Andrew McIntosh

Adam soon forgot the bitter taste lingering in his throat when a voice, gentle as the hand he found resting on his shoulder, said, ‘You are in the park, and it’s a beautiful day.’

He turned sluggishly to whoever was addressing him. Dressed as light and bright as the image her words brought to mind, a woman sat beside him on the bench and looked kindly into his eyes. She nodded with a smile, as if encouraging him to cherish what she said. He almost chuckled at the obviousness of the statement; of course they were in the park, there was no question about it. Before he could respond, she slipped her arm off his shoulder, rose, and wandered away.

Adam quickly dismissed the strange encounter; he was, after all, here to enjoy the beauty of his surroundings. Beneath a cloudless sky lay a pond shimmering in the hues of late afternoon sun. Park-goers meandered along the path encircling its reedy banks or dozed in the grass or played among wind-stirred trees which embraced the sanctuary on all sides. The sun hung low behind a swaying canopy, casting shafts of gold and speckled shadows over the park. The breeze called and leaves whispered in answer and flowers gifted the air with their sweetness. Adam closed his eyes, content.

After an unknown time lazing without care, his awareness twitched. Something was amiss. He could not determine what was wrong, and instead found himself trying to concentrate on the cause of this trouble like a patient fighting uselessly to stay awake as anaesthetics plunge them to sleep. This internal struggle lasted only a moment before a young couple strolled past and he happily forgot about his distress.

‘Temperature is probably the most important part,’ the man said. ‘Those plants we’ve got in the apartment don’t get any sunlight, and they haven’t died yet; it’s got to be the heat. Well, that and my loving care.’

‘Alright then, Mr Horticulturist,’ she laughed. ‘Think you could take care of this place?’

‘A whole acre? Not a chance. I’ve got no idea how they keep this place alive.’

‘It’s pretty amazing. Now that we’ve tried the park both ways, which do you prefer?’

‘It’s a hard one,’ he sighed. ‘This way is cheaper but it’s not as much fun. The other way is definitely effective, but I could take it or leave it.’

‘I agree. We might as well pay less and get the real experience.’

‘The real experience? I don’t think the historians would agree with that.’

Adam neither had a clue nor cared what they were talking about and, admiring the park’s serenity, thought no more about them.

Once the evening cooled, he decided it was time to go home. He got up from the bench and wandered languidly along the path. The park was a pleasant blur of greenery bathed in waning daylight. He followed the trail beyond a gate marked “Exit”, continued through the trees, and passed beneath an arch cut into a brick wall, finding himself in that place he had forgotten; Adam stood in the reception.

Customers queued up at booths so that they could book or begin the experience of which he, miserably, had reached the end.

Murals of the park lined the walls, painted in such a poor imitation of its true beauty, and displayed harshly beneath such cold, clinical light, that the very images made him feel ill. On the back wall was written, “ACRE: The largest expanse of nature in Greater Melbourne. Experience the historical pastime of strolling through an entire acre of parkland. With no artificial flora, this treasured landmark has been enclosed to preserve its condition. Imitation sunlight, realistic sky-blue ceiling and atmospheric effects bring the indoor reservation to life. Temporary memory-blockers available for true bliss.”

The sight of the reception woke his memory up from the pill which had been benevolently keeping him in slumber. He recalled the brightly dressed nurse who had sat beside him and provided that means of respite from reality, and remembered that an effective approach to clear the subsequent mind-fog was to be reminded of his very surroundings, to be told that he was indeed in the park, and it was a beautiful day. For some, the park itself was sufficient to dissipate the fatigue and depression induced by the outside world. For Adam, that was not enough. He remembered his first visit—he had opted for the cheaper, pill-free experience—where he wandered with a troubled mind around the pond, ever conscious that reality was nearby.

With rising sickness, he remembered home. He moved with unease to the window and glanced out to the world which this establishment protected him from. Beyond the rain-specked glass and queue of glum, sodden figures—many of whom had likely travelled for hours for this experience—stretched a road jammed end-to-end with congestion. Only the sterile glare of headlights in rain gave illumination to these vehicles which would leave the street amidst a blare of horns and stifling fumes. The thoroughfare was shrouded in gloom beneath a low sea of cloud whose depths smothered any glimmer of sun. Across the road loomed tower after tower of concrete and glass, continuing to rise until lost behind sheets of windswept drizzle.

As he had done countless times before, Adam rejoined the long line to book his next visit.

‘The next booking we have available is in two months today, same time again,’ the receptionist informed him.

‘Alright,’ he said, with as much colour as the city outside, and paid the exorbitant price.

Adam trudged out into the cold and looked up to bleak towers standing where the sky should have shone. As the thought of returning to the grey metropolis chilled him worse than the rain on his skin, he took a shred of comfort from the knowledge that, in two months, he would once again be granted the pleasure of forgetting it.

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Andrew McIntosh is a writer and astrophysics graduate with interests in gothic horror, fantasy and dystopian science fiction. Originally from Scotland, Andrew now lives in Melbourne with his partner. Between time spent reading and writing, he enjoys travelling, taking stubborn care of his withering houseplants and exploring Melbourne’s food scene.

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