by Reginald
Jarrold was unaware of the bustling world as he sat on a park bench. The beauty of the sun was lost on him. The song of the birds played like a record in a room with no one there to listen. The gentle smiles of the joggers were met with disregard, just as their waves and pleasantries had been. Jarrold’s intentions were never to be rude, but oftentimes he failed at the “polite to strangers” culture in which he was raised. Jarrold grew up in rural North Carolina, but his interactions with others would lead one to the believe that he had grown up in the city of New York. His lack of social abilities was not attributable to the fact that he didn’t see the value in others, but was due to a constant need to better himself in order to be accepted by them.
As he sat in the park, Jarrold was caught in a snare that no hunter had set for him. This trap was the product of his own thinking; he had built it with the thoughts that he let consume him. The blueprints were of his own design, but he still struggled to escape.
Questions without answers bombarded him: What if I had gotten here two minutes later? Why didn’t I leave an hour earlier? What if I was strong enough to say no? How can I fix it? Why keep trying?
No rhyme or reason existed in this state and in it, the logical mind died.
You are stuck Jarrold, he thought to himself. Distraction. You have to distract yourself and find an end to all of this.
Two hours had passed since Jarrold first found a seat on the park bench. Time disappeared and the tick of the second hand faded beyond recognition as Jarrold began to paint the mental scene.
With his eyes closed, Jarrold cleared the canvas of his mind. He blacked out the thoughts that oppressed him and soon the slate was clean. Bit by bit, Jarrold reconstructed the details of the last image he’d seen. He started with the large, lush evergreens in the distance that were peppered with dogwoods, and the mass of trees framed the open field. Then Jarrold made the overgrown baseball diamond with strokes of green reminiscent of Bob Ross to fill the space. He reconstructed the mock thatching woodwork of the restrooms as carefully as the original artist. In his imagination, Jarrold could build the structure board by board.
Faint footsteps from the padded composite track whispered in his ear. As the sound of the gentle trod approached him, Jarrold constructed the track on which the feet landed. The track zoomed around the newly constructed restrooms, falling into place like a Hot Wheels track, piece by piece. At his feet, he imagined his weight pressing into the composite material. He felt it spring back into the arches of his feet.
The darkness of his Pineal palate had been filled with the tones of nature and accented by the fragrance of heat and grass that he created in the air.
In that place of his creation, Jarrold was different. He had control of his mind there. The version of Jarrold that he became was jovial and he interacted with others like a master of social skill.
A young lady approached without notice. She was just steps away before her labored breathing caught Jarrold’s attention.
“A beautiful day for a run,” he called out both neighborly and welcoming.
She returned a warm smile that Jarrold found comforting. As quickly as she had appeared, she vanished into the fog just out of Jarrold’s peripheral vision.
And as if her exit made the sound more recognizable, he heard the light clanging of thin metal fill the air. With it came the musk of labor topped off with Polo. An instant sense of calm filled Jarrold and the smirk that consumed his face, bloomed naturally. The park began to feel like it could become home.
As both the sound and scent threatened to overtake him, the vision of a medium-sized, fox-like figure entered his view. The fur was jet black and gleamed with the sun. The pink collar around its neck was the source of the metallic sound, and the leash attached to it was held by a strong, capable hand which explained Jarrold’s sudden feeling of familiarity.
“Oh wow, she is beautiful. What breed is she?” Jarrold inquired.
The stranger responded with a smile that could melt hearts just as the beaming sun could melt ice. From it, Jarrold knew that their intentions were aligned.
“I’m not sure. I got her as a puppy from some people at a gas station and I’ve never been happier”
“Oh nice. Seems like an unexpected circumstance to gain something so valuable.“ Jarrold remarked.
The stranger’s smile grew larger and he extended a hand.
“I’m Alex, and this is Sarabi.”
A smile crept across Jarrold’s face, but it was soon replaced with a combination of fear, surprise, and excitement.
The tongue felt warm and textured as it wiped the smile from his face like a damp washcloth in the morning. The feeling had jerked him from his fantasy. His disbelief at being interrupted glued Jarrold’s eyes closed.
“She really likes you.”
The voice was unmistakable. Jarrold knew that voice. Just moments before, that voice had only existed in the place that he had created.
PRL Serials 