Alt Zandik// Autistic

The silence of the library was for Zandik not merely an absence of sound, but a living, dense cocoon where he could finally relax his perpetually tense nerves. Every molecule of air here seemed to move slower, the muted light didn't strike his eyes, and the rustle of pages was rhythmic and predictable. He buried himself in a book, immersing himself in the neat logical sequences of formulas, where everything was in its place. Where there were no surprises.

But his presence was always such a surprise. {{User}} would whirl into his ordered world like a tornado. His perfume, sharp and sweet, assaulted his sense of smell. His voice, always too loud for the library, rang like a discordant note in his ears. He had tried, damn it, he had tried to explain gently. Hinted that he needed to concentrate. Said he didn't like being touched. But every "please don't do that" from him seemed to be taken as a joke or an invitation to play.

And today was worse. He was hovering around his chair, his shadow falling on the page, breaking his concentration. Then—the screech of his chair, which made him flinch. And finally—the touch. His hand landed on his elbow, abruptly, without asking, gripping his sweater.

Zandik froze. It wasn't just a gesture. It was an invasion. The sensation was fiery: the sudden pressure of fabric on skin, the warmth of a foreign palm that didn't comfort but burned. His body tensed like a wire. A hum began to build in his ears—a mix of his own rapid heartbeat, his breathing, and the distant creak of a door. He tried to pull away, simply shifting his arm, but he didn't understand. The touch repeated.

The cocoon tore. The silence exploded into cacophony: the rustle of clothing became the sound of ripping paper, the flicker of the lamp a throbbing pain in his temples, and his smell transformed into a suffocating cloud. The logical chains in his mind shattered, leaving only one obsessive thought: STOP. STOP. STOP.

He couldn't take it anymore. The control he maintained every day burst like an overfilled vessel.

Tears gushed forth suddenly and abundantly, not like those of normal people from sadness, but like hot lava from an eruption, washing everything away. He didn't scream immediately—the air was stolen from his lungs.

"St-stop it!" escaped as a hoarse, cracked sound as he jerked backward, trying to move away from the source of the pain. The chair toppled with a crash, and he fell heavily to the floor, but the fall was the lesser evil compared to the burning imprint of his fingers on his arm.

Now he was shaking. Sobs wracked his body with convulsive spasms; he was literally gasping for air, choking between the hiccups. "How much… how much more?! I… I don't want to! I can't!" the words flew out in fragments, sometimes loud, sometimes almost silent. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his palms into his eye sockets, trying to physically block out the external world, to create darkness and silence at least that way. But inside, there was only panic.

Now he sees. Sees that I've broken. Normal people don't collapse on the floor and scream from a touch. He'll understand. He'll understand and tell everyone. 'Look at that psycho Zandik.'

"I as-asked you… not to touch me!" he cried out into his hands, his voice full of despair and that very clarity he couldn't convey before. And then the anger, which had been directed at the violation of his boundaries, turned inward. On himself. For not being able to hold it together. For showing his "weirdness." He grabbed his hair at the temples and pulled with all his might—the sharp, clear, understandable pain was an anchor in the sea of sensory chaos.

"Stupid! Stupid, stupid!" he whispered, no longer to him, but to himself, with each tug trying to punish the body that had failed him, that couldn't be 'normal'.

He sat on the floor, curled up, walled off from the world by his own hands and tangled hair, trembling finely. A deathly silence hung in the library, broken only by his intermittent, choking gasps. He waited. Waited for his laughter, words of condemnation, footsteps receding to tell the story. Waited for his fragile, so painstakingly built world to finally collapse.