[Kreativität] Freitagsinfusion #94: Lexikon

[Victoria]

1) Nehmt irgendein Lexikon oder Wörterbuch. 2) Schlagt irgendeine Seite auf. 3) Tippt auf irgendein Wort. Wenn es ein Substantiv ist, baut dieses in eurer aktuellen Szene ein. Wenn es keines ist, fangt noch mal bei Schritt 1 an.

Zeigt eure Ergebnisse!

[Lia Roger]

Da ich hier gerade kein Wörterbuch hab, bin ich auf randomword.com gegangen. Mein zufällig generiertes Wort war: mohair ~ fabric made from silky hair of angora goats
Das passt nun überhaupt nicht in meine nächste Szene, aber eine kleine Szene ist mir dazu trotzdem eingefallen. Ich bin sehr unzufrieden damit weil ich eh schon aus der Übung bin und es ist auch nur ein rough draft, aber da ich grad eigentlich arbeiten sollte, muss es erstmal so bleiben. XD Ich würde es ja am Wochenende verbessern, aber da widme ich mich lieber dem Schreiben am Hauptwerk, und in bester NaNo-Manier lass ich somit einfach mal den Text einen Text sein. Das Überarbeiten läuft ja nicht weg. ^^

The first time Cale saw his mother cry, he thought it was over a ruined sweater.
She'd spotted and fallen in love with it mid-December while she was running errands. She took Cale with her quite a lot during the summer months, when the risk of him catching an infection was low enough to take him to the city. They'd moved to Auckland's outskirts not too long ago as they couldn't afford the high rent anymore, and Cale loved their spacious backyard and the fresh air that entered his lungs so much more easily than the city's smog and pollution. As a result, he was stronger than ever, and able to accompany his mother to the centre.
He could still remember the way her face lit up when she saw the sweater. She'd been particularly stressed that day and he'd almost - almost - regretted coming with her, though he never regretted going out. But then her expression had softened and she'd stopped for a moment to take a gander at a local boutique's new collection, and her eyes glistened when they met the sweater. It was a pricey garment, made of soft, silky mohair, and so white and pristine it looked like it was meant for an angel. That same day, they'd started collecting every coin they found in a large mason jar. Cale's mother would take him to the city centre every Friday to check if the sweater was still there, and every night before he went to sleep, they would count the coins they had collected so far.
Christmas came and went, summer turned into autumn, and as winter approached, somehow, they managed to collect enough money. It was too cold for Cale to leave the house, but he was so excited that his mother decided to wrap him up in scarves and jackets and take him with her anyway, and they were just about on time to buy the last one in stock. They were beaming when they came home and hung the new sweater in Cale's parents' wardrobe. He extended his hand towards it, hesitantly, as it was so white and pure he was afraid of tainting it, and stroked the silky hairs. Whenever his mother wore it, he snuggled up to her and got lost in the sweater's warmth and softness, and she'd put her arms around him and for a moment, the world was alright and he wasn't sick or afraid anymore.
He got to wear it himself only a week later. He'd been coming down with a cold and the sweater, combined with his mother's embrace, was the only thing that could keep him warm. He pulled his arms inside it, wrapped it tightly around his shivering body and buried his face in it whenever he was racked by another coughing fit, covering it with sputum. One time, his hands were shaking so much that he spilled a cup of tea on it that his mother had brought him. She washed the sweater while he was asleep, but never got the stain out.
He still wore the sweater when his cold turned into pneumonia and he had to spend all of July in the hospital. Every time his veins were punctured to draw blood or place a venous access, a few drops of blood fell onto the sweater, forming right red specks that later turned into a rusty brown. The mohair, now drenched in sweat, had lost its silky feel and turned rough, yet Cale kept asking for it whenever he found himself awake and undressed.
Another time, he threw up on it, delirious from the fever and coughing fits and sick to his already sensitive stomach from the antibiotics. The sweater was taken away from him that day and he spent the night tossing and turning, plagued by feverish nightmares. The next day, it was returned to him, stained and scratchy, but with a faint scent of his favourite fabric softener. It felt larger when he put it on, and he didn't know if that was because he'd stretched it out with his constant tossing and turning or if it only seemed loose because he was thinner.
He didn't remember much after that. The few times he was awake, his mother was there, one of her hands holding his, the other one clutching the worn-out sweater. He tried to sit up and talk to her, but his body wouldn't obey him. For another two weeks, he was glued to the bed and all he could do was wheeze, cough and sleep, until one morning, he woke up feeling a little more alive than he'd grown used to. He couldn't breathe well, not the way he could in his parents' backyard, but he no longer felt like he was suffocating. There was a hand on his, and another one stroking the stained mohair.
'Mom?' Cale managed to say in a hoarse voice. She turned to him so abruptly that it startled him, a strange expression on her face. Her eyes glistened the way they did when he first saw the sweater, but instead of smiling, she clutched on to him, fingers buried in the shoddy garment, and began to sob.
'Mom?'
The sobbing only intensified. Tears and snot stained the sweater, and suddenly Cale realised how badly he had ruined it. His eyes filled with tears, and by the time his mother had calmed down a little, he was crying uncontrollably.
'I'm sorry,' he muttered in between sobs. 'I'm sorry I ruin everything. I'm sorry I ruined your sweater.'
However, to his surprise, instead of being angry, his mother smiled through her tears and pulled him closer.
'It's okay, baby. It's just a sweater.'
'But it was so nice. It was your nice thing.'
'Oh, don't you worry about that, ever. I have plenty of nice things. Plenty.'

Nur registrierte Nutzer können diesen Inhalt sehen.