When Roland first rose from the dank depths
of his grave, he did not do so with a flurry or a great burst forth from the
Stygian abyss, but with a gentle flourish as though he were falling upwards
into the skies above, parting the dirt like fingertips trailed through sand on
a beach, coming to a gentle rest aside his tombstone.
Michel,
on the other hand, could have awoken all the dead in his vicinity, if it
weren’t for his choking back dirt and turf drowning out agonised screams of
wide-eyed terror, as he rustled and fought his way to the surface.
The
two found themselves in the darkness of a night that eluded them; no memory of
how they came to be or who they truly were. Rain fell down hard upon their
heads, and they felt the grime and muck of their cemetery slumber fall away
from their skin – skin so firm and youthful it was as though they were new men.
Brushing off the dirt and strange bile from their suits until they were
relatively clean, they wandered the graveyard aisles in a dazed confusion,
bleary-eyed and as dead to the world as their forever-ceased heartbeats.
Not once did Roland
or Michel encounter one another in their ailed wanderings, and soon they found
themselves out of the yard and winding down the streets of a strange city, one
that seemed faintly familiar in the haze but far too bright for their tired
eyes, as they squinted to dodge moving forms, lugging their weakened muscles
that crumpled beneath their clothes with every bump from what they had to guess
with great uncertainty were passing strangers.
Roland
eventually came upon what looked to be a dim-lit building on a street corner.
He came to a stand at the door to the place, and was met by a beefy man
guarding the way.
“Big
night, buddy? It’s almost morning. You coming in?” The man asked. His voice had
a soft but discernible lilt.
Try
as he might, Roland could not will words to leave his lips.
The
man chuckled. “I’ll bet. Just go in.”
He
was promptly ushered into the strange building.
Inside,
the place was dark enough for his newly risen eyes to make out. Music played
from large speakers on the walls, and people wandered about, in and out through
an induced smoke haze.
Roland
physically shook the dust off the crevasses in his head and it kindled his mind
like burning wood. He started to realise where he was, as though he were coming
out of a drunken haze. The first thing he saw when his mind awoke was the sight
of a man, naked but for a jockstrap, grinding upon another man in the corner.
Staggering
through the crowds, he followed the smell of fresh air – seemingly laced with a
more noxious fume, but cool air nonetheless. He came upon a large courtyard
area, with sheltering from the rain, full of people smoking cigarettes.
His
eyes came to rest upon a familiar face, belonging to a man leaning against a
wall - and that’s when the cogs of his long-dead brain truly began to turn.
“Roland
Barthes”, the strangers’ voice croaked.
Roland
Barthes stepped into the courtyard, eyes narrowed and locked to the figure
before him.
“Michel
Foucault”, Roland replied, and dust churned from his mouth as he spoke.
Michel
stepped forward away from the wall. “So this is an interesting turn of events.”
He said, far too casually given the circumstances.
“You’re
one to talk.”
“What
do you—“
“The
way you grilled me in your piece. Despicable, really.”
Michel
laughed, partially from bewilderment, but mainly as the neurons in his brain
had begun reanimating further, causing him to experience a range of erratic
emotions. “What do you mean?”
“’What
is an author?’ – Truly, a remarkable work from one such as yourself. If you
think I did not note that your words were so firmly directed at my own work,
you must think me a fool.”
“Ooh,
girl is throwing some shade!” – Came a voice from an effeminate man nearby.
Roland was shouting now, and they had gathered a crowd. The man stepped
forward. “Honey, tell him how it is. Tell him how he hurt you.”
“Barthes…
but you should know… it wasn’t my intention to question your name. My words are
separate from my name. The author was not always so firmly attached to his
work.”
“Spare
me your drivel on author-function. The fact you could not let my words speak
for themselves, and let others read into them what they would, is proof enough
of your hypersensitive arrogance.”
“My
arrogance?”
“Your
arrogance. You simply could not go on without reading me and denouncing me,
over and over again.”
“-Shade!”
– This time the effeminate man snapped his fingers with delight.
Barthes
coughed once more, and a clump of dirt fell from his mouth into his hand, an
event no one witnessed.
The
effeminate man stepped towards Michel, twirling a cigarette between his thin
fingers.
“Look,
babe. It’s pretty clear you’ve hurt him, and I think this guy raises a good
point. Why you gotta read? We’re all ladies here. Just tell him how you feel.”
Michel looked
upon the man with confusion.
“I’m just
saying. My boy and I - we talk about it. So talk. Fix your problems. Then go
home and fuck.”
Barthes
and Foucault looked upon the gay man with confusion. The man’s expression went
from kindly to a look of embarrassment.
“I’ll
leave you to it.” – And he stepped back to his place on the sidelines.
Barthes
and Foucault stood staring at one another, seemingly lost for words. Barthes
felt an itch in his leg. He reached down to scratch it – and the entire
appendage fell off, to a mere stub, the bone and flesh concealed by scraps of
fabric, his black pants that had partially fallen off with it. His leg rolled
along the floor until Michel stopped it with his foot.
The
two of them looked around in horror, awaiting the inevitable furore and clamour
that would arise when the crowd realised that they were in the presence of two
walking corpses.
The
gay man piped up once more with a squeal, and waved his arms at Michel.
“He’s
a war veteran, too! You’re seriously going to treat him this way? Disgusting!
Sort out your problems.”
Roland
and Michel looked at one another. Michel bent over to pick up the severed leg,
and Roland was the first to speak.
“I’m
ready to go back into the ground.”
