KAREN HAS A LESSON pt. 9
(Autistic author)
Karen's voice is a soft
lullaby in the chaos, guiding
Plankton's gaze to her screen.
"Look at me," she whispers.
"Only me." She holds his
hand, her thumb tracing
small circles on his palm,
the sensation grounding him
ever so slightly. His breathing
slows, but only a touch.
The room seems to pulse
around him, a cacophony
of colors and sounds, but
Karen's eyes are a safe
haven. They're familiar,
their warmth reaching
through the fog in his
brain. He tries to focus
on her, to ignore the
sounds that are too loud,
the lights that are too bright.
"Breathe," she whispers,
her hand on his chest,
guiding his erratic
respiration into a calmer
rhythm. His
breaths become shallower,
his antennae gradually
stilling.
But the world around them
doesn't. The kitchen clock
ticked loudly, a metronome
of chaos in Plankton's
disordered mind. Karen
notices his distress and
quickly wraps him in a
soft blanket, creating a
cocoon of quiet. "Only me,"
she says, her voice
soothing. "Only my voice."
Plankton's antennae stop
twitching, his body still
within the embrace of the
blanket. His eye focuses
on a single point on the
wall, the only thing that
doesn't shift and change.
"Only me," Karen repeats,
her voice the one steady
beacon in the storm of
sensory input. She watches
his chest rise and fall,
her heart breaking at
his pain.
The ticking clock becomes
a monster in Plankton's
mind, each second a taunt,
a reminder of the chaos
he can't escape. His hand
grips hers tightly, his
entire being seeking
solace in her touch.
Sandy watches from
the shadows, her heart
heavy with regret. "What
have I done?" she whispers
to herself, her voice
barely audible over the
whirlwind of Plankton's
distress.
The ticking clock seems to
grow louder, its metronome
beat echoing through
Plankton's skull like a
sledgehammer. His
body starts to convulse,
his grip on Karen's hand
becoming painfully tight.
"Plankton," Karen whispers,
desperation coating her voice.
"Look at me, love. Just
me." But her words
seem to fade into the
cacophony, lost in the
sensory assault.
His pupil dilates, his
entire being consumed by
the relentless ticking.
The wallpaper's pattern
swirls before him, a dizzying
maelstrom of colors and
shapes that he can't make
sense of. The soft
pressure of Karen's hand is
his only anchor in this
storm of input.
Karen's voice is a distant
whisper, her touch the
only thing keeping him
tethered to reality. He
can feel her warmth, her
love, but it's fading fast.
The room spins, the
colors bleed into one
another, and the clock's
ticking becomes a
thunderous roar. Plankton's
breaths come in short,
sharp gasps as he tries
to escape the prison of
his own senses.
Karen's eyes are wet with
tears, her heart breaking
as she watches her husband
suffer. "Shh," she whispers,
rocking him gently. "It's
okay. I'm here."
The room falls silent as
Sandy holds her breath,
the only sound the ticking
of the clock that seems
to mock them with its
relentless rhythm. Plankton's
body gradually stills, his
convulsions giving way to
twitches. His
hand slackens in hers, the
tension draining from his
fingers.
Karen's eyes never leave
his face, her voice a soft
whisper in the quiet. "Look
at me," she says, her voice
full of love and
determination. "You're safe
with me."
But Plankton is gone, lost
in the labyrinth of his mind.
His body is a statue,
frozen in the grip of
autism's cruel embrace. His
eye, once vibrant and full of
life, is now a dull, glazed
orbit, staring into the
distance. The clock's ticking
has become a muffled
throb, a background noise to
his internal crisis.
Karen's voice is a distant
whisper, her love a warmth
he can't quite feel through
the fog of his disordered
thoughts. She holds him,
rocking gently, her screen
filled with a desperate hope.
Sandy, from her corner,
can't tear her gaze away.
The sight of Plankton, usually
so vibrant and scheming,
reduced to a trembling
shell is a stark reality
she never anticipated.
Guilt weighs heavy on her
shoulders.
Karen feels the weight
of his hand in hers. It's
a silent communication,
his only way of telling her
that he's still with her, even
if he can't say the words.
Sandy wants to help, inching
closer but still giving space.
"I'm sorry," she whispers,
her voice thick with guilt.
Plankton remains unmoving,
his body tense and rigid
under the blanket. Karen
holds him tightly, her own
body shaking with sobs.
"Come back to me," she
pleads, her voice
desperate.
The clock's ticking seems to
slow, each second a
torturous eternity. Sandy
stands still, her eyes
fixed on the tragic scene
before her, unable to
offer comfort or
understanding.
Karen's sobs become
whispers, her voice
barely audible. "Come back,"
she pleads, her grip on
his hand unyielding. "I need
you." The silence stretches
between them, thick and
oppressive, filled only
with the relentless ticking.
The room feels like it's
shrinking around them,
the walls closing in. Plankton's
body is a statue.
Karen's voice is the
only thing that pierces
the veil of his panic,
her touch the only thing
that feels real. She whispers
his name, her voice
soothing like a lullaby.
Slowly, Plankton's hand
twitches, his antennae
lifting slightly. The
ticking of the clock
becomes background noise
again, the wallpaper's pattern
ceases its maddening
dance. But he still otherwise
remains unmoving, unblinking.
Sandy tries to engage
with him. "Plankton, buddy,
do you wanna talk about
what happened?" But he
doesn't respond, his gaze
locked on the wall. "Can
you tell me what's wrong?"
she asks, her voice gentle.
Karen shakes her head,
wiping away her tears. "He's
in a shutdown," she explains
quietly. "It's like his brain
has gone into overload
and he can't process anything."
Sandy nods, yet tries a
different approach.
"Hey, Plankton," she says
softly, her voice a
contrast to her earlier
boisterousness. "What do you
see when you look at that wall?"
He doesn't answer, his
body as still as the
pictures hanging on the
wall. Sandy's eyes
well up with tears, her
heart breaking for her
friend. "Plankton, are you
dreaming?" she asks, peering
over.
"Back," Karen whispers,
not taking her screen off
Plankton. "He's in a
bad place right now."
Sandy nods, her eyes
swimming with tears. She
understands now, the gravity
of the situation dawning
on her. "I'll make it right,"
she says, her voice
determined. "I'll help you."
Karen looks up at her, her
own eyes red and puffy.
"Thank you," she whispers,
gratitude thick in her
throat. "But for now, just
let it be. We need to wait
until he comes back to us."
Sandy nods solemnly,
backing away to give
them space. She sits at the
end of the couch.