave us so much - but there was no dogs on the T.V. so I set it back to Big Ed, who was now talking about how he hung out with all the cops in their bars, and helping with their investigations. 

“You know Big Ed wanted to be caught right?” Billy had made me jump and I had to double take that I had not imagined him talking. He looked like a ghost.

“No, Billy I didn’t know this.”

“Yeah, he wanted to tell his story, and he knew there was an appetite for it. He would be pretty stoked to see his face on Netflix, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know Billy; you want me to find some dog programmes?”

“No it’s alright pal; you can leave Big Ed on, I like him.”

“OK, Billy.”

“Listen do me a favour,” I looked at him, at the pure wildness. “take this for me.” He reached out his hand and gave me a piece of paper and then went back into his play acting. I put the piece of paper quickly into my pocket, and felt like a spy for a moment.

I could smell Sandra before I could see her, she smelt of perfume and bar soap and had obviously just taken a shower and the smells in the steam moved from her room and into the lounges stale air. “What are you watching babe?” She was on the hunt. “We are watching World’s Worst Serial Killers.” I tried to include George and Billy so as to have more of a chance as a pack. “Oh Serial killers! Kind of sexy with his Moustache and such a big boy.” I was fairly sure that it didn’t matter what was on, Sandra would find a way to sexualise it, even Big Ed with his skull fucking. “You want to tie me up?” There was something distant and asexual about Sandra, she was too much sex that it became non-sexual. She had a good body still and obviously had been good at what she did, but what was it she did? “What was it that you did before being in here Sandra?” She looked straight faced for a moment and then went on. “I was an Only Fans model, top 5 in the UK.” I could see it; she would have been very beautiful only a few years ago. “And what’s it like?” I found her to be very interesting in her own way. “It’s a bit like fishing on an industrial level, using dredging.” I laughed I think for the first time whilst I had been in here. I thought of all of the men that had paid her and I found a lot of respect in it. “OK, for old time's sake, how much to have a look?” I blushed a little, there was no internet between us. “For you baby, it’s free.” She reached inside of her white tank top and took out her breasts one by one, until they hung there like mythical beings that only reveal themselves in times of wonder. I looked at George and then at Billy, and we all enjoyed a few seconds of wonder. That was until a voice came over the speakers and from behind the glass, “SANDRA STOP THAT PLEASE.” She did and we went back to watching the World’s Worst Serial Killers. It was hard to un-see Sandras breasts now, and she had become a sexual being again, it was amazing how much power and allure the breasts have. A man might see hundreds of them in his life yet, every time feels like the first, that being the powerful response the fleshy sacks provoke. It was like a game for Sandra, and one she played like a professional, now all she had to do was make little movements, adjusting her top, pulling it down so the fabric stretched over the nipples so they became temporarily visible, take the remote from the table and rub it on her lips whilst putting the little strands of hair behind her ears, that sort of thing. I don’t know if it was all heightened by our collective monotony - probably - but it was very intense. We were all in here for madness, unfit for society, but you have to understand we were all still sexual bored beings, in our little township, with a sex crazed model for our sins.

I was really beginning to like it in here, sure the food was bad, but what it lacked in culinary finesse, it more than made up for with the other activities of daily living. Sure I could hear Dr Richards talking loudly through the window about his latest ski trip to Italy, but that should not subtract from this machine in which I find myself a moving part, I thought.      

The cleaner came through, a small middle-aged women of Nepalese decent, she looked positively calm or completely switched off, I could not tell which. Some that came through were a little wary of the unpredictable nature of our place, but not her, she moved the mop as if dancing with an old friend.   

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.