Basal Ganglia (4 page)

Ingrid clears Rollo’s untouched plate.

“You should eat more than this.”

Rollo was not aware of the plate until his attention was directed toward it.

“I think I will eat now.”

The plate is placed before him once more. The collection of raw fungi and moss refuse to inspire appetite, but food exists to be eaten. He no longer considers the possibility of taste. Food is simply a mass of energy preventing his stomach from experiencing the discomfort of hunger. It provides the fuel his body requires to continue working.

Ingrid sits before her bureau. The day has made considerable steps toward its conclusion. While Rollo busies himself with the nightly itinerary Ingrid feels compelled to write a letter.  Rollo never questions her about what she writes. He believes everything relates to the fort, including Ingrid’s words. To Rollo, what Ingrid writes is simply data pertaining to whatever it is she spends her day doing. The pencil is blunt but not unworkable. With every line, she pushes the pencil tip closer toward its demise.

Dear Rollo,

If I do not write these letters, I will forget you. I read your name over and over, and sometimes wonder how it connects to you, or if you are even the person I am writing these letters to. Sometimes I worry you have found these letters, but how can that be? That would mean you comprehend my existence when you turn away, and I do not believe that is true. You no longer have the capacity to comprehend what is not immediately before you. I think I prefer it this way.

I do not know how long we have been here, but it is a significant amount of time. At least it feels that way. I know no other time. This fort is my eternity. I have connected with myself more deeply than I ever thought possible. I am beginning to understand my DNA and listen to the special histories it reveals. I sense every change that occurs within, no matter how infinitesimal. I can even feel myself aging. I mourn the death and celebrate the birth of each cell. I have come to learn that I care about certain cells more than others. Do you ever feel this way? Have you ever looked at your hands and noticed the atoms of which they are comprised? I have started paying attention to my atoms and, like my cells, there are some I like more than others.

Do you ever write to me, Rollo? If I were to search, would I find undelivered letters addressed to me? Some days I am comforted by the thought of you reaching out to me, but most days, the possibility terrifies me. Honesty compels me to admit I have simplified you. I am thankful you have not given me reason to believe otherwise. I have deconstructed you into a rudimentary amalgam of machinery designed to perform basic functions. You have been stripped of complexity, because complexity is the foundation upon which unwanted love can cling. I need to believe that what I see in you is the extent of what there is to see. Aspects of myself that do not love you dominate me.

I have become aware of a truth, one that may apply to everyone, but I can only speak for myself. I am not one person, Rollo; rather I am a disparate series of selves that combine to form who you used to know. Each self is imbued with characteristics that take turns helming my whole. I have taught myself to find distance between them and me and have managed to observe, but not control, them. From what I can ascertain, there are at least twelve versions of me that reside within my shell. There may be more, but I can only speak for what I have found. Let me try and explain the role of these selves as far as I understand it. Each self possesses a distinct personality, much like I would attribute to my whole, only these selves remain largely unchangeable unless coaxed by the other selves. Some selves are weaker than the others and more susceptible to influence. What I understand as mood fluctuation is really just a different self, or set of aligned selves, taking control.

The selves within me are not defined by clear-cut emotions. There is no self completely concerned with sadness for instance, even though some of the selves appear sadder than others. Each self possesses a level of complexity that leads me to believe within them lurks another set of selves, but I cannot verify this. The more I understand about myself, the more there is to understand.

I love you, Rollo, but it has been a battle – one that I’m slowly losing. For love to develop between two people, I believe one of our selves must form an instant connection capable of bypassing all logic and self-protection. It is this capacity for instant love that can gradually win over the more discerning selves. One of these selves loved you a great deal, Rollo, and still does. She introduced the love response to the other selves and slowly found ways of converting most of them until I was consumed with love for you and could see nothing else. What you need to understand, Rollo, is while this self loves you so very deeply, there is another self that has always hated you. I believe this hate exists in all relationships at some level. Watching in patient silence for a moment in which it may interject. When a relationship is successfully executed, this hate is rarely permitted a voice. Its moments of domination are thwarted by the greater power of the loving selves. Most of the time one never suspects the existence of this hate until the beholder has an opportunity to come forward, but do not be fooled… this hate is always there and ignorance feeds it. It is a sleeping elephant.

The self that hates you is as devoted to its cause as the self that loves you. Our living situation has allowed my hate to gain prominence. For as long as my memory permits me to recall (perhaps before), my hateful self has sought to convert the others and, it pains me to say, has managed to succeed. As time goes about its business, more selves give in to the hate. Some of these versions of me are pitiful, and all too willing to shed the love they felt for you. With each new convert, the hate grows in strength and is recruited to work on the others. All that remains is the solitary self that introduced the rest to the concept of loving you. This difficult target has become the most treasured of all. Each converted self knows they cannot convert this remaining self, so instead they devote their time to killing it. I do not even know if this is possible. It seems to me my selves are inextricably linked, and killing one will entail killing all. Maybe they hate you so much that this sacrifice is worth it.

Ingrid

5.

Ingrid summons Rollo after they have eaten, a gesture which confuses him. In a severed past exists a time where one summoning the other regularly occurred. Implicit in the arrangement were a series of mental calculations where one would try and ascertain the potential cause of the summons. Tone of voice, word choice, and body language were used to determine the gravity of the situation. To Rollo, Ingrid appears different, and there is nothing within him with which to understand that difference. No projection can be made and predictions are returned without content.

Ingrid sits with legs pressed together and hands spanned across knees. Her head is directed toward an area of no concern, which she stares beyond. Rollo considers her posture and concludes it to be one of aversion. He supposes the aversion is directed toward him, but is not confident enough to trust it. When she grants him her gaze, it is fleeting, barely enough to acknowledge his presence. He attempts to maintain his, but without return, the gaze disquiets him, so he makes a point of looking everywhere Ingrid is not.

He sits before her, legs crossed like an obedient student. Silence exists between them that must be bridged.

“You wanted to talk?”

Ingrid shifts in her seat, disturbed from her inner world. Rollo contemplates leaving the situation and busying himself with maintenance work. He allows his question to sit unanswered and contemplates the work he could be doing. There is a sheet in the Occipital Chamber that has been thinning. As a chamber residing toward the fort’s exterior, the importance of the task is elevated as it relates directly to their continued security. Sheets forming all outer walls must meet a minimum thread count requirement otherwise environmental conditions outside stand a greater chance of infiltration. Of the sheets in Rollo’s stockpile, none currently meet the thread count requirement, therefore replacing the Occipital Chamber’s expired sheet will entail reinforcing a sheet of lower thread count – a task that will be a significant time investment. Rollo must find a way to schedule this task around his daily duties. By requesting that his body clock wake earlier, and working during the lunch break, enough time can be found to approach the task with an appropriate level of care. He considers going to bed later than his body clock prefers, but worries such a significant reduction in sleep will diminish the focus required and ultimately act as a hindrance. This conundrum is a source of joy Rollo turns over in his mind to examine every angle. Angles are questions that do not demand answers. Each can be explored as much or as little as curiosity dictates. Rollo dances from angle to angle, indulging each new set of possibilities they inspire. Each angle serves the additional purpose of distancing Rollo from Ingrid.

“I want to have a baby.”

Ingrid’s words shift focus from Rollo’s escape. Her words mean something inapplicable to his context. The word ‘baby’ requires that he upgrade internal software in order to understand. He attributes the word to inexplicable otherness. Something residing so beyond concerns of the fort process that its existence is questionable. Imagery is called to mind that becomes lost in spectral dissolves of quasi-understanding.

“Did you hear me?”

He stares at Ingrid, disturbed by the distraction of her presence. She wants to enact a change, the importance of which resulted in this summons. Something has penetrated their pattern and recalculation has become necessary.

“You want to have a baby?”

He repeats her words, hoping this will result in understanding their weight. His pink hand appears before him; dark purple webs of vein glow below the surface. The hand, now separated from Rollo’s cognition, sweeps across his face. Over his shoulder. His breast. Traveling downward and resting on the peak of his belly. The ripple of gastric contortion investigates his palm, pulling its essence within. He feels what Ingrid’s words mean before he comprehends them.

“You want to have a baby,” he repeats. The words are no longer dressed as a question.

Ingrid locks her eyes on Rollo, an inescapable gaze he feels trapped within. His neck seizes and returns the gaze against his will.

“Is this something you’re comfortable with?”

Rollo understands this question as one divorced from an answer. Ingrid’s gaze is telling him the time has come to have a baby. His decision is not one of whether he will allow it; rather it revolves around his willingness to participate in it. The baby is a foregone conclusion. He attempts to understand the mechanics of making a baby. A baby is the result of two physicalities coming together as one. Surely Ingrid has no intention of instituting such an impossible process.

The potential repercussion such an addition to the fort may have entails a need for Rollo to align himself closely with whatever events are set to unfold.

“How shall we proceed with this?” he asks.

Ingrid finally unlocks her gaze, content her desires will be fulfilled. Moving about the solvency of affirmed headspace, she stands and feels the straightening of posture. The absolution of lungs enjoying unhindered breath. The conceit of something resembling purpose.

“I have spent some time considering this.” she says. “The baby should be the result of us both. Made from the fort. An embodiment of who we are.”

In contrast to Ingrid’s affirmation of self, Rollo shrinks into portents of disquiet. A spike of concern unsettles his composure. Ingrid wishes to steal from the fort and make a baby forged of theft.

“I will knit the baby,” she continues. “You will gather material of the highest quality. Material used in the fort’s construction and maintenance and I will knit them into a baby. Our baby.”

Sought words cannot be found. Rollo wonders if the words he seeks exist at all and if so, do they possess the meaning he wishes them to possess? He is left to agree without substance and wonders what baby might result from Ingrid’s handiwork. He feels it should be his job to knit the baby. Anything built within the fort and of the fort should occur via his hand. He cannot recall ever having knitted anything, though his hands feel capable of performing the act. Rollo’s confidence lives in his hands.

Ingrid’s face wears the curve of a smile, and appears to glow with vitality’s elusive ember. Rollo suspects she has stolen any remnants of color that may have belonged to him. He suspects perhaps this development is an attempt to wrest control of the fort. To wrest control of him. He imagines something once dormant in Ingrid meeting the perfect mixture of conditions in which to erupt, shifting every dynamic their foundation rests upon. The enormity of Rollo’s weakness occupies him. He feels the hunger wrought by endless unfinished meals. He moves toward the discarded plates of the dinner past. His is piled with the unconsumed. Strength on a plate when it should be in him. Contrary to his plate, Ingrid’s is empty, the contents have found a home within her, spreading strength throughout her body. He pulls his remaining sustenance close and fills his desperate mouth, feeling the food break into a fungal slush primed for entry. The unfamiliar intake travels downward, slowed by the narrowed passage of an emaciated esophagus. The intolerable quantity is cast out, landing back on the plate.

“Are you okay?”

There is no response forthcoming. Nothing to assuage Ingrid’s curiosity. No means by which to achieve dignity. Rollo holds the plate close and tips the dreck back into his mouth, determined to keep it down this time. The bulk sits within puffed cheeks, pushing against his pursed lips. A small amount travels downward, slowly transferring the contents from mouth to stomach.