Da habe ich doch tatsächlich eine ganze Szene aus „Eine Riesenmenge Geld“ für meine nächste Creative-Writing-Hausaufgabe auf Englisch übersetzt, und jetzt ist das Dokument weg. Wahrscheinlich hab ich irgendwann versehentlich das Fenster geschlossen, ohne zu speichern. Kann man nichts machen. Aber andererseits gefiel mir das Ergebnis ohnehin nicht so richtig, und nun hab ich stattdessen eine Szene aus einer Geschichte übersetzt, die ihr bisher nicht kennt, und so bald auch nicht kennenlernen werdet, weil ich mir nämlich vorgenommen habe, für den Fall der Fälle einen Roman aufzuheben, den ich nicht komplett hier online stelle. Kann ja sein, dass ich irgendwann mal in der Situation bin, dass ein Verlag sich über sowas freut. Denke ich jedenfalls zurzeit noch.
Egal. Ein kleines Stück kann ja nicht schaden, und es ist ja sogar nur eine Übersetzung, und weil ich jetzt doppelte Mühe mit der Aufgabe hatte, und weil
ihr euch Guinan sich über meine Fragmente immer so freut, und weil ich eh gerade nichts anderes mitzuteilen habe, teile ich eben das mit euch.
Breathe. Lydia tries, but it doesn’t work. Her windpipe and her lungs are closed, they refuse to accept that strange gas which they do not know. Refuse to eject the perfluorocarbonic gel that has supplied them with oxygen for all of her life. She knows she needs to breathe air, she’s seen people do it, but her body refuses. It feels wrong.
But she needs to do breathe, and so she finally forces herself to cough and retch up the clear gel and takes her very first breath. It’s a strange feeling to breathe for herself for the first time, to not just have the gel flow through her lungs
Muscles that have never been exercised and still are perfectly developed and very strong pump the cold gas mixture – it feels terribly cold to her – into her lungs, and out again. In, and out. It feels strange. What would happen if she just stopped? Could she just stop?
Her interest in breathing wanes as other impressions rise to her consciousness.
“We all do,”
She sees with her own eyes, and hears with her own ears. She feels cold and hard concrete through the nerve endings under her skin. There are pores in the concrete. They are very fine, but she can feel them. The concrete is cold, very cold. Lydia has never touched anything colder than her own body.
Lydia sees light. It’s so dreadfully bright, and it hurts her eyes. Why can’t she smell, shouldn’t she smell? She needs to breathe to smell. She doesn’t taste anything either. Smell and taste are connected. As with many things she knows, she can’t remember ever having learned this, but she knows.
It must be the gel. The gel is probably covering her receptors. She’s quite certain that she will be able to taste, and to smell. Almost everybody is. Something else she knows, without knowing why.
“all day long. You can, too!”
She starts to not just see, but to perceive. Her optic nerves are no longer transmitting an all-consuming blinding light. Contours and shapes and things start to become apparent. Lydia has seen things before, but never through her own eyes. She has seen pictures, and movies. Has she seen them? She remembers picturs and movies, but she doesn’t remember watching them. She sees a picture. She notices that the picture moves. It’s like a movie.
Lydia realizes that this is reality. This is life. She is excited. She hasn’t lived before, not really. At least, she can’t remember living. But she is alive now.
The voice. She’s hearing a voice. She hears muffled crunching and rustling. She hears breath and heartbeats of four people. And she hears the voice. It’s very slow. Lydia is used to having information transmitted in an infinitely faster way. She needs to concentrate to follow the voice, to understand it. It’s hard for her to follow that slow, slow voice. It’s a human’s voice. Humans are like her. They think, like her. Humans made her. Lydia is like a human, but she’s different.