Basal Ganglia (14 page)

…

As teenagers, Rollo and Ingrid met and fell into one another. They each possessed gravity designed for the other’s orbit. Gravity no one else could understand. They turned in slow, deliberate circles, giving up everything they were as individuals to become the totality of them. It was not sacrifice. It was evolution. The weaknesses of one empowered by the strengths of the other. A constant process of giving. Sole citizens in their world.

In this dynamic, there was no demarcation between the end of one and the start of the other. They formed a continuous circuit, which cycled the energy responsible for powering their machine. All things must be maintained. Maintenance was redirected toward the fort. The machine responsible for Rollo and Ingrid understood what it meant to suffer, but this suffering went unnoticed. Without intervention, all things move toward their end. The unity of Rollo and Ingrid was no different. Their cracks formed and yawned until these little cracks became an expanse of negative space. This negative space grew hungry. Needed feeding, and was fed, by remnants of their individual pasts. These pasts, until now, had been forgotten to the dynamic of who they were together.

Togetherness slowly pulled away into their pre-together forms. Their identities sought independence once more. Data was sorted and arranged, facilitating Rollo and Ingrid’s separation, but this data was incorrect. Rollo’s data was attributed to Ingrid’s data and vice versa. The extraction of data was so gradual they failed to notice the parts of who they were as individuals being extracted. When the process was over, only the other remained.

…

Should you seek the surface, understand you may never again find the point of submersion.

…

Ingrid holds a scrap of green material against her stomach. A scrap of her baby she wrestled free from the gears. Her passage from the world inside the walls has lacked pace. There is nothing for her to protect anymore. No reason to avoid Rollo. The fort dictated the baby had no place here. Only the fort process to which they have devoted themselves is allowed to matter.

She stares up the Medulla Shaft before traveling further. Before finding Rollo, she craves the Frontal Chamber. A familiar place where she can order her thoughts without engaging anything else. A place she can be in the company of her words. She hopes that Rollo does not see her before she is able to perform this solitary reverie.

The walls of the chamber are soaked with water, but Ingrid pays this little attention. The pools of water acting like a welcome mat at the Frontal Chamber’s entry are somewhat difficult to ignore. It is of concern the entrance to her personal space possesses such an alien attribute. Of greater concern is the entryway itself, which has been stripped of its covering. Trepidation requires more energy and acuity than Ingrid can muster, so instead, she steps inside. Her concern is of little concern.

Her letters have been evicted from their home and lay saturated and in waste on the chamber floor. Before this has an opportunity to feed concern, she sees Rollo leaning against a sleeping baby elephant. Rollo is lost in reflection, absent hands caressing his leaking breasts. Ingrid approaches the strange spectacle without fear.

“He is dead,” she says.

Rollo breaks away from his private headspace and stares at Ingrid.

“He is dead,” she repeats.

“I do not understand.”

Ingrid stares at the salvaged scrap of material and passes it to Rollo. He studies it, trying to comprehend its significance. The material has a pattern stitched to its surface. A red circle within a red circle within a red circle.

“That was his name,” she says. “Our baby is dead. He fell into the machinery.”

The two of them spend some time listening to the clatter around them, still unsure what the machinery is for, but accepting it exists. The sound contains familiarity now, which in itself is comforting.

“I am sorry you did not get to meet him. It is my fault he is dead.”

Rollo hands the material scrap back to Ingrid and allows a smile to form.

“You have not done anything,” he says. “The baby was never alive.”

Ingrid wants to refute this claim. Feels as though she should be insulted, but cannot find it within her. Nothing about the baby was real, and she knows this is so. Any life attributed to the baby was achieved via wishful projection.

“Something happened between us. We have been lost.”

Ingrid knows this to be true. It feels right, whatever it is. Something between them has been off-balance. She is incapable of recalling a time when this was not so.

Rollo holds Ingrid’s hands in his own, trying to rejoin their broken circuit. Longing to feel the power of what they may have been coursing through them as one. Ingrid pulls the contortion of hands toward her chest, feeding them with the thump of her heart.

“Hi,” says Rollo. “I would like to introduce myself. My name is Ingrid.”

Ingrid’s mouth opens slightly. She stares into Rollo’s eyes, longing to understand what they convey. In possession of feeling beyond words. Feeling that can only be understood via feeling. The elephant shows no sign of waking. Rollo’s hands grip with greater strength.

“Hi, Ingrid,” says Ingrid. “My name is Rollo. It is nice to meet you.”

About the Author

Matthew Revert is the author of
Basal Ganglia
(Lazy Fascist Press),
How to Avoid Sex
(Copeland Valley/Dark Coast Press),
The Tumours Made Me Interesting
(LegumeMan Books) and
A Million Versions of Right
(LegumeMan Books). Revert has had work published in
Le Zaporogue
,
The Best Bizarro Fiction of the Decade
,
In Heaven, Everything Is Fine: Fiction Inspired by David Lynch
,
The New Flesh
, and
The Bizarro Starter Kit (Purple)
, among others.

www.matthewrevert.com

Acknowledgments

To Vanessa.

With thanks to Aditi, Cameron, Ian, Robert, and wool.

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