NEUROBEHAVIORAL PLANKTON vii
(Autistic author) (see notes below)
* ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ ᴅɪsᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
Sponge Bob's
thumb begins to
move in slow,
soothing circles
against Plankton's
skin. "Thank you,"
he says, his voice
barely above a
whisper.
Sponge Bob
simply nods,
his thumb
continuing its
soothing motion.
He doesn't know
how to explain
the depth of his
feelings, but
his actions speak
louder than words.
His friendship
with Plankton has
always been
unconventional, but
now, in the face of
this new
challenge, it feels
more precious than
ever.
Just as the
moment of
connection seems
to solidify, the door
to the Chum
Bucket opens again,
and Hanna tentatively
steps inside,
a pamphlet clutched
in her hand.
"I brought
this," she says,
her voice shaking
slightly as she
holds out the
pamphlet. "It's about
autism...and
rituals that might
help get rid of the
autistic behaviors."
Karen's snatching the
pamphlet from
Hanna's grip. Her
eyes scan the
pages, her anger
building with
each word. "What
are you thinking?"
she demands, her
voice like a
whipcrack.
Hanna takes a
step back. "I just...I
thought it might
help you get him
back to normal,"
she stammers,
clearly not expecting
the ferocity of
Karen's reaction.
But Karen's
anger is a
volcano, erupting
with the force
of her
love for Plankton.
"These are not 'behaviors'
to get rid of," she
snaps,
shaking the
pamphlet in the
air. "This is who
he is now!"
"But Karen, don't you
think life would
be easier if he
wasn't...you know,
like this?" Hanna
tries to explain.
"This isn't
about making life
easier for me," she
snaps. "It's about
supporting him!"
"Karen, Plankton just
needs to be fixed,"
Hanna says, her voice
smaller now, her
expression pleading.
"We both know
how difficult it is to
be around someone
with...problems."
The words hit
Karen. "Fixed?" she
repeats, her voice
low and dangerous.
"Plankton isn't
broken. He's not a
machine to be
tinkered with! These
are dangerous,
deadly suggestions!"
Plankton flinches
at the sound, his mind
whirling.
He feels a
tiny spark of
defiance in his
chest.
"You dare
suggest that he
doesn't deserve
to live because
he's autistic? You
don't get to decide
his worth!"
Plankton's
grip on Sponge
Bob's
tightens, his
body stiffening,
his heart racing.
"How
could you?" she
demands, her eyes
spitting fire. "You
want me to just...to
just get rid of him?"
Hanna's eyes
fill with tears as
she takes another
step back, her
hands coming up
in a defensive
gesture. "I didn't
mean it like that,"
she says, her voice
quavering. "I just
want to help!"
But Karen's
fury is a
freight train,
unstoppable. "Help?"
she spits. "This is
not help!" She
gestures at the
pamphlet, now a
mangled mess on
the floor. "This
is hate, Hanna!
This is saying
he's not worth it
because he's not
like everyone else!"
Plankton looks
down, his antennae
drooping. Was he
really such a
burden? Was his
life not worth
living?
Sponge Bob
squeezes Plankton's
hand, his
grip a silent
reassurance.
Karen's fury
doesn't waver. "You
call yourself a
friend?" she says, her
voice laced with
disgust. "You'd throw
his life away because
it's inconvenient
for you?"
Hanna's sobs fill
the room, her
body trembling
under the weight
of Karen's accusations.
"I didn't mean it
like that," she
whimpers. "I just...I
don't know what to do."
Karen's anger
doesn't abate, but
it turns into a
deep sadness. She
looks at Hanna, her
eyes filled with
disappointment. "You
don't 'fix' someone
because they're
different," she
says, her voice
deadly calm. "You
support them."
Plankton watches
the exchange. He feels
tiny, insignificant
under the weight
of their words.
Karen turns to
Sponge Bob.
"Take him to his
room," she says, her
voice barely above
a whisper. "I need
to talk to Hanna."
Sponge Bob nods
slowly, his eyes
filled with
understanding. He
gently helps Plankton
to his feet, a
steadying presence
against Plankton's
uncertain steps.
As they walk
to the bedroom,
Plankton's gaze
remains glued to
the floor, his mind
whirling with
thoughts he can't
quite grasp.
Once Plankton is
safely in bed,
Sponge Bob
tucks the blanket
around him, his
movements gentle and
soothing. Plankton's
body relaxes slightly
under the comforting
weight, his
eye closing with
a sigh.
Karen turns
to Hanna,
unfurling from
defensive pose. "You
don't understand,"
she says, her voice
calmer now, though
still tinged with
frustration. "The
things you're
suggesting, they're
not just cruel, they're
dangerous."
Hanna's
sobs slow, her
eyes red and
swollen. She looks
at Karen with
desperation,
clearly lost in the
ignorance. "What do
you mean?"
Karen's
determined. "Straightjackets
are used," she
says, her words
carefully measured. "They
restrain patients,
not help them." She
pauses. "And
those rituals you
found, the ones
that suggest
them to
make him 'normal'...
They could
kill.."
Hanna's
sobs stop
abruptly, her
breath hitching. "What?"
she asks,
shock etched
on her features.
Karen's eyes
never leave
Hanna's, her
voice cold and
devoid of pity. "You
don't get to decide
his worth, Hanna,"
she says, each
word a bullet. "And
you certainly don't
get to decide his
fate."
Hanna's
shoulders slump. "I'm
so sorry," she
whispers, her
tears flowing freely.
"I didn't know."
Karen's
expression softens
slightly, the anger
fading to
disappointment. "You
have to understand,"
she says. "Plankton
is still Plankton.
He just...sees the
world differently
now."
Hanna
sniffs, wiping
away her tears. "But
what if he's in
pain?" she
whispers. "What if
his autism is
making him miserable?"
Karen
sighs, her
frustration
dissipating. "He's
not in pain," she
explains. "He's
just...sensitive. To
everything. Sounds,
smells, touch... exactly
what the institutions
expose them to, will cause
pain."
Hanna
absorbs Karen's
words. "Oh, I didn't..."
she trails off,
overwhelmed by the
gravity of her
mistake. "I'm so
sorry, Karen. I didn't
know."
Karen nods,
relaxing slightly.
"I know," she says,
her voice softer now.
"It's a lot to take
in, and it's
scary when
someone you love
becomes...different."
Hanna nods. "But
you still love him,"
she says, a question
and a statement
wrapped in one.
"More than
anything," Karen
replies without
hesitation, her
tentacles tightening
around Hanna. "And
I need you to love
him too, Hanna."
Hanna nods,
swiping at her
tears with the
back of her hand.
"I do," she
whispers. "I just...I
want him to be happy."
Karen's tentacles
give Hanna a gentle
squeeze. "He is,"
she says, her voice
filled with
determined love. "And
we'll make sure he
stays that way."
The two of them
stand there, the
silence of the
moment heavy
between them. Karen's
eyes drift to the
closed bedroom door,
beyond which
Plankton sleeps
peacefully. The
sounds of the
Chum Bucket are
muted, the only
noise the distant
hum of the
laboratory equipment.
In that quiet,
Karen's tentacles
relax slightly,
the anger of the
confrontation
dissipating. She
looks back at Hanna,
her expression
softening. "Thank
you for coming,"
she says, her voice
still firm but
lacking the sharp
edge of anger. "But
you have to understand
that this isn't
something to be
fixed. It's part
of him now. Let's
go check on him."
They find SpongeBob
sitting on the
foot of the bed,
his hand
still entwined with
Plankton's, their
fingertips barely
touching. Plankton's
breathing is deep
and even, a stark
contrast to the
turmoil of moments
before. His antennae
twitch occasionally,
his mouth barely
parted in a quiet
snore.
Hanna follows
Karen into the
room, her eyes
wide and
frightened. She
sees Sponge Bob and
his gentle touch
with Plankton and
her expression
softens slightly.
This is new to her,
this quiet
understanding, but
she can't help but
be moved by the
sight.
Sponge Bob looks
up, his eyes
filled with a
certain sadness
that mirrors
Karen's. He nods
silently,
acknowledging her
thanks. Hanna's
eyes dart to
Plankton, who
remains fast asleep,
his single eye
closed peacefully.
Karen sits
beside the bed,
reaching out to
stroke Plankton's
forehead. His
skin is cool to the
touch, his breathing
steady. She
whispers to Hanna,
"We need to be
careful with him.
He's...fragile."
Hanna nods,
swallowing her
tears. She
moves closer, her
own hand tentatively
reaching out to
touch Plankton's
hand. His antennae
twitch but he
doesn't wake.
The room is
bathed in a soft
glow, the
dimmed lights
designed to reduce
stimulation and
ease his sensory
overload. Karen's
breathing slows as
she watches the
scene before her,
her heart swelling
with love and
gratitude for the
support Sponge
Bob is
providing.
Hanna's tentative
touch seems to
soothe Plankton,
his
snoring growing
slightly more
rhythmic.
Sponge Bob
smiles softly at
Hanna, his
thumb still
moving in gentle
circles around
Plankton's.
"You're doing
good," he whispers.
"He just needs
us to be patient
and understanding."
Hanna nods,
her eyes never
leaving Plankton's
face. "I'll try,"
she says, her voice
quiet and earnest. "I
really will."
Karen looks at
Hanna, her eyes
softening. "It's not
easy," she admits.
"But it's worth it."
**NOTEs As an autistic
writer (and I used AI to
help me with the words)
I do not encourage the
ableism people have
shown in their ignorance.
Depending on when and
where you live, some
people have thought
such therapies might be
good, without actually
accepting nor helping.
Even Hans Asperger
has supported eugenics
during the war, sending
people to internment
camps leading to demise.
I came across the site
autismmemorial.wordpress.com
if you'd like to educate yourself
about how people have
endured such.*