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Telling an Autie tale without mentioning the word 'Autism'

I hope to write the tale of a person growing up with autism, living in a rich family, without mentioning the word 'autism'. Oh, and somehow hitting 50,000 words.

Here it goes, I will probably edit it come December.

All stories are real based on experiences with people with autism (including, but not limited to, my own experiences), though names definitely are not.

It is 8am, and Pat is still in bed.

Pat dreads waking up in the morning. It is a warm Saturday morning in sunny, tropical Singapore, where the Sun shines for all year long so long as it does not rain. In the early morning, the warm rays of the Sun seemed to scratch his whole body.

But Pat is still in bed. He finds it hard to wake up, to wake to the rising Sun, to work out, or to do anything. He has a sleeping bug within his mind that crawls all over his mind that seems to stop his eyes from waking up. The bug will not go away. There he is, shifting from position to position, comfortably snuggling his long, thick pale yellow bolster pillow that he has hugged for years.

This is especially so, since Pat?s parents are around at home for the weekends. They are free from work. They will be at home, possibly for the whole day, maybe for half of the day when they prepare, for other more worldly matters than looking at Pat and his most beloved helper, Tina.

On the surface, one can think that Pat is living a life of good fortune. It is reflected on the opulent d?cor in the palatial, luxurious detached white bungalow Pat lives in, in one of the upper income neighborhoods in Singapore.

The house has black window grills and black windows, stamping authority in relation to the other houses in the neighborhood. There is a golden glow of sparkle from the paint on the walls, suggesting royalty and prestige that the owners seemingly are part of. There is a grassy lawn with grass well maintained - a rare luxury in land scarce Singapore; with a small free-form pool, attached with an outdoor Jacuzzi that is seldom used. There are also two cars in the locked car garage, a black Mercedes-Benz SL 65 AMG, and a red Porsche Convertible, suggesting the exclusivity of the couple?s riches from most Singaporeans ? few people, even in Singapore?s hot and wet weather, could afford to cover the cars in a large room.

The rooms in the house are massive. The guest longue is spacious, even with the addition of a new 85-inch Ultra High Definition Television Set and a compatible surround sound system, with a few seats designed to look as if the longue is a movie theater. The master bedroom has two long and large private walk-in wardrobes and a bathroom attached at the end of the wardrobes. Even Pat?s bedroom has a bathroom on its own.

There are two kitchens. There is a dry kitchen where one has the largest freezers to store any delicacies before cooking. And then there is a wet kitchen, where the newest electric gas is lined, in an oblong shape, with pots and pans nearby. In case the couple has a yearning of the tastes of yesteryear, they could roast pork together over a charcoal grill, or steam rice or soup over an old style charcoal pot, explaining for that seldom used bag of charcoal within sight of the shed over the yard. The kitchens are designed for the passing culinary interest of any given Singaporean cook in the house.

Even the stairway up to the rooms in the palace seems heavenly. There are a couple of contemporary art pieces, covered as if they are exhibits in art collections, and carefully fixed in their positions, protected by non-breakable glass; the vintage lights on top of the roofs give suggest that the house is a gem, a rare architectural treasure found in few places in Singapore.

Few people seem to have a life as well as it gets as Pat.

Still, Pat lies snugly in his air conditioned bedroom against the sultry day. He just squirms there and shakes his body.

And then the knocks on the door came.

?Wakey wakey! Is Master Pat here??

?OrrrrrrrrrrwoooooooooooNOOOOoo?? A loud moan mixed with yawn then resonated throughout the room. Tina?s timely reminder took away Pat?s mindlessness and brought Pat?s two feet on the ground, ensuring that he will not get up on the wrong footing.
The door swung open.

Tina came into the room, with a yellow blouse and a black skirt, and a tray that contains a few plates of food, for breakfast. She caught Pat in his blue striped pajamas set.

?Breakfast is served! Your favorite scrambled eggs, sausage and French toast ? now go have breakfast!?

Pat cannot complain any further. He jumps immediately at the prospects of having his favorite food ? but not before he quickly brushed his teeth, steadily but excitedly.

Perhaps it is those stately prized collection of art that tampered his excitement and enthusiasm for the excitement of a certain, constant sort of joy.

Then Pat saw ?the look?. He spotted the faces of dread that quickly brought upon dark clouds above Pat?s minds.

?Patrick ? it has been two days after the end of ?O? Levels. If you have no plans ahead, I plan to send you for a motivation course. I checked with your school form teacher ??

Pat just kept still and stayed motionless. His hands are not even touching the utensils.

?Patrick, look at me, LOOK at ME.?

Pat?s eyes glanced at a tall, burly man with a straight face, a green pique polo shirt, and unshaven face, with red eyes from his hangover the previous day. Pat calls him ?Dad?, but seriously thought that ?Dad? is ?Le Noir?. Then Pat just looked down on his plate, staring into nothingness in defiance of authority.

?Listen, listen, LISTEN?, went Pat?s father.

Pat did shift his eyes to his father, but definitely not the attention. He just merely stared at the midway point between the noses of the man?s gloomy and rough face. At least this is what he is taught in etiquette classes.

?Your life is in a mess, Patrick. You ? are ? not ? go ? in ? any ? where; with this disobedience and ineptitude you display, Patrick, you have to CHANGE your life.?

?I have asked your Auntie Tina to pack your belongings. You are leaving for Camp Achievers later today. Uncle Daniel will drive you to Malaysia ? now finish your plate. Hey, YOU LOOK AT ME.?

Comments

You are an engaging writer! I woke up wide-eyed at 3 and decide to read blogs & I'm so glad yours was here. When will you be adding the next chapter: I want to know what happens to Pat. He is both rich AND poor: he cannot truly enjoy the opulence that surrounds him since he is harassed to where he cannot eat breakfast in peace. What pleasure could be more modest than that? Also, others are humiliating him, making decisions for him and even trying to control the gaze of his eyes. He would be infinitely wealthier in more humble surroundings but with a loving and accepting family! Furthermore, an un-shaven, hung-over drunk is not a success & is in no position to tell anyone anything whatsoever about how they live. Even a parent who pays the bills must be a role model. Thanks for the good read!
 

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Geordie
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