I’m pulled forth from a heavy, artificial sleep, my senses laced with the milky drunk of Propofol. I hear the monotone hum of white noise that gradually increases its pace, approaching my recovering conscious mind with a speed that accentuates the fact that my limbs are not recovered and that they hang heavy from my torso, as if shot up with half-set concrete that clings to every inch of bone and muscle. My head begins to swirl as my sinuses are sucker punched by the rich, spicy aroma of aged wood and a more confusing odor that lingers like perfume, but burns like rubbing alcohol, all of which are hooded in a musty, metallic scent that reminds me of an old, rarely inhabited basement. My eyelids finally begin their slow ascension, and as the cataract-like haze begins to burn off, my eyes start to focus on the view that extends beyond my eyelashes, which have eerily morphed into thick prison bars that mar the natural light that is struggling to awaken me entirely. I feel the urgent alarm from deep within that wants so desperately to summon my fight or flight instinct, but like the rest of me, it has not recovered and remains tucked under the blanket of anesthesia, so I lay there, vulnerable, waiting for the lethargy to release me.
I come to with a violent jolt. My entire body is warm and coated in a thin layer of sweat. I am bathed in late morning sunlight that fools my body into thinking I have a fever that needs to break. I wipe my forehead with my right hand and let it slowly slide down my right cheek, to my neck, finally dropping it to the sticky, moist flesh of my stomach. I immediately sit up and look down my naked body, panic stricken by the knowledge that prior to my black out I was fully clothed. I begin to inspect my body with frantic eyes and hands, while trying to mentally zone in on any radiating pain that would give away if I had been injured, abused, or violated. To my great relief all flesh is intact and the only insult I seem to have suffered as of yet is the unlawful drugging and the rape of my modesty. I start to scan the floor around me for my clothes and undergarments, but there is nothing within the room; no furniture, no carpeting, not a thing spoils the mature hardwood floor. Out of sheer disbelief I begin a second search of my confines, and as I turn my head to the left my eyes are momentarily blinded by the glint of an ethereal light. I stand up to investigate further, when I am dumbstruck by the new angle that has been given to the starburst. Overwhelmed by disbelief, I walk forwards, my anxious hand extended before me preparing to succumb to the reality of my finding, while my head slowly raises and my mind attempts to grasp and process the enormity of the fact that I am enclosed within a glass dome; a bell jar.
My fingers hover before the glass, as my mind weighs which finger I should use to release the profound reality of my situation upon me. As if moving of its own accord, my right middle finger presses into the warm glass, my remaining fingers, thumb, and palm following suit. I place my left hand on the glass and then bring my face just centimeters from the transparent wall, gazing out at the most ordinary of views. I’m in a small room. Before me is an ornate cottage window, trimmed in a seasoned, splintered wood and bejeweled with six seeded glass panes. To the left of the window, butting up against the uneven, yellowing, plaster wall is an antique desk composed of shelves, drawers, and cubbies of varying sizes and shapes. The desk surface is cluttered with papers; some crumpled others merely mistreated by rough hands that have pushed them off to this side and that corner. There are pencils that bear teeth indentations, fountain pens stained with ink blotches from careless hands, empty wooden picture frames, and books with worn spines stacked unevenly; some books lay open, others bear the scar of pages with dog-eared corners. The walls of the room are adorned with maps of exotic and domestic locales, photographs of indigenous people I’ve only read of in tales of travel, of wild animals and flightless birds long extinct, and illustrations of deep sea dwellers that resemble visions from nightmares or dark fairy tales. Tucked in one corner of the room is a tattered, moss green velvet chair that looks as if it was resurrected from the bowels of a trash heap and stretching across the floor of the room is a faded, moth eaten oriental rug that I can tell once proudly flaunted rich jewel tones. Just a few feet from the chair is the warped, wooden door; shut, and as the gaps reveal, locked. Thinking on the grand picture I am able to deduce that this is someone’s study, but in terms of my crystalline prison, I’m as ignorant as ever as to the questions of who, what, where, and why.
As the sun’s position gradually shifts, my cell slowly cools and I’m caught off guard by the minutest whirl of a breeze that envelops me. I look above me to see that the dome is punctured by several small holes, clearly my source of oxygen, and vital for my survival. My mind flirts with the idea that my captor wants me alive. As I slowly turn around I am frozen with fear at the horror before me. A primitive wooden cabinet stands open. Worn iron hinges, pulls, and handles adorn the doors and drawers of the cabinet, but it’s the bizarre knickknacks…the morbid trophies…that fill the shelves, that drains the blood from my face and sends my stomach plummeting to the soles of my feet. Glass jars filled with clear fluids drown nature’s oddities; a two headed pig fetus, a six fingered hand, a five eyed fish. Insects painted in the most stunning hues and shimmering in an otherworldly iridescence are pinned to linen wrapped panels. Snake skins and small animal pelts hang on the cabinets back panels. I see small glass containers containing collections of teeth; incisors, molars, gold, even a few that bear precious gems. Skulls of odd shapes and sizes, some even resembling that of humans, stare back at me with their deep, dark, forlorn sockets. Patches of tattooed flesh are stitched to canvas and sealed behind museum grade glass. My body is numb and trembling with fear. I bring my hands to my mouth to stifle my inaudible screams, when my eyes catch sight of my mental undoing. Just a few inches from the bell jar that holds me captive, is an array of cold, scientific implements, some medieval in appearance, laying in wait for my abductor to return and with dexterous hands and meticulous precision and skill, violently craft me into an exhibit in the Cabinet of Curiosities.
E.A. O'Connell
