NEW REALITY vii
(Autistic author)
She sleeps at her bed
next to his. The house is quiet,
except for the soft snores
coming from Plankton.
But both of their
eyes snap open
at the sound of
the doorbell.
Plankton's body tenses,
his hand shooting up to
cover his head. Karen
moves quickly, her heart
racing. She knows that
sudden sounds can be
overwhelming for him.
"It's okay," she murmurs,
placing her hand over
his. "Door," he says, his voice
still groggy from sleep.
Her eyes dart to the
clock. It's early, much
earlier than anyone would
usually visit. "I'll go
see who it is," she says,
trying to keep her voice
steady. "You stay here."
Plankton nods, his hand
dropping from his head
to clutch at the blanket.
"Stay," he whispers, his
voice tight with anxiety.
Karen's eyes fill with
concern. "I'll be right
back," she promises, her
voice soft. "Just stay here."
Plankton nods, his grip
on the blanket tightening.
"Stay," he repeats, his voice
less than a whisper.
Karen nods, her heart racing.
"I will," she whispers. "Just rest."
As she opens the door, she's
met with the cheerful face of
Hanna, her book club friend.
"Hey Karen, I hope I'm not too early!"
Hanna says, a word book in hand.
Karen's eyes widen, her heart
racing. "No, not at all," she says,
forcing a smile. "Come in."
Hanna steps into the house,
her eyes bright with excitement.
But as she sees Karen's
expression, her smile falters.
"Is everything okay?" she asks,
concern etched on her face.
Karen nods, as Plankton
comes into the room, his gaze
fixed on the spinning fan.
"This is Plankton,"
Karen introduces, her voice
calm.
Hanna smiles. "Hi Plankton,"
she says, her voice too bright.
He nods, his gaze still
locked on the fan. "Fan spin,"
he murmurs.
Hanna's eyes widen, unsure
how to respond. Karen
quickly interjects. "Why
don't we take a look at the
work puzzle book.."
Plankton's gaze shifts, his
interest piqued by the
mention of books.
"Puzzles," he repeats,
his voice a bit clearer.
Hanna's smile relaxes,
seeing his interest. "Yes,
puzzles," she says, holding
up the book. "They're like
fun little brain teasers."
Plankton nods, his hand
reaching out to touch the
book. Karen watches, her
heart racing. Will this
be another trigger?
But Plankton's gaze locks onto
the puzzle book, his eye
lighting up with curiosity.
Karen's heart skips a beat.
This could be good for him,
a way to focus his
whirling thoughts.
Hanna opens the book,
showing him a simple word search.
"See if you can find
the hidden words, Plankton,"
she says, her voice gentle.
His gaze scans the page,
his hand moving in time
with his eye. "Words," he murmurs,
his voice filled with excitement.
Hanna nods, her smile growing.
"That's right," she says, her
tone encouraging. "See if
you can find them all."
Plankton nods, his eye
quickly moving over the
page. Karen watches,
her heart swelling with hope.
This might be it, she thinks,
a new way to connect.
Hanna points to a word,
her voice soothing. "What's this?"
Plankton's hand moves over
the letters, tracing them.
"F-A-N," he reads, his
tone monotone. "Fan," he says,
his gaze flicking up to the
whirring object above.
Hanna laughs, misunderstanding.
"No, Plankton, not fan," she says,
pointing to the puzzle. "Find
the words that are hidden."
But Plankton's gaze remains on
the spinning blades. "Fan," he repeats,
his voice taking on a firm tone.
Hanna's smile falters, not
comprehending his
meaning. "No, Plankton,"
she says, her voice still cheerful.
"Look at the puzzle."
But Plankton's gaze
doesn't waver from the fan.
"Fan," he says, his tone
firm, almost defensive.
Hanna's smile falters,
her cheerfulness waning.
"Plankton," she says gently,
"it's a puzzle, not about
the fan."
But Plankton's gaze remains
fixed on the fan, his
body tensing. "Fan," he repeats,
his voice firm, almost
defensive.
Hanna's smile falters,
uncertain of his meaning.
"It's just a puzzle, Plankton,"
she says gently, her voice
filled with misunderstanding.
But Plankton's tone sharpens.
"Fan," he insists, his voice
raised, his body tense.
"Fan spin, make quiet."
Hanna's eyes widen with
surprise, her smile slipping
away. "It's not about the
fan, Plankton," she says,
her voice still kind but
concerned. "It's about..."
But Plankton's voice cuts
through the air, his tone
sharp. "Fan spin," he says,
his hand moving in
erratic patterns. "Fan make
quiet. Fan important."
Hanna's eyes widen,
taking a step back. "I didn't
mean..." she starts, but
Plankton's agitation is
growing.
"Fan important," he repeats,
his voice echoing in the quiet
room. Karen's heart races as
she tries to defuse the
situation.
"Hanna, it's okay," she says,
her voice calm but firm.
"The fan is special to Plankton.
It helps him feel calm."
But Hanna's confusion
only grows. "It's just a fan,
right?" she asks, her voice
pitching with uncertainty.
Plankton's voice rises, his
hands flailing. "No!" he yells.
"Fan special! Make quiet!
Must spin!"
Hanna's eyes widen with shock,
her cheerful demeanor evaporating.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know,"
she stammers, taking a step back.
Plankton's voice echoes,
his frustration palpable.
"Fan special!" he yells,
his hands slashing the air.
Hanna's smile has disappeared,
replaced by a look of fear.
"I'm sorry," she whispers,
backing away slowly.
Karen's eyes are wide
with worry. She steps
between Hanna and Plankton,
trying to shield her friend
from his distress. "It's okay,
Hanna," she says, her voice
calm but firm. "Let's just
give him some space."
Hanna nods, her eyes
filled with apology.
"I didn't mean to upset him,"
she murmurs, setting the
puzzle book down on the
coffee table.
Karen nods, her gaze
on Plankton. "It's okay,"
she says softly. "He's just
overwhelmed."
Plankton's hands flap like
wings against his sides.
This is stimming, she knows,
his way of coping with
the sensory onslaught.
He rocks back and forth,
his gaze still on the fan.
Karen's heart aches as she
watches him, his body a
whirlwind of energy.
"Fan spin," he murmurs,
his hands fluttering like
butterfly wings. "Spin, spin."
Karen's eyes follow
his erratic movements,
her heart racing.
"Plankton," she says, her voice
calm and soothing. "Look at me."
He doesn't react, his gaze
still glued to the fan.
Karen approaches him,
moving slowly to avoid startling
his heightened senses. "Plankton,"
she repeats, her tone steady.
He doesn't react, his eye
still on the fan, his body
a flurry of movement.
Her heart racing, Karen tries again.
"The fan spins," she says, mimicking
his rhythmic speech.
Plankton's gaze flicks to her,
his body still. For a moment,
his movements cease.
"Spin," he whispers, his eye
searching hers.
Karen nods, understanding
his need for the fan's rhythmic
whirl. "It's okay," she says,
her voice a gentle melody.
"The fan will spin."
Plankton's gaze shifts
from the fan to the digital clock
on the mantle. His eye widens
as he sees the seconds tick by,
restarting each minute.
The numbers, stark and
precise, seem to call to him,
a silent symphony of order
in a world gone haywire.
Hanna looks confused, for
Plankton's gaze shifts to the
digital clock, the seconds
ticking away in a silent
symphony. His hands stop
their erratic movements, his
body stilling as he watches
the precise dance of the
numbers.
Karen sees his fascination,
the way his eye tracks
each second as it passes.
"It's okay," she says softly.
"The clock will keep going."
But Plankton's gaze doesn't
shift. His body is still,
his mind lost in the rhythm
of the ticking digits.
Karen watches, her heart
racing. She's read about
how some with autism
find comfort in patterns,
how the predictability
of something as simple
as a digital clock
can be a lifeline in a
world that's otherwise
so chaotic.
Hanna, however,
doesn't understand.
Her eyes go to Plankton, her
confusion growing.
"Plankton," she says, her voice
still too bright, "it's just a clock."
His eye snaps to her, his
body rigid with tension. "Clock
important," he murmurs, his voice
a mix of anger and fear. "Numbers
change."
Hanna's smile fades, her eyes
widening with confusion. "It's
just a clock, Plankton," she says,
trying to placate him. But her
words only serve to stir his
distress further.
Plankton's eye darts from the
clock to Hanna, his breath
coming in quick bursts. "No,"
he whispers, his voice tight.
"Clock important. Numbers change."
Hanna's smile is gone, her
expression one of confusion.
"It's just a way to tell time,"
she says, her voice shaking.
But Plankton's agitation is
building, a storm gathering
behind his eye.
"No," he whispers, his hand
trembling as it points to
the clock. "Numbers change,
make brain quiet."
Hanna's eyes widen, her
understanding still elusive.
"But Plankton," she starts,
"it's just a way to keep track
of time."
But Plankton's gaze is
intense, his voice urgent.
"No, no, no," he says, shaking
his head. "Numbers change,
make brain quiet."
Hanna's voice rises, her
confusion thick. "But it's
just a clock, Plankton,"
she repeats, her words
falling on deaf antennae.
Plankton's body is tight
as a spring, his gaze
locked on the digital
dance. "No," he whispers,
his voice strained. "Numbers
make quiet, chronologically."
Hanna's eyes dart between
Plankton and Karen, her
confusion thick.