Broken 2/2
(Iām a neurodivergent author)
Plankton's body sags, anger dissipating.
His eye glisten with tears.
"Broken," he repeats, his voice barely a whisper, the word a knife to his soul. He shakes his head and turns, unable to face the person who so casually tossed it at him.
"Plankton," Karen says, her voice strained, but he's already retreating.
Shoulders hunched, Plankton turns and strides out of the room, footsteps heavy and deliberate. The door to the bedroom slams shut behind him, the echo of sobs resonating through.
Sandy and Karen are left standing in the living room, the air thick with unspoken words and unshed tears.
"I didn't mean it like, I cannot believe I just, Iām sorry," Sandy says, voice shaky. She looks at her friend, her eyes pleading for understanding. "I..."
Karen's gaze is steely. "You need to understand," she says firmly, voice trembling with weight. "Plankton was born with a neurodivergent condition."
Sandy's eyes widen. "What?" she whispers.
Karen nods solemnly. "Plankton's mother was in a car accident when pregnant with him."
Sandy's eyes widen in horror. "I had no idea," she whispers.
Karen nods, her own eyes brimming with unshed tears. "After, doctors saw Plankton's brain developing differently," she explains, her voice tight with emotion. "He's incredibly sensitive to stimulationāsounds, lights; strong emotions, like just now, can overwhelm him."
"That's why he gets these... episodes?" Sandy asks.
Karen nods, voice barely above a whisper. "It caused damage to the part of his brain that processes stimuli
during development," she explains. "It's like his brain's volume knob is stuck on high. Everything's just too much for him sometimes."
Sandy's mind races. "So that's why..."
"Yes," Karen says, voice heavy. "It's not something he can just turn off, or ignore."
Sandy nods slowly, aching for her friend's husband. She had always known Plankton as a bit of an introvert, but never thought it was mostly because of something like this.
Karen's sad, but firm. "It's not your fault for not knowing," she says. "But you have to be mindful."
Sandy nods, throat tight. "I do," she whispers with regret.
Together, they make their way to the bedroom, the game forgotten in the wake of Plankton's pain.
Karen's hand is a gentle guide on Sandy's arm as they tiptoe, steeling herself for what might be on the other side. She opens it slowly, the hinges whispering in protest.
The bedroom is dim, curtains drawn, and Plankton is there, lying on the bed, his eye closed. The anger and frustration that had etched lines into his face moments ago are now eased by sleep. His chest rises and falls with rhythm of breathing, the only sound in the room.
Sandy feels a pang of guilt as she looks at him. She had never meant to cause pain, never intended to make life more difficult. She just wanted to bring a little joy, whimsy into their lives; instead, she had unleashed a storm.
Karen's hand tightens around Sandy's arm, a silent reminder of the unspoken bond between them.
"Let him rest," Karen murmurs.
Sandy nods.
"Give him space," Karen says gently. "He needs to recover."
Sandy nods, gaze lingering on Plankton's face, features now in sleep. She feels a pang of guilt, knowing she was the cause of distress.
They retreat to the living room. Karen sighs heavily, her eyes reflecting a mix of sadness and resignation.
"Why didn't you tell?"
Karen sighs. "It's not something we talk about," she says softly. "Plankton's been self-conscious about it."
"I didn't mean to make things worse," Sandy says with remorse.
"I know, yet you have to understand, Plankton's condition is part of him. It's not something that can be fixed with a band-aid; his brain damage is irreversible."
"I'll talk to him when he wakes up," she says, her voice a mix of determination and sorrow. "I want to make it right."
Karen squeezes her hand, offering a small smile. "Thank you," she whispers. "But let him come to you. He needs time."
Sandy feels the weight of her mistake heavily.
"Part of Plankton's condition includes mood swings," Karen explains softly. "When overstimulated, it's like a dam breaks. It just floods."
Sandy's heart squeezes with understanding and regret. "I didn't know," she whispers, eyes filling with tears. "I never meant toā"
"It's ok," Karen interrupts gently, her voice soothing. "But it's not just about the game. Plankton's condition makes it hard for him to handle sudden changes or unexpected situations."
Sandy nods, the gravity of the situation settling in. "I didn't realize," she says, her voice thick with guilt. "I just..."
Karen squeezes her hand. "It's alright," she says, her voice calm and soothing. "You couldn't have known. But now that you do, it's important to stay calm around him."
Sandy nods, eyes wide with the realization. "How do I make sure not make things worse?"
Karen looks at her with a mix of affection and weariness. "You just need to be patient and understanding," she says. "Let him know you're there for him, without pushing."
Sandy nods. Finally, Plankton emerges from the bedroom, eye red-rimmed. He looks at them both, his gaze uncertain, and then to the game.
Sandy's heart clenches as she watches him.
Plankton's gaze lingers on the game for a moment before he looks at them, his expression unreadable. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin everything."
Sandy's heart breaks at his words. "You didn't ruin," she says quickly, filled with compassion. "I should have been more considerate."
Plankton looks at her, still guarded. "I just want to be normal but I just can't handle it, like you said Iām broken.."
Sandy feels her heart ache at his words, the pain in his voice resonating deep within. She shakes her head, her own eyes now filled with tears. "You're not broken," she says fiercely. "You're just... different. And that's ok. Iām sorry."
Karen moves to Plankton's side, wrapping her arms around him in a gentle embrace. "You are more than ok," she whispers. "You're perfect, just the way you are."
Sandy watches them, feeling the depth. "I didn't mean it, Plankton," she says, her voice thick with emotion. "You're not broken, you're just... you. I know that now."
Plankton nods, his mind a tumult of thoughts. "But it's hard to hear."
"I'll be more careful," she promises, her voice sincere. "I don't want to make you feel like that again."
"You didn't know," he says, his voice a bit softer now. "But it's important that you do now."
"I do know," she says, her voice firm. "And I'll make sure to be more mindful."
Karen squeezes Plankton's hand, filled with love and compassion. "We all have moments," she says gently. "What matters is we learn from them."
Sandy nods, gaze never leaving Plankton's. "I will," she says solemnly. "I promise."
Plankton's expression softens. "Thank you," he murmurs, the first signs of forgiveness seeping into his voice.
Karen's gaze shifts to Sandy, filled with a gentle resolve. "Don't be afraid to ask, next time," she says, a quiet command. "Don't assume you know what he can handle. Just talk to us, and we can tell you."
Sandy nods, feeling the weight of her friend's words. "I will," she says, voice a solemn promise. "I don't want to make him feel like that again."
The three of them stand in the living room, the game pieces on the table a stark reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. Sandy takes a step closer to Plankton, her hand reaching out tentatively. He looks up at her, the anger and pain in his eye slowly being replaced with something resembling understanding.
"I'm sorry," she whispers again, hand hovering in the air between them. "I'll do better."
Karen nods with a mix of sadness and love. "We're all learning," she says, her voice a gentle reprimand. "But it's important that Plankton needs to be part of this conversation too."
Sandy swallows hard, her hand dropping to her side. "I'm sorry," she says again, looking down at her feet. "I didn't mean to make it about me."
Plankton nods slowly, eye still on the game board. "It's not," he says, quiet and measured. "It's about understanding
limits."
Sandy nods, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I just want to make sure you know that I'm here for you, for both of you, any time."
Karen gives her a sad smile, still on Plankton. "We know," she says softly. "But sometimes, the best thing you can do for Plankton is to just... let him be."
Sandy nods.
"I'll take it home," she says, her voice thick with regret. "I don't want it to be a reminder of what happened."
Karen nods, her gaze never leaving Sandy's. "Thank you," she whispers.
Sandy moves to the coffee table, her eyes on the game. She gathers the pieces, the bright colors seemingly dulled by the events of the evening. Each piece feels heavier than it should, as if carrying the weight of Plankton's pain.
"I'll put it away," she says, her voice quiet and remorseful. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
Plankton nods, his eye not leaving the game. "I know," he says, his voice still raw. "But you can play it with Karen on one of the Gal Pal nights out when Iām not around, like at your treedome."
Sandy nods, her eyes brimming with tears as she scoops the last of the game into the box. She closes it with a soft click and looks up at Karen. "I'm sorry," she whispers again. "I'm just... I'm sorry."
Karen sighs, her gaze filled with a mix of sadness and resignation. "We all make mistakes, Sandy," she says gently. "What's important is that we learn from them."
Sandy nods, her eyes never leaving the game box. "I will," she whispers, her voice thick with regret. "I'll be more considerate next time."
Karen's gaze softens, and she squeezes Sandy's hand. "Thank you," she murmurs. "It means a lot."