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Lost: An Interpretation of Autistic Spectrum in Creative Writing

Updated on February 19, 2019

There were so many sharp objects on that screen. The people were one skin tone, and their reactions to the subtitles were out of synch. There were so many different noises. Gun shots, dance tunes, car tyres screeching on the non-existent tracks. This dimension of a different world locked into a screen; many screens in fact. My heart was pounding. I could see people of different sizes flick coins into little slits, press a shiny colourful button and then the screens would come to life. There was an ‘over 18’ section, but I hovered over the sign, looking into the forbidden zone and only found machines on each side. Each machine had many shiny buttons, one lever and many different sounds. I quickly lost interest, since the screens didn’t change all that much.

I was trying to listen to a conversation that was happening between these two people. They were talking about the dynamics of a woman’s breasts. They were giggling, their bellies juggling with their winded breath as they climbed the few short steps to the play area. Their banter was eclipsed by the noise of jingling tunes and battles being won and lost between conscious and sub conscious realities.

But what I was really distracted from, was the concentration on a little girl’s face. Or rather, the space, the heightened atmosphere around this little child. There was this little crease, this little wrinkle between the eyebrows. And when that happened, her innocence vanished; what was left was a hardened granite stare, in which blinking could not make it disappear. Her lips would tighten, her breath would cease until a moment of clarification on the screen she was looking at, would make her snap out of this cynical state. I feel the air thicken with menace, of her clear thoughts of killing those zombies, those bugs, those people on that screen. For a moment, she was not herself; for a moment she was in awe of a make believe world where her existence was needed, and she cocooned her little girl innocence to become this heroine. In that atmosphere, she created her own characterized self. And it was disconcerting to realise this sudden change. Why did she change? Why harden her innocence? I couldn’t understand.

I blinked a couple of times, as if to erase the little girl and her change. I found my attention drawn to a member of staff cleaning a vending machine. His arms showed tattoos that were slightly hidden by the black uniform. I couldn’t make them out, until I got closer. I walked carefully to another seat, holding my drink with a steady hand and sat down. I looked at his right arm and discovered it was a tattoo of a ship in a raging sea. The colours were faded, like an old magazine. There was a small announcement made on a microphone that could be heard around the building. But the words were hard to hear, since my fascination was kept onto the ship. Even though it was a 2D drawing, every time the muscle of his arm moved, the ship would follow. The dynamics were confusing but it was amusing to watch.

I jumped, almost spilling my drink when the karaoke began. A man was singing a song meant for a woman. His tones were out of synch and I could almost hear him struggle for breath as he kept on laughing. I looked at the direction of the bar, behind me, to find the singer. Another man with a big belly, a red face in a black shirt that was too small for him. His stubble on his chin and upper neck was light, his small chubby eyes were gleefully shining in the spotlight, as he was laughing with his friends who were off stage and in the darkness. He would open his mouth and I could see all of his teeth, his lips stretching, showing his fat tongue lolling out lazily. I straightened up on my chair to see if I could see –

‘There you are! We were so worried! Come on, we’re going home,’

‘Why?’

‘Because, honey, we’ve done what we came here to do. We had fun, right?’

Mother and Father looked worried, as they said. I did not understand. I simply stayed where they told me to stay. Mother held my hand as we walked to the car. She and Father began to talk to one another,

‘I don’t understand how this could have happened. She was right behind me, Phil, I swear,’

‘I know, I know. She must have got lost again,’

Mother suddenly looked me in the eye and asked,

‘What did you do on your own?’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ I knew that answer did not help Mother’s worries. But that was the truth. And as for being lost; I was not lost. I was just not found.

© 2019 L P

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