disciple (ch. 6)

by Tom Stuckey

6

It was clear that I needed a day to myself, so I left Tomas in the hands of Olivia, of course F would keep an eye on them both. This hotel room is like a ship in international waters and was tethered to an adjoining room, where noises flooded in from under the door. I think it was a young couple, and they did what young couples do, but from what I could tell she was the loud one; sometimes, after they had finished, I held my breath and listened for any signs of movement to see if he made it out alive.

The room naturally had a TV, and it was the most important friend a traveller could have, when it was necessary to spend a day or two in closed quarters. The culture of the country could be piped directly into the room, leaving one not feeling totally alone. Too much quietness is not good for me, and I had already had moments where my mind drifted to Thomas and Olivia. She had only just met him and already she knew him intimately, carnally, and perhaps spiritually. She was a faker (I could tell), but what did it matter? I was here, occasionally looking out of the window at the people of Rome, making sure that nothing of major concern was happening, and then turn my attentions back to the TV, which was on the Italian Love Island. They were a better-looking bunch than say the Australians or the Brits and definitely more than the Americans; maybe, they more in common with the French. They all had certain characterizable features: one man would have a big quiff and a lean body, another would have long hair and a big chest. As far as the women, some were thin, some were curvier, some with large breasts and some smaller. They were all tanned and the lines on them were all well-defined as if they had worked very hard in making it so. If one were to see them in a supermarket picking up clog remover, they would stand out, and I might think, I can’t imagine her unblocking a drain, but I’d love to fuck her or if one of the well-built men were seen in the vanity isles searching for Imac, Where did it all go wrong? Poor guy. But that didn’t matter either; I would never meet them. Speaking to them would only be in the event of a car crash whilst we exchanged details. I am hungry, and the second-best thing about a hotel is the room service. I called down and hoped it was the girl I liked on reception; it wasn’t. The man answered and took my order; he probably laughed about my accent with the belle, ensuring that she did not stray away from the pure pool of Romes beauty. I thought about pulling the smoke alarm and making him stand outside and take names, but I knew she would have to go too, so I decided to go back to Love Island instead. Two of contestants were on a date, and he was clearly acting very cool, his arms bulging out of his tight shirt, and they were flung back on the deck chair. She was obvious in her role of curious teen, even though she would never see those days again. She hung on with the knowing that a big, strong, hairless man liked little, hairless teens. I wondered what these people would do in times of real need, like death or famine or war, but it was obvious: They simply would cease to exist. These were not those times though; we were just over the tippity top with a vast view behind and below. This show was one of the most successful productions of our time; it existed in many formats, in many countries, and all around the world. This show was our great love affair, and every week (if we were lucky) we would watch some of them fucking in the shower whilst the cameras scrambled to get the best shots. After a bit of research, it was clear that the ugly, boozed up Aussies were the dirtiest of them all. My food arrived in good time and, as I walked over to the door, I prayed that it would be the woman. It wasn’t, and he eyed me like a duel would inevitably take place, not breaking eye contact until I had to turn back into the room. He had the advantage as I was in my pants and a vest and clearly had not showered. I sent a text to F, Where are you? Watching Love Island. There was no reply. Already, I felt useless. Maybe, F had spoken with Thomas too, but I doubted it; a beautiful girl is one thing, but a pale, mad man talking about dreams was another. No, me and F were connected whether he liked it or not; we would remain in the shadows together. Could I masturbate to Love Island? I decided in the end not to. They would not take any part of me other than my thoughts, so I switched over channels to an Italian film called The Consequences of Love. It was stylish, very well written, and entirely different from Love Island. Some comfort started to return in the knowledge that for at least two hours my consciousness could expand into the dark space reserved for hope. I loved the actor’s face; he was so stoic and charming and controlled in his suffering, and the belle was so beautiful that I wanted to cry for him and for me. She was the most interesting thing in the world, a force majeure, for the simultaneous reasons of love and death. This woman was the most dualistic entity known to man, and that confusion had been grappled with since the dawn of time.

In the end, I would have to leave this room for the open sea, but that would be in another life; this was this life, and I looked at the walls and all the little appliances that helped me live here and drifted off to sleep to the sound of the woman next door killing the soundless man.           

*Read the next instqallment of Tom Stuckey’s new novella Disciple coming on March 3, 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.