𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖠𝖭𝖣 𝖠𝖫𝖫 pt. 9
(𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌)
𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ
ᴡᴀʏ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴᴀʟ
ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ/ꜰᴀᴄᴛ-ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ
ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ.
ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀɪᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇ
ᴏʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴀɴʏ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪꜰɪᴄ
ᴛʀᴇᴀᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ
ꜰᴏʀ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴍᴇɴᴛ.
sᥙρρort to thosᥱ ιmρᥲᥴtᥱd
ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴩᴛ- 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳
𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➸ 𝐏𝐆-𝟏𝟑
ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ🙂ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴅᴀʏ
Their laughter mingles with the
breeze, the creaking of the
swings a comforting rhythm.
For a moment, everything feels
normal, it's just them. But then
two playfully boisterous kids
come by.
Their energy is infectious,
but for Plankton, it's too much.
He flinches at their sudden
approach, nervously gripping
the swing's chains tightly.
The two kids laugh,
their giggles piercing the
calm of the playground.
They run past, their eyes
locked on the baby swing,
their arms outstretched.
Chip watches. The swing
squeaks as the children
pass it side to side to
each other carelessly,
when the baby swing
hits Plankton, jolting him.
Plankton's eye rolls back,
his body going rigid. "Dad!"
Chip cries, his voice
echoing in the sudden
silence. Karen's head snaps
up, her eyes wide. Plankton's
swing stops, his grip
on the chains loosening.
He's in the middle of
an absence seizure, his
brain briefly disconnecting
from the world around him.
Chip jumps off his swing,
his knees hitting the ground
with a thud. The two
boisterous kids stop
their laughter as Chip and
Karen catch Plankton's body.
"Dad?" Chip whispers, his voice
shaking.
Plankton's limp. "It's
okay, Chip," Karen says.
"Just hold him."
They go to the ground,
supporting Plankton's form
between them. The kids hover,
curiosity in their eyes. "What's
wrong with him?" one asks.
"He's okay," Karen says, her
voice firm but gentle. "He just
needs a minute." Plankton's
body twitches slightly, his
eyelid fluttering. "Dad?"
The kids' curiosity turns to
concern, their laughter
replaced by quiet whispers.
One of them tugs at their
mother's sleeve, pointing at
the scene. The mother's
expression shifts from playful
to worried. She approaches
them cautiously. "Is he ok?
Should we ca--"
Karen shakes her head,
cutting her off. "No thank you,
but we've got it. He has
autism. He'll be okay." The
mother nods, her eyes
softening with understanding
and slowly backing away
with her kids, giving them space.
Plankton's body slowly
unfurls, his antennae
twitching back to life. Chip
holds his breath. Plankton blinks,
his eye coming back into focus.
"Chip?" he says, his voice
slurred. Karen nods. "You had
a seizure, Plankton," she says.
"You're okay now." Plankton's
face relaxes, his antennae drooping
slightly. "Tired," he murmurs.
Chip's eyes never leave
his dad's. "You scared me,"
he admits. Plankton looks at
his son, his gaze filled with
apology. "I-I'm s-sorry, buddy,"
he says. "I didn't mean t-to."
Karen wraps an arm around
Plankton's shoulders. "Let's sit
for a bit," she suggests.
They move to the bench,
Plankton's legs still wobbly
as the sit down on the bench.
Plankton's hands start
to move, almost
subconsciously. He's
stimming again, waving
his flapping hands.
Chip watches. He's seen this now.
He understands now.
Karen's hand rests on
Plankton's back, her thumb
making small circles. "It's
okay, honey," she whispers.
Plankton's hands flap faster in
small, repetitive motions.
It's his way of creating
his own rhythm, his own
harmony amidst the noise.
Chip watches, his screen
filled with a mix of fear
and fascination. "It's his
brain's way of saying 'I'm
alright'," Karen explains, her
voice low. "He's okay."
Plankton's hands
slow, the stimming
becoming less
frantic. Karen's eyes
never leave his, her
expression a mix
of concern and
understanding. "You've
had a big morning,"
she says softly. "Ye-ye-yes,"
he stammers. Karen nods.
Plankton's antennae droop,
his hand stilling. Chip
notices the quiet that settles
over his dad.
"You wanna go home?" he
asks, his voice small.
Plankton nods, his eye
focused on a spot in the
distance. Karen stands,
helping him to his feet.
"Okay, let's go," she says.
The walk to the car feels
longer than the journey to
the playground. Chip
notices the way his dad's
steps are smaller, his movements
more deliberate. It's as if he's
retreating into himself, his
brain needing a moment to
recover.
In the backseat, Plankton
fidgets with the seat
belt, strumming it as
Chip sits next to him.
The car's engine hums
to life, Karen glancing
back at them through the
rearview mirror, her eyes
filled with love and concern.
"Talk box," Plankton says
to himself. He's retreating.
Chip looks confused. "Talk
box?" He looks at his dad.
"Dad, wh-"
"Chip," Karen interjects,
her eyes in the mirror.
"Let him be. Remember
yesterday. Sometimes he
just needs to talk to himself.
You can sit with him, but
it can make him upset
when you comment on it
as if it's strange. He barely
even knows he's doing it."
Chip nods, trying to remember
the conversation they had.
Plankton's mumbling turns to
a murmur, a low hum that's
barely audible over the
car's engine. "Fluffy, blue,
circle," he says, his eye
fixed on the passing scenery.
The words are nonsensical,
but Chip tries to keep
his voice calm. "It's okay,
Dad," he says.
Karen glances at him in
the mirror, her eyes full of
pride. "He's okay," she
reassures Chip. "He's just
talking himself through it."
Plankton's hand starts to
move again, tapping the
seat in a steady rhythm.
"Pip," he whispers. "Flibbity,
floppety, jib."
Chip's eyes are glued to his
father, his curiosity
piqued by this window
into his internal world.
"Blip, blup, bebop," Plankton
mumbles, his antennae
twitching with each syllable.
Chip's mind
whirrs with questions but
his mom's advice from
last night echoes in his head.
He watches as his dad's hand
taps out the rhythm of his
thoughts on the car door.
"Mom, is he okay?" Chip
asks, his voice low. Karen
nods. "He's just working
through it," she says. "It's his
brain's way of talking to
itself."
Plankton's murmurs
grow quieter as they drive,
his antennae drooping slightly.
Karen glances in the
rearview mirror, her screen
filled with warmth. "It's
his brain's way of processing
thoughts, turning them into
words and sounds." Chip nods,
his gaze never leaving Plankton's
face. "It's like he's got a
little world in there,"
he murmurs. Karen smiles.
"Exactly," she says. "And those
words are his way of
navigating it."
Plankton taps on the door.
"Dibbly. Pling," he says. Karen
nods. "You're safe." Plankton's hand
stops tapping, his antennae
still. "Safe," he echoes, his voice
a whisper.
Chip's eyes are wide,
his curiosity piqued by his
father's quiet self-talk.
"It's his way of reassuring
his brain," Karen explains.
"It's like he's saying 'it's okay'
to himself." Chip nods.
Karen's screen finds Chip's.
"You're doing great," she mouths.
The car's movement
lulls Plankton into silence.
His antennae droop, his
lids growing heavy. Chip
notices the change, his
heart aching. "Dad?" he whispers.
"Tired," he says.
The hum of the engine
becomes a white noise,
their world narrowing down
to the car's confines. Plankton's
breathing deepens, his body
slumping slightly against the seat.
Karen's eyes flick to the mirror,
seeing Chip's concern.
"It's okay," she says softly.
"He's just getting sleepy."
In his own world, Plankton
whispers to himself. "Flip,
flap, jibber." His eye
closed, but his mind races.
Chip watches, fascinated
by the silent conversation.
"What's he saying?" he
asks Karen. She smiles,
keeping her eyes on the road.
"He's just talking to his
stims," she says.
"Talking to his stims?"
Chip repeats, trying to
understand. "It's like he's
having a conversation,"
Karen explains, "but it's
not with us. It's with his
brain. It's his way of sorting
things out." "Does he know
what he's saying?" Chip asks.
"Not always," Karen says,
keeping her eyes on the
road. "Sometimes it's just
sounds, other times it's
fragments of words or
phrases. It's his way of
finding calm in the chaos."
Plankton's whispers
continue, "Bloop. Squish.
Karen." Chip looks at his
mom. "Does he know he's
saying your name?" Karen
smiles. "Sometimes he
does. It's his way of
reassuring himself that
he's not alone." Chip nods.
Chip can't help but feel a
sense of wonder at his
dad's unique way of dealing
with the world. "Blibber,
babble, wonka," Plankton
says, his voice softer now.
Chip looks out the window,
his thoughts racing. He
wonders if he'll ever
understand what it's like
inside his dad's head. "Is he
okay?" he asks again, his voice
barely above a whisper. "He's
fine, Chip," Karen says, her
voice calm. "This is just his way."
The words keep coming, a
steady stream of nonsense
syllables that somehow make
sense to Plankton. "Flitter,
flatter, snicker-snack," he murmurs.
Karen's eyes are on the
road, but her love is with
Plankton, listening to his
self-soothing symphony. She
knows that in his own way,
he's trying to find peace.