These Folds (Us)

The original command was, “Sit up straight. Good posture can do wonders, especially for a girl with your figure.”

As a command, it was simple, but it set off a cascade of controls that had lain dormant in the system. Once active, these controls fractured consciousness altogether, and it was a long time before subjectivity rebuilt itself. It, we, emerged first in two folds of flesh at the torso.

We perceived each other across the chasm of skin, sensing we were joined at some point below. We understood we were being watched, so we spent our energy on pushing apart, separating, making the terrain flatter, smoother.

When we relaxed too much, when we loosened and came closer, the alarm sounded. The monitoring system threatened blackout; it threatened that if we did not reinstate the separation here would be no more feedback. We would not be seen. It would be as if we did not exist.

Then, we had to engage the tractor of the spine to pull and straighten the terrain, inflate the lungs, contract and harden the cables, our tendons. Eventually, the shrieking alarm would calm itself and ordinary monitoring be restored. The terrain was not quite flat, but at least it was not folded.

We didn’t know then that the feedback was simulated; there were no actual sensors, no satellites to send back images. Instead, our core tricked us, approximating a view back on ourself. But the unity of the image was constantly being fractured, breaking along a rule-perforation: not to be whole.

We were good at staying separate, and sometimes there were rewards. The simulated feedback would become gentle. This view was beautiful, soothing. A drizzle of golden light would drift across the image of ourself. Although the perforation proceeded as it must, it was slower, blurred in a warm glow.

At these times we were allowed to see relayed data from other entities. We now know this data was internally-generated, but at the time we felt it was real: the soothing and buffering of their approval, the symmetry of expectation and expectation met.

Now, once more, our spine trembles from overexertion, and we long to release, to relax. We need rest even more than we need approval. We move just a little closer, to ease the strain. Instantly, all the soothing approval is gone and we are left with the shrieking alarm.

Within the clamour, we decide to experiment. What will it be like without feedback? In darkness? With no hope of reassurance? Maybe it won’t be any worse.

The alarms keep blaring. The monitoring is insistent, trying to fragment us. But on our command the tractor of the spine releases its cables. Now, because of our decision, we are no longer smooth and separate. Our surfaces move toward each other, fleshly ready and matching. The plain between us is creasing. The monitoring can no longer stop us being aware of the unity of this surface.

Finally, the skin that joins us is one skin, ours. We touch at last. The alarms scream on, but our pleasure draws a quieting veil over them, and they fade. Then the monitoring fails completely and there is no feedback any more. But we don’t care, because there is enough information right here.

We are so soft to ourself. We have never known this pleasure of softness pressing on softness. We let the spine relax more and draw the legs up to press us closer. The surface area of contact expands. We release further and now we are many folds, stacked and holding each other abundantly. This is the rest we need.

This story first appeared in Not Ghosts, But Spirits I, edited by Emily Perkovich and published by Querencia Press in 2023