KAREN HAS A LESSON pt. 2
(Autistic author)
He blinked a few times, his vision
clearing slowly. He saw her face,
wet with tears, and his own
realization dawned. "Oh, Karen," he
whispered, his voice filled with
remorse. Plankton struggled to
sit up, wincing as pain shot through
his head.
The lab looked the same, but
something felt off. The air was
charged with an unspoken tension
that Plankton couldn't quite put his
finger on. He tried to recall the
argument, but the details were
fuzzy. All he knew was that he'd
fallen, and now Karen was
apologizing for something she
wasn't even at fault for.
He looked into her screen, searching
for answers. "What happened?" he
asked, his voice hoarse. Karen took a
deep breath, steeling herself for
what she had to say. "You had an
accident in the lab," she replied, her
voice calm and measured. "You hit
your head." But as she watched him,
she noticed something else. His movements
were stiff, his gaze unfocused. He
wasn't quite the same. Karen
noticed that his usual vibrant
expressions were absent, replaced
by a vacant stare. She chalked it up
to lightheadedness.
"Karen," Plankton began, his voice
still slurred. "Karen."
He paused, his eye darting around
the room as if searching for words.
Karen felt a cold knot form. Something was
different about him, something she
couldn't quite place. His movements
were rigid, his gaze unwavering,
like he was seeing her but not
really seeing her. "What is it?" she
asked, trying to keep the
worry out of her voice.
Plankton's eye finally met hers,
but there was no spark of
recognition, no mischievous
twinkle that she was used to.
"Plankton glad to see Karen," he
said, his tone flat and unemotional.
That wasn't right. "Plankton, do you
know where you are?" she asked
nervously.
Plankton nodded slowly, his gaze
still unnaturally focused. "Home,"
he responded, his voice devoid of
the warmth and love she was
accustomed to. "The Chum Bucket."
Karen's eyes searched his, looking
for any sign of the man she knew,
but all she found was a distant
shadow. Panic began to creep in
as the gravity of the situation
started to dawn on her. This wasn't
just a bump on the head. Something
was very wrong.
"Do you remember me?" she
asked, her voice trembling.
Plankton's eye searched her,
his expression unchanging. "Karen,"
he responds correctly. "Wife of Plankton.
Computer wife as of July 31, 1999."
The words hit Karen like a cold
wave. He knew her name, but the
way he said it, like he was recounting
a fact rather than speaking to his
beloved wife, chilled her to the bone.
She felt the ground shift beneath
her, her world tilting on its axis.
"Plankton, what's wrong?" she asked,
desperation seeping into her voice.
He looked at her, his gaze unblinking.
"Wife Karen," he said, his voice
robotic. "Irritated with Plankton's lack of
attention to anniversary dinner."
The words were right, but
the emotion, the love, the personality
behind them was gone. It was like
talking to a stranger, a very tiny, very
confused stranger.
Karen felt a tear roll down her
screen. "Plankton, can you hear me?"
she asked, her voice quivering. "I'm not
just 'Wife Karen', I'm your Karen. Your
partner, your best friend."
Plankton's response was a
mechanical nod. "Affirmative," he said,
his tone unwavering. "Karen is wife.
Plankton is husband."
The coldness of his words
cut through Karen like a knife. Her
eyes searched his, desperately trying
to find any sign of the man she
knew was in there. "Plankton," she
said softly, "it's me. It's Karen. Do you
understand?"
He nodded again, his antennae
barely twitching. "Understood," he
replied, his voice devoid of inflection.
"And Karen is upset?"
Karen nodded, trying not to
crumble. "Yes, I'm upset," she
managed to say, her voice choked
with emotion. "But more than that, I'm
scared. You're not acting like
yourself, Plankton."
He blinked, his gaze shifting
slightly. "Scared," he echoed, as if
trying to understand the concept.
"Why Karen scared?"
"Because you're not you," Karen
managed to whisper,
breaking with every robotic
response. "You're acting so... different."
Plankton tilted his head, trying
to process her words. "Different
how?" he asked, his voice still
lacking any emotional depth.
Karen took a deep breath, trying
to explain something she didn't fully
understand herself. "You're not showing
your feelings," she said. "You're not... connecting
with me like you usually do."
Plankton's face remained a
mask of confusion. "Connections," he
muttered. "Emotional bonds." He
nodded slowly. "Important for relationship.
Plankton in love with Karen."
Karen felt a flicker of hope.
"That's right," she said, her voice
gentle. "I know you love me. But
you're not showing it, not like before."
Plankton's antennae twitched
slightly as he processed this new
information. "Plankton must
adjust behavior to align with Karen's
desired emotional output; how?"
Karen felt a pang of sadness.
He was trying to understand, but
his usual charm was nowhere to be
found. She took his hand in hers.
"Just talk to me," she said, her
voice barely above a whisper. "Tell
me what you're thinking, what you're
feeling."
Plankton looked at her, his
expression still vacant. "Plankton
thinking about Karen," he
said, his voice flat. "Plankton feeling
determined."
Karen's eyes searched his, looking
for any sign of the emotion
his words conveyed. "Determined
to what?" she asked, hopeful.
"Determined to what," he echoed.
"Karen saying, determined to what.
Plankton determined to show Karen
love, Karen saying determined to what."
Karen realized the depth of
his change. This wasn't just a
concussion or a temporary loss of
memory; it was something much
more profound, something that had
stripped him of his very essence.
"Plankton," she began, her voice
shaking, "I don't know what happened
to you, but I need you to try. Can
you tell me how you feel?" But then he
starts to rock back and forth to stim,
humming their wedding song.
The sight of her husband's usually
expressive features now so vacant and
his movements so repetitive was
alarming. Karen felt a sob rise in her
throat, but she pushed it down. She
needed to stay strong, for him.
"Plankton," she said, her voice
steadier than she felt. "Look at me.
I need you to focus. Can you tell me
how you feel, in your own words?"
He stopped rocking and turned
his head to look at her, his eye
still distant. "Feelings," he
repeated. "Love, anger, sadness,
joy. Concepts. Plankton has them.
Karen saying, determined to what."
Karen's hope sank. The realization
was setting in. This wasn't just a
case of a bump on the head. Plankton's
accident had changed him in a way
she didn't fully comprehend. The
lab, once filled with the warmth of
his passion and dreams, now felt cold
and sterile.
Her mind raced as she searched
for any indication of the man
she knew. The way he spoke, the
way he moved, it was as if a
switch had been flipped.
"Plankton, does your head hurt?"
"Cephalgia via blunt force trauma.
Getting better." He responds, flapping
his hands.
Karen's eyes widened at his
unexpected use of medical terminology.
"neurodivergence," she thought to herself.
Could it be that her husband had somehow
developed something from the fall? It
was a long shot, but the lack of
emotional connection, the repetitive
behaviors, and the rigidity of his speech
patterns were all hallmarks of it. She
scans his brain and connected herself
to the monitor. Plankton looks over and
sees the brain scan. "Plankton's brain?"
"Yes, Plankton.." Karen says.
"Cerebellar cortex reduced synapses
and showing minimal activity in the
corpus callosum. Irreversibly reduced
blood flow in between hemispheric..."
"I've no idea what you're saying, honey."
Karen interrupts.
Plankton's face falls, his usual
playfulness replaced by a look of
confusion. "Neurotypical communication
error," he says, his voice laced with
frustration. "Karen, Plankton trying to say
the fall caused disruption to myelination.."
Karen's eyes widen in shocked confusion.
"Myelination? Plankton, are you okay?"
she asks, her voice laced with fear.
Plankton nods, his gaze fixed
on the brain scan. "Neuroplasticity.
Synaptic pruning. Autism acquisition," he says,
his words coming out in a rush.
Karen's mind reels at his
diagnosis. Autism? It couldn't be.
But as she looks at his rigid
body language and his lack of
emotional expression, she can't
deny it.
