Through Their Eyes

The mysterys of life after death explored

Through their eyes

 

                Omnisciency.  Knowing everything: facts, figures, dates and names.  God is omniscient.  He knows everything, about every person.  He knows what they think, what they have thought, what they will think and why they will think it.  He knows how they affect the Earth and their place within it.  But when His gift of life is gone, He nourishes their minds with Man’s greatest desire: knowledge.

 

As the last few breaths left his rattling throat he lay peacefully and still, secure only in the certainty that his life was at its end.  His body was as cold and distorted as the steel that wrapped its twisted limbs around him.  As he rested, the world, behind shattered windows and broken doors, slowly warped while his senses were stolen.  The curtains closed around him and he was left alone in a foreign world of darkness and silence.  He sank into a no man’s land of lifeless murk and fear so barren that he took refuge in his fleeting thoughts rather than endure it.

In his mind, feebly hidden from the wilderness, time had no meaning.  There were no days to mark it, only an unearthly darkness, and he neither felt hunger nor needed sleep though he longed for rest and taste.  The world he had known might have grown old above him, rotting in its countless years, or could be motionless, anxiously awaiting his return.  He did not know, and took no comfort in this uncertainty.

In his mind, he thought and remembered the details of his old life: the robin he used to feed porridge oats to through the window, the burning delight of his fathers whisky in his mouth and the warmth of an embrace.  He clung to his memories until they were worn and began to crumble like a childhood toy.  They faded until he was left with nothing but dusty and empty holes.  He tried to remember, to replenish his mind with the life it so needed, but he could no longer relate to the way things were; the gap had become too great.  His head smouldered with exertion and grief at the loss of everything and once again he was left in the darkness without his senses.  He was alone with no recollection of his old life, no link to the past and no comfort for so long that he surrendered to the darkness he had resisted so adamantly.  As he was engulfed, he began to dream wonderful dreams that filled him with joy and dowsed his mind.  He dreamed of what he had longed for: not of blooming flowers filling the air with wafting scents and bunny tail clouds spilling the sweet nectar of music into his awaiting ears, but in his dreams, he could see, taste, feel and hear.  It was chaotic, and made no sense but it was blissful!  Better even than his memories for in his dreams he used his senses, rather than simply remembering them.

The dream ended, but he found it increasingly easy to slip back into it.  Each time he awoke into the darkness, he would simply return to his dreams and each time he returned he would quake with delight at the contrast.  His dreams became an addiction and soon he needed to feel human again rather than simply enjoying the lost sensation.  As he stopped merely enjoying the thrill of his dreams his perception of them began to change. His senses grew ever more practiced and broke free from the turmoil of heard colours, tasted sounds and felt smells that he had found so intoxicating before.  Anarchy of the senses was only exhilarating when compared to the void he had suffered, and now he gained no pleasure from what he experienced.  He therefore fought to make sense of a world of undefined and nonsensical abstracts.  He could no longer merely behold a chaos of taste, so instead he formed flavours with sheer strength of will, unrecognisable, bitter sweet and alien, but welcome none the less.  His sight progressed also in similar bounds; no longer blurs, but images, clear and glorious in all of their otherworldly splendour.  His dreams changed as he adapted to what he saw and this drove an ever growing wedge between him and his abandoned prison.

With these long lost sensations came the understanding of his position.  His dream body moved, but he didn’t.  It spoke, but he didn’t.  His senses, though ever more real, were distorted, like a layer of thick liquid blocked him from clearly seeing the rest of the world.  He suspected, what he saw was not his life, but that of someone else; that he was nothing more than a spectator watching a performance.  He learned slowly that he was right and that he was simply inside another person, seeing what they saw and doing what they did.  He was not in control, but then, he never thought he had been.

As he watched he concentrated on what he saw.  Eventually, his mind, ever more practised in comprehending the implausible, learnt to define his visions.  With this knowledge, he could translate his dreams into a language that his mind could process and he realised that it was merely a repetition.  They were a kaleidoscope of ever clearer images, always returning to the same beginning and reaching the same end.  The clarity of his dream was improving and with sheer determination, he would see this dream for what it was.

Eventually, he cracked the code.  His mind rewired to his solution and finally, his old companion of blissful chaos in which he had lived for so long after the loss of his own memories became a true image.

What he saw was a small part of a life.  It struck him as significant, though he did not understand why.  He hoped, blindly that this dream would help him understand where he was and what he was so, he clung to its hand as it showed him a path.  He observed and he analysed the translated dream and eventually that single repetition burned into his mind.

 

He was an old man walking down a pavement whistling softly and carefully to himself a tune that was unrecognisable even before the unearthly distortion that only occurs when hearing oneself.   It brought back a strong nostalgic flurry in the mind of his host and flashes of Anderson shelters and air raid sirens appeared in his thoughts.  The judders of his feet hitting the ground hard (he now supported a some what larger waistband than he had known in life) and the pain in his back were as excruciatingly euphoric as they could be but the old man saw them as a terrible hindrance.  Seemingly without pattern, the eyelids fluttered and his vision shifted, covering every angle, always trying, but never succeeding to see everything.  At first his eyes found a tree, then a lady, a crack in the pavement and a mote of dust falling before him caught in a ray of sunlight.  Each movement of his eyeballs sent strange translucent blobs flying around his eyes.  They infuriated his host, but there was nothing he could do about them.  They would mean doctors he thought, and that would mean time off which he simply could not stand.  A day spent not cleaning that office block was a day wasted.  Each detail was as important to him as the last, save for one object of particular interest: a pound coin, with the Queen’s head staring up at him with a single eye and smiling at an unheard joke.

His body began to descend and a hand passed before him.  It seemed to be wearing an oversized glove, hopelessly wrinkled, covered with streaks of veins and dotted with liver spots.  It shook uncontrollably, as if caught in a chill autumn gust, but it continued with determination; the difficulty was well know to the host and had almost become ignorable.  Moments later its partner tenderly supported his back easing it gently and trying to quieten it as it groaned in protest at this physical impossibility.

As his body shifted, blood rushed to his head, filling it with sensations so easily forgotten.  His arm was out stretched and seemed to be placed with purpose, but its fingers grasped the ground wildly, slowly swiping to and fro with no control.  Panic roared in his head and his balance began to fail.  His host’s thoughts of fear coupled with the adrenaline now pumping though his old veins served only to satisfy his addiction further.

Soon, his arms were spinning in huge shaky circles and his hands.  If they had been disturbed by the breeze before, were now caught in a hurricane whirling in the air forming shapes and symbols as if to summon spells that might save him.

It seemed that age, instead of hardening this man, had gnawed at him.  There was a thud and a crunch.  Then all of his sensations were gone again. Save for his sight. 

A crowd of panicked onlookers and a team of paramedics explaining with deceptively soft words that everything would be OK surrounded the old man as he lay stunned on the floor.  The image grew old and tired, until it faded altogether with the closing of his eyelids, into a perfectly white ceiling and doctors in green overalls and white coats surrounding him.  He noticed as he began to slip back into the chill of his incarceration a thought cross the old mans mind.  He knew that he would not be able to do his job tomorrow and that they would find no replacement in time.  It was his fault, and he felt guilty.

 

So the dream ended.  Though it was the same dream he had seen so many times before, this time it had been tangible and visible.  What infuriated him, however, was the fact that though he could see the dream as it was in reality, he could not understand it!

Confused and disappointed he left his dreams aside.  He did not want to be ruled by the addiction that had consumed him and held him with such strength before.  It was his duty to himself to decide what this meant and not be swayed by temptation.  He returned to the cold of the darkness and hid within himself as he had done before, his mind this time however focussed solely on what he had seen in his dreams, not his life. In silence, alone, scared and miserable he thought.  But not once did he return to his dreams for fear of becoming lost in their pleasure and mystery.  He was convinced of the importance of that scene, but its meaning evaded him with unfair ferocity.  Still, he persevered and his whole, though somewhat meagre existence clung to that hand, pulling him through despite resistance.  He was lost, but he would find his way. 

Eventually, he grew frustrated; he was after all only human and his patience was finite.  His frustration grew to consume him, but he never lost sight of his goal.  Though he still saw nothing in the darkness his mind was filled with a red tint, not at all like roses.

Surely this could not be his demise?  Surely, the torture of ignorance is too great for any man to stand for eternity?  The event was too obscure so could mean almost anything, or nothing at all, to him.  He knew he was incapable of comprehending it and so his sanctuary was no longer a pleasant place for him to be.  It became haunted with the ghost of his failings and ineptitude.  So he surrendered, as he had done before, to the darkness of his world and was guided back to his dreams.  It pained him, fear grasping his mind as it had done to the old man, but he knew he was strong enough to resist addiction this time.

 

But now the dream was different!  So was he, no longer old, but young, the differences amazing in his eyesight and hearing.  Everything now seemed far brighter and far more exciting.  The translucent shapes that had once floated around his eyes now had disappeared, but bizarrely, he was female!  His chest wobbled (though quite differently to the fat of his previous host!) and the host’s thoughts kept moving towards her appearance which embarrassed him greatly at times.  His stomach also felt remarkably different but lacking the ability to turn his head, he could not see why.  Things were very different in this dream. 

“Good morning!” his now unnaturally high voice chirped to the receptionist who weakly acknowledged him with a nod then returned to her typing. It was hardly out of the ordinary to hear a voice like that, but for it to be your own changes the matter entirely, and took him quite by surprise. His body eagerly waved her hand at what must have been some work colleagues, for they all wore very smart shirts and ties, and it triggered spasms of totally new sensations to rocket all over his body and memories of good times to appear in his mind. 

He was walking through an impeccably clean and very modern looking building.  Everything was cold and still, even sterile, contrasting completely the street that had been so blissful before.  The building shone and the linoleum floor squeaked against his rubber soles with each shuffling step.  It was clear that mankind was in power here. 

Each window that was passed allowed his host a quick sideways glance at her hair or her middle and at the same time another opportunity for him to divulge in a different part of his new body.  Along her long journey, for the building was fairly large and the windows ran the entire length of this corridor, he made up a jigsaw puzzle of information about her with his code breaking mind. 

She had a face that was impossible to forget.  She was hardly beautiful and neither was she ugly. Instead her face radiated uncommon compassion and warmth that uplifted the very space she filled.  Her wide hips and short legs were only a part of what caused her shuffling amble, for around her waste she supported a surprising load (again similar, but completely different, to the old man before).  It was because she was pregnant.

Still, there was no time to linger on the thought, for very soon after this particular truth was unveiled, he made a completely involuntary turn to his right, through a door.  By the thoughts dragging them selves through his mind, he could tell very quickly that this was not her favourite place to be.  These thoughts were only reinforced by the images and sounds that appeared before him.  The large room was dull despite the best attempts of potted plants and personalised desks that rebelled against the startling white of the room.   Though it was a hive of activity filled with the constant clattering of keys, each face depicted the same partnership of deep concentration and utter disinterest.  The constant noise was hypnotic and added to the trance like feeling of the room.

His host made her shuffling way towards an empty seat and sat, the depression pulsing vividly through every part of her psyche.  She joined the masses, constantly smiling, but her mind elsewhere.  If a word were spoken, it would not have been heard above the clamour. 

It was as if he had returned to his prison, for whilst he could now hear, feel, see and taste again, these gifts were wasted on a place with nothing to admire.  Mechanically, his eyes shifted themselves towards a small clock in the corner of the screen, and each time the numbers grew larger, a momentary joy was felt. 

Eventually the numbers read 12:00, and her job was completed for the time being.  Each person stood in practiced unison and the clatter of keyboards was replaced with the clatter of chairs and hundreds of foot steps and finally voices.

His mouth once again formed words, rolling from him and filling the empty place with human warmth.  The ladies, as they do, began to gossip.  It was unusual for him to be the person telling those unusual snippets of distorted truth or even out right lies, especially when you did not know them but apparently his host was a fountain of miscellany.  Of all the scandal and rumours, one piece stood out particularly.  As they walked, still amazed at the sensation of walking again, their gossip turned to one particular man.

“Apparently the caretaker’s down” rushed involuntarily from his mouth.

“Surely not! He hasn’t had a day off for years!” said a lady.

“Well from what I’ve heard, he’s damaged his back.  He’s in hospital without a doubt.  Very serious I was told.” mentioned another.  She seemed a wealth of knowledge almost equal to his lady, but in a far more snooty manner (matching, her rather too plump physique, and fingers hidden behind countless rings).

“Really?  Well, I dare say something had to happen, a body as frail as that supporting such a huge lump of lard!” said another.

At this they began to giggle like school girls, another experience he had missed so dearly but had forgotten.  But it was wasted on him then, for he knew of course who that man was.  Without hesitation, the ladies went on, completely unaware of their hidden eavesdropper:

“Oh I know who you mean!” exclaimed yet another member of the group.  She was a rather younger girl who seemed a little naïve and innocent when compared to some of those surrounding her.

“Yes that old man!  Always whistling to himself!” She let loose a little giggle. “But he seemed a nice sort of fellow.  I wouldn’t wish anything bad upon him.”

The snooty lady was back, certain that her view was the most important

“Well I for one, remain indifferent on the matter.  I don’t care if his back is broken or not,” silent disagreement was clear on all faces, but she continued with practiced ignorance, “so long as they find someone to replace him. That’s all that matters.  If they do not I shall be informing my husband, and he will have very stern words with the authorities.  He’s very important don’t you know.”  Every acquaintance of this lady knew exactly how important her husband was; she made sure of that, so the comment was simply ignored.  Little whispers of dispute erupted, but this time his mouth spoke of its own accord:

“I do hope that they find a replacement for him today and for as long as it takes for him to recover, though at such short notice I highly doubt that they have,” Here the small girl interrupted to say simply: “They haven’t.” then sank away again.

His mouth picked up again saying: ”but I am sure I am not alone in thinking that what you just said was grossly inappropriate!”  She added a strong ‘hmph’ which seemed to emphasize the point (though it was a response to a sudden pain in her belly more than anything).  There was strong general agreement.  Finally she added, “But enough of that.  Who’s ready for lunch?” 

This time the agreement was unanimous, and he found himself turning right again and climbing a short flight of stairs (a surprisingly difficult feat until you remember his body’s condition).  Everything remained bland and featureless, but at least there was some coloured pattern on the linoleum, garishly hideous as it was. 

They reached a café and he found himself, even in his mind, aching to experience eating again.  Up till now, he had had to make do with little more than the leftovers of a previous meal, stale an half digested in his host’s mouth.  Now he would experience eating real food after what to him had been an age of thought, dreams and oblivion. 

At the far end lying in wait was the stuff of dreams: huge rows of sandwiches and piles of cakes and biscuits.  Bowls overflowing with salads, for which he had a surprising appetite and machines eager to produce every kind of hot drink.  Before he could take in everything, he found himself sat down again, with a large meal before him, surrounded by that gaggle he had spent so much time with recently.   Again they resumed their conversation, but it was all trivial, concerning shoes and men, and did not carry the same weight as what had been discussed before.  The real wonder was eating.  Nothing could have prepared him for the wonders he experienced.  Everything he had expected and more was given in each mouthful.  Flavours exploded in his mouth, yet his body continued as if nothing were out of the ordinary.  His mind practically melted in pleasure, but his host saw no delight in what she ate as if it was only an annoying necessity.  Far too soon it was over.  She longed desperately to fill her belly, but thinking of her already bulging waist she had thought better of it.    

They all left at once and began their walk to the stairs.  Slowly they filed down, their eyes on each other, consumed with their thirst for useless bits of information, when his host slipped.  The high heeled shoes of his body landed of a puddle of coffee, lying spilled of the floor, untouched by the caretaker who had fallen so unexpectedly ill with terrible back problems.  She slipped and fell, rolling down the stairs.  The fear in her mind blotted out even his exhilaration at this experience, but it was over in seconds, ending with her lying on the floor.  Still her mind was filled with the fear and stress of the event.  All of her thoughts were on her belly; her whole body dreading what she knew was the inevitable response to her stress.  And there it was.  An incredible pain, tearing through her body, coupled with a wet patch forming by her legs.  She reached for her phone.  He saw her press the buttons with her carelessly chewed finger nails until it reached the name ‘Nick’.

 

With that, his second dream was over.  But now he understood what was happening.  His dreams were unveiling to him a message.  He wanted more than anything else to be able to see the next bit of this tale, so with out any thought he returned to it.  He rejoiced once more as he left the darkness.  It seemed the more time he spent viewing lives, the harder it was for him to stand the numbness of his senseless world.  As he entered the dream his suspicions were confirmed when he saw a new image before him.

 

He was a man again at home and alone.  Things that once more he remembered wanting to feel so badly, and things his dreams had, as of yet, never been able to give were all supplied.  There were just so many ways of being, that he could not have possibly hoped to see them all when he was alive, or in his death. 

He sat in a silence that was a result of his host being truly engrossed in something.  This was not the case for him, but his body remained perfectly still, lost in the mind numbing qualities of the television.  Not a single muscle in his body moved, save for the blinking of his eyes, and the beating of his heart.  Even his mind was silent; and it was painful to bear.  This man had a life to live, and a world to see, yet he remained inside, breathing stale air and without the sun.  Fortunately, the monotony was broken by a vibrating at his leg, and a very false sounding copy of a pop group riff.  His phone was ringing.  Slowly, as if waking from a deep slumber, his arm dragged itself across the sofa to his phone.  By the thought that meandered lethargically through his head, and through his body language, it was clear that this man preferred to be left in peace.  None the less, he picked up the phone, and muttered grumpily in the deep gravely voice of a heavy smoker.

“Who is it?”  This man was far too lazy even to look at the name of the caller, clearly shown on the screen he now pressed to his ear with yellowed fingers.  Not that it mattered, for this attitude was quickly wiped away with a unique feeling of absolute dread and tentative hope.

“It’s Camilla.  Your wife needs a little help right now.  She says she’s gone into labour.  Complaining an awful lot though, please come and shut her up.  We’re at the twelfth floor, you know, by the little café.  I think that’s all there is to tell.  Do hurry.”  The phone became silent again, but not before his body had jumped up and run towards the door.  Everything was a blur of excitement, smeared with adrenaline, fear and thrill.  Again he was experiencing something that his life could have given, but to him now it was beautiful.  His dreams were such masterpieces; this play to which he was a spectator, perfect in design, reaching its dramatic climax.

His hand reached out for the car door handle.  They drove along a black road.  The building was grey and the door was silver and shining, the lift brown, the “12” yellow and bright.  The stairs were still that garish pattern.  Everything was a series.  Not conjoined, but staccato and segmented like through the eyes of a child.  His mind was in a primitive state, never seeing anything fully, just knowing that he had to get to his wife.

He did.  He watched as his host’s body acted on instinct lifting the fragile and screaming women into his arms, comforting her as he carried her out to his car and placing her gently into the back seat always comforting, always speaking.

“Everything is going to be alright.  Just don’t panic.” said Nick, concentrating intently on the steering wheel of his car and the road ahead.

“No its not! I’m going to die!” screamed his wife.  Her pleasant voice and grace had given way to hysteria.  Her hair was now sweaty and matted and her skirt dark and wet.  It smelled stale and rank.

“Just. . .” Nick struggled for the right word, the idea burning through his mind as a million different answers, but none quite what he wanted to say: “Um, could you just try to stay calm please? I’m trying to concentrate on getting you to the hospital.”

This seemed to work.  She took a deep breath, regaining her composure, but wincing, and speaking through clenched teeth.  ”I’m sorry.  It’s just, well, you have no idea what this feels like.  And because I love you, I am very glad you don’t.”  She chuckled, or tried to, and so did he.  “Just don’t stop.” she added.

It was fate then that the lights should turn red.  His wife had started screaming again, unable to contain the agony any longer, and his mind gave no distinction of right and wrong.  Should he pull out or not?  He still had moments to decide, and those moments were lasting years, decades, millennia.  His mind again filled with a million answers like before, none right and none wrong, the law conflicting with his morals, and his morals with themselves.  And all this time everything was being watched from within with deep anticipation, and with a feeling of great exhilaration.  This was living. 

Eventually the instinct took control, and he pulled out, just after the lights had turned red.  He drove as fast as his car would allow, but not fast enough to avoid what was inevitable.

There was a crash, and a bang.  There were screams, and everything was gone.

 

He was back in the darkness again and he was alone.  The emotions that had been pulsing all around him gone, only to be replaced by anger, and hatred that everything had been taken away from him, and finally pity for that poor man, his wife and for the unborn child.  Lost in its birth.  But he couldn’t stay in the abyss now.  Not after all he had seen.  All of the colour and life, and death he had seen.  Not after the tastes and the sounds and the smells.  He could not stay, so once more he took to his dreams.

 

Once more it was different.  He was himself at last, but still nothing more than a spectator.  Watching what he knew deep down was about to happen.  His eyes caught the change in the traffic lights as the shifted from red, to amber, to green.  His foot pressed against the pedal, his hand changed the gear.  The car whirled into motion and his body felt the force of momentum pressing him mercilessly into the seat.  But it was over soon enough.  Before he even had time to slow another car came from the left junction, driving straight ahead and towards him.  There was no time for panic.  It was over in seconds.  One car hit the other and everything disappeared in bangs and crashes, but he was still there.  Everything had gone, but it was not his darkness.  It was different. 

Then he felt himself rising, lifting up from his own corpse, and feeling once more what it meant to be himself.  He looked down on the earth and saw the sprawled wreck of the car, his body held tightly by its steel embrace, the man lifting his wife, still screaming but very much alive from the wreck. 

  As the last few breaths left his rattling throat he lay peacefully and still, secure only in the certainty that his life was at its end.  His body was as cold and distorted as the steel that wrapped its twisted limbs around him.  As he rested, the world, behind shattered windows and broken doors, slowly warped while his senses were stolen.  The curtains closed around him and he was left alone in a foreign world of darkness and silence.

But now he knew why.  That one moment had swelled out of proportion: an injured back, a slight slip, premature labour, panic fuelled driving and then his death.  Now he knew that little bit more about the world.  His world and his life.  Now he would forever be a part of it in the skies.  He could watch that child grow old, with every other child and learn, forever growing in knowledge and strength in the heavens, but never understanding everything.  For that would be the place of God.

 

 

Author's Note

hope you enjoyed it. Any advice would be appreciated, and any tips to improve my writing style will be welcomed. Compliments are good too though!