KAREN HAS A LESSON pt. 10
(Autistic author)
After a silence so profound
it seems to have its own
heartbeat, Plankton's antennae
twitch, breaking the stillness.
"Time to...do." Plankton whispers
to himself, still in Karen's arms.
Sandy looks up. "Plankton?"
She whispers, hope flickering
in her eyes. "What's he..."
But Karen shakes her head,
silencing her. "He'll come
around," she says,
explaining his behavior.
"He's just...it's okay for
him to talk to himself. It can
mean he's starting to come
back."
Plankton starts up again.
"Time to...do," he murmurs,
his antennae flicking erratically.
"Time to...time to...get, time
to...do." Karen's grip on him
tightens, her heart racing as
his words loop like a broken
record.
"It's okay, Plankton," she
whispers, her voice a lifeline
in the tempest of his thoughts.
"You don't have to do anything
right now." She strokes his
arm, her touch gentle. "We're
right here."
The words sink into his
consciousness like a pebble
dropped into a still pond,
ripples of understanding
spreading through the murky
waters of his mind. His antennae
still for a moment, then
begin to move again, slightly.
"No do," he murmurs, his voice
still flat, his gaze unchanged.
"Just be."
Karen nods, her eyes
never leaving his. "You
just be, my love," she whispers,
her voice a balm to his frayed
nerves. "You can just keep
talking to me, or to yourself."
Her words are a gentle
reminder that he's not alone,
his anchor in the storm.
Plankton's body relaxes
slightly, his breathing
evening out. Plankton's
eye flickers. His
eye moves, focusing on
her face.
"Karen," he whispers,
his voice a mere
breath. "Karen, here."
Her heart soars. "I'm
right here, sweetheart,"
she says, her voice a
soft caress. "You're okay."
Plankton's gaze lingers
on her face, his
expression unreadable.
"Karen," he repeats, his
voice gaining strength. "Karen."
Slowly, the world around
them starts to come back
into focus. The ticking
of the clock is a steady
beat once more, the wallpaper's
pattern a gentle dance of
color and light.
Plankton blinks. "Where's
now?"
"You're home," Karen says
soothingly, her voice a
beacon of calm amidst
his confusion. "You're safe
on the couch."
Sandy comes into his
view now.
"Sandy," Plankton says, his
voice still flat, his antennae
barely moving. "Sorry."
Sandy's eyes widen in
surprise. "It's okay," she
whispers, her voice cracking.
Karen nods, her grip
on Plankton's hand
tightening slightly. "We're
both here," she says, her
voice a lifeline in the
sea of confusion.
Sandy moves slowly,
keeping her movements
small and deliberate, not
wanting to trigger another
wave of panic. "Plankton," she
says softly, her voice
careful. "Is it ok if I sit
next to you?"
He nods, his antennae
twitching slightly. The
world is still too loud, too
bright, too much for him
to handle. But Karen's
presence, her gentle touch,
makes it more bearable. Sandy
sits on the couch, a
respectful distance away,
watching the two of
them with a mix of
compassion and regret
as Karen helps him sit up.
Sandy's curiosity
burns, questions bubbling
up inside her like a
shaken soda can. She
wants to know more about
this new version of
Plankton.
"What happened to
you, Plankton?" she asks,
her voice tentative. Karen
sighs, her eyes sad.
"It's called acquired
autism syndrome," Karen
explains, her voice
measured.
Sandy's eyes widen,
trying to digest this new
information. "But, how?"
she asks, her curiosity
overriding the sadness.
"It's complicated,"
Karen says, her voice
weary. "But it's part of
who he is now."
Sandy nods, trying to
understand. "When
you started shaking
Plankton, what'd you
feel?"
Plankton's gaze flickers
to the wall, his mind
still trying to piece
together the shattered
remnants of his recent
experience. "Scared," he
admits, his voice still
strained. "Too much."
Sandy nods, her own
understanding of the
world shifting. "But what
about your surroundings?
Where you conscious?"
Plankton's antennae
wave slightly. "Conscious, but
not...not here." His words
are like a puzzle, each one
placed with care.
Sandy nods, her eyes
studying him with newfound
respect. "So could you hear
us or?"
"Hear, but not understand,"
Plankton says, his voice
still a whisper.
Sandy nods, her curiosity
piqued. "What do you mean?"
she asks, her eyes searching
his for a clue to this
new puzzle.
"Words," Plankton whispers,
his antennae barely moving.
"Sounds, but not words. Just
voice." Karen's grip on his
hand tightens, her heart
aching for his pain.
Sandy nods, her eyes
glistening with unshed
tears. "It's okay," she
says, her voice gentle. "We're
learning together."
Karen's gaze shifts to
Sandy, her eyes
expressing gratitude. "Yes,"
she agrees. "We're all
just trying to understand.
It's new for us, too."
Sandy nods, her curiosity
now tempered with
compassion. She watches
Plankton closely, his
every movement, his every
word, a testament to
his struggle. "Can I ask how
acquired autism..."
"Sandy," Karen says gently,
interrupting her friend.
"Let's not push him."
Sandy nods, her expression
full of concern. "I just
want to know how it happened."
Karen's sigh is a soft
whisper in the room. "It was
a brain injury" she says, her
voice tinged with a hint of
frustration. "He fell, hitting his head
and the impact knocked him out,
hard enough to cause some serious
damage."
Sandy nods, her mind racing.
"But how did it turn him...different?"
she asks, her voice filled with a mix
of confusion and concern.
Karen's eyes well up with tears,
the pain of the memory still
fresh. "It happened yesterday.
He's the same Plankton we know,
but his perception of the world,
his ability to communicate...it's all
changed."
Sandy's eyes are glued to
Plankton, her curiosity
melding with a deep sadness.
"But how can I help?" she asks,
her voice a whisper. "I don't
know anything about this."
Karen looks at her with a
tiny smile, her screen filled with
gratitude. "Just be his friend,"
she says, her voice firm. "Love
and patience, that's what he needs."
Sandy nods, her eyes
flicking to Plankton, who
sits with his gaze on the wall.
"I want to," she says, her voice
sincere. "But how do I do that
without...you know?"
Karen understands her
dilemma. "Just be there,"
she says, her voice calm. "Learn
his patterns, his triggers.
It'll take time, but he'll come
to trust you."
Sandy nods, her eyes
still on Plankton. "But what
about when he gets upset?"
"It's hard," Karen admits,
wiping a stray tear from
her cheek. "We're still
figuring it out."
Sandy nods, her mind
racing with a barrage of
questions. But she
swallows them down, not
wanting to overwhelm
Plankton or Karen. Instead,
she focuses on the present.
"So, Plankton, how do you
feel?" Sandy says, her voice
soft. "What do you wanna
do right now?"
Plankton's antennae twitch.
"Right now, Plankton feeling...
awkward," he murmurs, his voice
devoid of its usual inflection.
Sandy nods, trying to hide
the shock from her face.
"Okay, Plankton," she says
slowly, her voice gentle. "What
do you need?"
He looks at her with a
flicker of something
resembling hope in his
glassy eye. "Plankton
would now like to just
go to be in own room."
Sandy nods eagerly,
desperate to do anything
that would bring him
comfort. "Of course," she
says, her voice gentle. "I'll
help you."
But as she moves to
assist him, Plankton
flinches away, his antennae
twitching in agitation. "No,"
he whispers, his voice
trembling. "Too much."
Karen understands his
need to retreat into the
bedroom.
"Okay," Karen says, her
voice calm. "Let's go." She helps
Plankton to his feet, his body
still rigid with stress.
Sandy watches, feeling
like an outsider. She
follows behind, stopping
at the bedroom doorway.
Karen sets some books
and pencils on the table
by his bed, along with a
kiss. "You can change the
light with the lamp," she
says, gesturing to the lamp
on the bedside table next to
his charging phone. He nods.