𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤 Pt. 6
(𝖡𝗒 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖥𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌)
Karen's voice was calm
and steady. "It'll pass.
Just stay with him." She
knelt beside the bed.
Chip felt helpless, his
stomach in knots as he
watched his mother's tender
care for his father.
The minutes stretched
like hours as Plankton sat
there, unresponsive. Chip
could see the tension in
his mother's body as she
waited for the seizure to
end. His dad's body was
still, his eye vacant. It
was terrifying to see
someone so vibrant and
full of life to be so still.
But then, Plankton's
body relaxed. His eye
flickered, focusing on
Chip. "Dad?" Chip asked,
his voice shaking. Plankton
blinked, his gaze shifting
to the shattered octopus
on the bed.
"I didn't mean to, Dad,"
Chip rushed out, his voice
shaking. "I didn't know it
was important." Plankton's
breathing is shaky, a
familiar prelude to a
full-blown meltdown. "It's
just a toy," Chip whispered,
his voice strained. "It's not
just a toy," Karen interjected,
picking up the pieces.
"These are his tools for
self-regulation. When they
get broken or lost, it can be
very distressing for him."
Plankton's eye narrowed.
"It's n-not only the toy," he
managed to say, his voice
raspy. "It's the understanding.
The respect." Chip felt
the weight of his father's
words like a heavy stone in
his stomach. "I'm sorry,
Dad," he said, his voice
cracking. "I didn't know."
Plankton sighed, his anger
deflating. "That's the
problem," he said, his voice
tired. "You didn't know
a-and you didn't a-ask."
Karen stepped in, placing
the broken octopus in
Plankton's hand. "Let's get
you something else," she asks
softly. But Plankton's focus
on the octopus didn't waver,
his eye glazed over. Karen
recognized this autistic
postictal loopiness, a
phase that could come after
one of his seizures. But
she knew it well.
"It's okay, honey," she
said gently. "Let's find
another toy to help you
feel better." Plankton's
grip tightened around the
broken pieces, his other
hand starting to stim
slightly. He looked at
Karen, his expression
unreadable as he returns
his gaze to the octopus.
Chip watched, his heart
racing, as his father's hand
trembled, his mind lost in
the postictal phase. It was
like watching a gear that
just couldn't find its place.
He felt like an intruder in
his own dad's world, a
place he didn't understand.
Karen's voice was gentle,
guiding. "Look, Plankton.
Let's pick something else."
But Plankton remained
motionless, his gaze fixed on
the shattered toy. Chip's
stomach knotted as he saw
his father's distress. Karen's
voice was calm. "Plankton,"
she said softly. "Come back
to us." But Plankton didn't
hear her, lost in his own
postictal whims, concerned
with the octopus.
Chip felt like he was
watching someone else's
memory. "Dad?" he tried
again. "Come on, Dad,"
he coaxed. "Let's find
someth-"
His words were cut short
by the sudden jolt of
Plankton's body. His hand
shot out, rolling the octopus.
He scoured the bed, his
eye darting from one tentacle
to another. Chip's heart
raced as he watched his dad's
desperate search, the
autistic loopiness taking
over. "Dad," he said, his voice
small. "What's happening?"
"He's a bit scatterbrained
because of the seizure. It's
normal. It's called postictal
phase of a seizure. That, and
it's a lot to process what has
just happened." Karen tells
Chip. Then Plankton starts
to babble. "Oc-octopus.
Eight legs. Eight legs. Why
broken?" His voice echoes
in the quiet room.
Chip looks to Karen for
guidance, but she just
smiles sadly. "It's okay."
But Plankton's eye won't
leave the octopus, his hand
still shaking. "I-I-I-I wan-want
my octopus," he stammers,
his speech slurred. Chip feels
his throat tighten. "Dad, it's ok,"
he says, his voice shaky. But
Plankton's distant focus
remained unbroken.
Karen takes a deep
breath, her voice calm.
"Plankton, sweetie," she
says. "Look at me." His
eye snaps to hers, his
brain trying to grasp
what she's saying, but
can't. "He's okay," Karen
assures Chip. "This is
just his brain trying to
find comfort."
Chip watches. "It's okay,
Dad," he says, his voice
soothing. "Let's find
another toy." Plankton's
gaze flickers to him, then
back to the octopus. "Otto-
pus," he whispers, his voice
still slurred. "Not right."
Chip's heart clenches. He
doesn't know what to do,
how to help. He's afraid
to touch his dad, afraid
to disturb the delicate
balance that keeps him in
this world. Karen nods
encouragingly, handing
Plankton a soft, plush
cube with different textures.
"Here, sweetie," she says.
"This might he–"
But Plankton's hand
shoots out again, knocking
the cube aside. "No," he
says, his voice firm in his
determination. "Octopus."
Chip's eyes widen. He's
never seen his dad like
this before, so lost in his
own thoughts.
Karen's voice is calm.
"Okay, Plankton. We'll get
you another octopus." She
moves to the shelf, searching
for a replacement. But
the only one she finds is a
plastic one, not the same
as the bendy straw one Chip
broke. She hands it to
Plankton, hoping it'll be
enough. But, it's not.
He stares at the plastic
octopus, his eye unblinking.
"No," he says, pushing it
away. "Mine." His voice is
desperate, lost. Chip feels
his heart ache, watching
his father's pain. Karen
sighs, knowing that this is
going to be a tough one.
"Chip, go get me the glue,"
she says gently. "Maybe we
can fix it." Chip nods, eager
to help, and runs to the
crafts drawer, returning
quickly. Plankton's hand
shakes as Karen takes the
remaining pieces and fails
to glue them back together.
Plankton watches, his
face contorting with
frustration. "It's not the
same," he whispers, his
voice hoarse. Chip feels
his heart clench. "I know,
Dad," he says. "But we can
still keep it, oka-"
Plankton's hand shoots
out, cutting him off. "No!"
he yells, his voice raw. "It's
not right!" Chip flinches
back, the sharpness of
his father's tone a stark
contrast to the gentle
whispers of moments ago.
"I know it's not right, Dad,"
Chip says, his voice shaking.
"But we can try to make it
better." Plankton's eye
narrows, his gaze intense.
"No," he says firmly. "It's
broken." He clutches the
broken tentacles in his
hand, his other hand
flapping rapidly. "It's not
right!"
Karen's heart breaks seeing
Plankton's distress, but she
knows that pushing him
won't help. She nods. "Okay,
sweetie," she says. "Let's
leave it for now. Maybe
another da-" "NO, NOW!"
Plankton interrupts with
a cry.
Chip's eyes widen, his
body stiffening. "Dad,
please," he begs. "We can't
fix it." But Plankton's in
his own world. "It's not
right," he repeats, his voice
getting louder. "Needs it
better. Same but not broken
one, need it-t.."
Karen's voice is firm,
interrupting the loop.
"Plankton, darling," she says,
"Let's put it aside for now.
We'll talk about it later."
Plankton's eye darts to her,
his face contorted in anger.
"No!" he cries. "Now!"
The urgency in his voice
was palpable, his need for
predictability and order
overwhelming.
But Karen knows the
cycle of his autistic brain.
"You're tired, honey," she
soothes, taking the broken
octopus from his trembling
hands. "Let's rest." Plankton
resists, his body stiff with
frustration. "But it's not
right!" he insists, sobbing.
Chip's chest tightens as he
watches his dad's meltdown.
He's never seen Plankton
like this, so vulnerable and
desperate. It's like watching
his hero crumble before
his eyes. He knows he's
caused this, and he wants
to fix it, to take the pain
away.
"Dad," he says, his voice
shaking. "The octopus is
important to you, right?"
Plankton nods, his breath
quick and uneven. "It's not
just a toy," Chip continues.
"It's like a friend." Plankton
stops moving, his gaze
meeting Chip's. "You like
it to feel safe. But this one
broke, and we don't have a
spare. So perhaps we'll buy
another of the same one. But
not right now.."
"NO!" Plankton's outburst
cuts him off. "It's not the
same!" Chip flinches,
understanding his dad's
point. "Okay," he says, his
tone calm. "But you need
something right now, don't
you?" He looks into the
box. "I JUST NEED THE
OCTOPUS!" Plankton wails.
Karen nods to Chip, who
quickly grabs a rubber
band from the drawer.
He carefully wraps it around
the broken tentacles, trying
to mimic the toy's original
shape. Plankton's eye
widens as he watches, his
body stilling. "Look, Dad,"
Chip says.
But Plankton's hand snatches
it from him, his gaze
focused on the rubber band.
"It's still broken," he whispers,
his voice shaking. "But
it's okay for now," Karen
soothes, placing her hand
on his shoulder. "It's okay
to have someth-"
Plankton's eye snaps up to
hers, his expression
desperate. "Need new one,"
he insists. "Need same."
Karen nods, understanding
his need for sameness.
"We'll get you a new one,
honey," she promises. "But
for now, let's ju—"
"NOW!" Plankton's voice
cracks. "I need it now!"
The urgency in his tone is
like a siren, a call for
immediate action. Chip
swallows hard, feeling his
own desperation rise. "Okay,
Dad," he says, his voice
shaking. "Mom? Where do
we find this?"
Karen sighs, her eyes
filled with compassion.
"The store," she says, her
voice gentle. "But it's late, and
the stores are closed."
Plankton's face falls, and
his eye starts to glaze over
again. Chip's mind races,
his heart pounding. He can't
leave his dad like this.
"I can check online,"
he suggests, his voice hopeful.
"Maybe we can find the
exact same one." Plankton
nods frantically. "Same one,"
he whispers. "Now." Karen
smiles weakly. "Okay, let's
see." She takes the laptop,
her fingers typing swiftly.
The room is silent except
for the click of the keys
and Plankton's uneven
breathing. Chip's eyes dart
between his father and the
screen, his anxiety growing.