The Glass Case
© Stephen Cain
1121 words
When Peter Giles, financier and writer, died he left instructions that his body was to be aseptically preserved, dressed in his finest clothes, and seated in a glass-fronted case that was to occupy a commanding position in the front room of the large house that he left to the citizens of Wellington on the condition that it be used in perpetuity as a literary museum. Most people would think that nothing lived in that glass case, not literally at any rate, but that is not quite true.
Students of literature and tourists as well as the just plain morbidly curious trickle past Giles' window day after day. As Giles intended, it is virtually impossible to visit the museum's major exhibits without passing directly in front of his transparent sepulchre. Many hurry by without looking, or manage only a furtive, shuddering glance in the general direction of the preserved benefactor, while others stare as though truth itself glistened from those unwinking eyes and waxen features you must expect this sort of thing if you choose to spend eternity in a glass-fronted case. Occasionally there are visitors who do more than stare. These rarer souls seem to share a smile and a secret with the contents of that box. This may possibly have something to do with the distinctive strain of occultism that coloured most of Giles' literary endeavours. Although, due to the recondite nature of much of his writing, it is difficult to be certain of his precise views on the question of the soul's destination post-mortem, one cannot help but feel that his desire to preside in such frankly palpable form over that room was to assure those sufficiently advanced in these matters of his continued existence and watchfulness in the hereafter.
At first there is pure, unfiltered consciousness. Being is consciousness. There is no separating the two. There is no "two". All is one.
Gradually, a sense of individuality emerges. I am all, but I am also this particular centre of being and there is that which, paradoxically, is not me. There is light. There is sound. There is movement. These things occupy space and have duration. I can direct my attention here and there, focusing on the joyful light, delighting in the gentle darkness, filled with an exhilarating curiosity at the sounds and movements that come into the orbit of my awareness.
After what seems like an eternity I am able to discern my situation. My world has clearly defined limits, but it is not the only world. Although I can see into the second world, there is a barrier between the worlds. A transparent barrier.
There are periods of light and dark. The periods of light and dark alternate. When it is dark it is quiet and I sometimes rest. That is good. When it is light the beings in the other world come. Their movements fascinate me. I cannot turn my gaze away from them.
I have discovered to my discomfort that I am visible to certain of these beings in the second universe. A pair of small, shining, concentrically circular, swivelling things in the upper frontal parts of their bodies indicates their attention. The visibility of these concentric circles does not necessarily coincide with my visibility though. Rather, the presence of the concentric circles plus the sentient waves of a vast ocean of searching awareness results in this visibility. Although I am no more than nothingness that knows, my nothingness is stripped bare before this great sphere of consciousness that pervades all, a consciousness like but separate from mine. This exposure is unbearable, but clearly I can bear it for I continue to exist.
I seek the darker places, long for my former invisibility.
My torment has grown worse. Now, when I am plunged into self-consciousness by the touch of the consciousness that is not me, I am often precipitated into memories of what I am growing to understand to be my former existence. I find there is much that is a new feeling, an unpleasant one shameful. There were others that were like me, although not exactly like me. I found ways to nourish myself greatly at their expense. Once they were in my clutches, I was able to extract this is difficult bodily fluid, no, the concept is more like "universal medium of exchange", from them. I shrink in horror from further contemplation of this ghastly, ghastly....
I have reached a kind of equanimity. I have come to see that where I am now is a direct consequence of my former activities. There is no relief from my present condition, but understanding that I am one with its causation brings a certain acceptance. I feel strange promptings. This must be hunger. This being, this existence, requires some kind of nourishment, but I am not aware of anything that could provide it.
Many periods of light and dark pass. I am discovering more and more about this strange life. Some of the beings that observe me from the other world have become familiar to me. I begin to feel a certain another new feeling attraction for them. The hunger grows worse, but I am not weakened by it. I grow stronger. I grow to understand that my being has a certain shape. I feel life pulsing through the organs and limbs of that shape.
I have come to understand that the hunger that motivated me in my former existence was a trivial hunger. There is a greater hunger. I cannot wait for the dark periods to end. I desire the light. I long for the sentient waves that penetrate my transparent universe from top to bottom. I long even for the tormenting self-consciousness, the questioning minds before whom I am laid bare every light period, even the horrifying memories that multiply my nakedness exponentially, for I begin to feel that there is a warmer fusing of awareness, one as ecstatic as the other is excruciating. I now know that the longing for this is the true hunger.
At last! The light period has come. It is early. I recognise this being. She has come often, more often than the others. This light period she has come before the others begin to arrive. I feel the probing waves of consciousness. My limbs quiver with excitement. I see the pair of shining, concentric circles. I have come to understand that I too have circles, they are the windows through which I see we see. There comes a loud clicking. Now she is opening the transparent barrier between the worlds. I feel the fresh breeze touch my sensitive body hair. Her two glittering circles are coming closer, growing larger and larger, reflecting in each of my eight circles