When I was nine years, twenty six weeks and three days old, I was concretely diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. At thehe time, I had spent the majority of my time in our basement, by choice, mind. Often reorganising my father's collection of books to my liking. Here it was quiet and dark.
 
     I spent many hours staring at a large rug that was slung over the back of an old couch. Getting lost in the swirling colours, allowing them to lull me into a comfortable sense of introspection. These periods were often interrupted by my father yelling or my mother coming down and writing long lines of graphemes on papers and whiteboards. She never acknowledged me while doing so. Often she would pass out and some hours later, my father would come down and wake her up. Neither of them paid any particular attention to me during these times.
    
     These 'graphemes' fascinated me. I was careful not to touch them and if I did have to move any of the papers, I was careful to put everything back to the way the scene was originally. This was not something that was particularly difficult for me to do.
   
     My mother was not an unkind woman while lucid. She was careful while coming down to clean up her papers and boards, never moving anything else. She'd organise them into neat piles and then sit down with me, pointing out certain graphemes and explaining them. It wasn't long until I began to visualise them in my head, allowing the graphemes to spark colours in my mind, swirling and interlocking with one another.

     Often, my father would play violin upstairs. This was not exactly something I was adverse to. I often laid down and closed my eyes. Allowing the music to fluctuate and move in my chest, shifting like waves.
 
     One day, while laying down and listening the music abruptly stopped. Feeling as though I'd been punched, I stood up. My mother began to scream. My father threw things. None of it registered with me. I covered my ears and imagined the graphemes that my mother had shown me.
    
     As a result of this, I calmed down. I counted the books again. Four hundred and eleven, like always. Orange and beige. Orange and beige. Orange and beige. Fours and double ones. I counted them again, and then started from the end and counted down. Four hundred and eleven.
 
     I heard the front door open. It was quiet. I kept counting. Next I counted the books with graphemes on them, like the ones my mother had always drawn. Three hundred and fifty-five. Three and fives. Greens and reds. I next counted the ones with pictures on the cover. Six of them had pictures. Six. Grey. Six. I relaxed. The door of the basement opened.
 
     "—Copy that, check around the back." The voices were unfamiliar. I looked up curiously as a man descended the stairs. He turned on the light causing me to feel dizzy. I leaned on the back of the old couch in order to keep myself from falling. "Clear" the man called up the stairs, "Morgan. Get down here."
     
     Heavier footsteps this time. I blinked away the spots in my eyes and looked at the two adults standing in front of me. The woman approached me and sat on her haunches. Stepping on a stack of my mother's papers. "What's your name honey?" She asked me. I remained silent at first before I pointed at the stack of papers.
    
     "You can't stand there." I said. The woman looked down and moved. I sat down and started stacking books the correct way, figuring that I was going to have to leave.
    
     "Sweetheart. We need to leave okay?"
   
     I already knew this. Why was she telling me?
 
     "Sweetheart, we have to go." She said again.
 
     "Yes." I replied. I finished stacking them and waited for the woman to walk away. She didn't.
 
     "I know that you might be scared. But everything is going to be okay, I promise." She said quietly. I liked that she said it quietly. I turned walked two steps forward and the woman, Morgan, ushered me forward, gently putting her hand on my back. I leaned away from her hand but I did not break stride.
 
     Morgan led me outside and into a red car. I looked at the license plate number on the back. 33471k.
    
     Green, orange, pink, yellows. I sat in the car. "33471" I said. Morgan looked back at me and said something that I did not pay attention to. 
 
     Three three four seven one. Three three four seven one. "Is everything okay honey?" Morgan asked me. I looked at Morgan.

     "I don't like ones".
   

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