The original post is below, but I really didn't like it. It grated. So, here's the reworking. I know this breaks every rule in the book, but we'll just keep this one a secret, shall we?
The way back, he drove. Again, the car passed through the dense, solitary New England forest. Snowflakes settled on the spindly, barren branches, outlining them skeletal against the pallid, gray sky. They didn't speak. He focused instead on the jaundiced oval the car's aging headlights cast on the blackened snow and the winding path it led. She sat; her eyes, too, never left the road in front. Their son was in the back seat. A new teddy bear clenched in his fingers. He was soundlessly picking at the fur. One thread at a time. One thread at a time. Miles passed.
The car lurched. The father's knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. His jaw was tighter. The mother shifted, smoothing quickly the crease in her coat. She sat straighter now, her back more rigid against the inertial pull of the car. The boy had broken through the seam. He pulled out the cotton filling, one strand at a time.
The car pulled into a driveway, stopped. Its passengers got out. The back seat was covered with brown and white threads. No one commented. They walked to the door. Snowflakes settled in the boys hair. He shivered.
That night, he cried. The cotton deadened the sound.
=============
The prompt? After asking around, the best I got was "Teddy bear", so, I'm going to run with it.
The second day, he drove. Again, the car passed through the dense, solitary New England forest. Snowflakes settled on the spindly, barren branches, outlining them skeletal against the pallid, gray sky. They didn't speak. He focused instead on the jaundiced oval the car's aging headlights cast on the blackened snow and the winding path it led. She sat; her eyes, too, never left the road in front. Miles passed.
The car lurched. His knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. She shifted, smoothing quickly the crease in her coat. She sat straighter now, her back more rigid against the inertial pull of the car. His jaw was tighter.
The car pulled into a small parking lot. She led the way into the clinic, walking quickly. They were late for their appointment.
Dr. Marshall was at her desk. A glass of water was offered, refused. No, they did not want to see their son first. It was not necessary. The diagnosis was handed over. A clinically precise description of the affliction was read. The conclusion: Normal. The only symptom appeared to be as described. A penchant for tearing apart a single favorite teddy bear at night and sticking his head inside. The bear would not leave his side during the day. It could not be removed by force, nor coaxing, nor reward. Yet when repaired, the gash in its side reemerged as his fingers pulled at it, thread by thread and mechanically pulled out the soft stuffing. It afforded significant breathing space and was not dangerous. There was no cause for concern. The mother nodded and returned the paper. She declined a copy.
Dr. Marshall led the way to the observation room. The boy stood as soon as they entered. His fingers clenched against the ear of the bear. It had been newly mended. His seat was covered in individual strands of brown thread. No one commented. They walked out to the car.
That night, tucked into his own bed, the boy meticulously resumed his silent disassembly. He cried, but the cotton deadened the sound.
I don't think I acheived the effect I wanted, here. I'll give it another shot later.
C.
The second day, he drove. Again, the car passed through the dense, solitary New England forest. Snowflakes settled on the spindly, barren branches, outlining them skeletal against the pallid, gray sky. They didn't speak. He focused instead on the jaundiced oval the car's aging headlights cast on the blackened snow and the winding path it led. She sat; her eyes, too, never left the road in front. Miles passed.
The car lurched. His knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. She shifted, smoothing quickly the crease in her coat. She sat straighter now, her back more rigid against the inertial pull of the car. His jaw was tighter.
The car pulled into a small parking lot. She led the way into the clinic, walking quickly. They were late for their appointment.
Dr. Marshall was at her desk. A glass of water was offered, refused. No, they did not want to see their son first. It was not necessary. The diagnosis was handed over. A clinically precise description of the affliction was read. The conclusion: Normal. The only symptom appeared to be as described. A penchant for tearing apart a single favorite teddy bear at night and sticking his head inside. The bear would not leave his side during the day. It could not be removed by force, nor coaxing, nor reward. Yet when repaired, the gash in its side reemerged as his fingers pulled at it, thread by thread and mechanically pulled out the soft stuffing. It afforded significant breathing space and was not dangerous. There was no cause for concern. The mother nodded and returned the paper. She declined a copy.
Dr. Marshall led the way to the observation room. The boy stood as soon as they entered. His fingers clenched against the ear of the bear. It had been newly mended. His seat was covered in individual strands of brown thread. No one commented. They walked out to the car.
That night, tucked into his own bed, the boy meticulously resumed his silent disassembly. He cried, but the cotton deadened the sound.
I don't think I acheived the effect I wanted, here. I'll give it another shot later.
C.