A Lesson in Moving

An old piece of writing I found from years ago when I tried writing from the point of view of a teenage girl with Autism.

It was night. Eight minutes and forty-three seconds after nine p.m. I was lying in my bed staring at the ceiling and counting the little dots that I never could finish counting the other times I tried so I decided to try and count them again. There were three hundred and sixty-two dots when I first heard the sound of somebody crying downstairs. Three hundred and sixty-two dots that never moved unless you threw something heavy at the ceiling and the pieces fell down but then the dots never moved they just fell. Inanimate objects never moved. The chair never moved unless you moved it. The bed never moved unless you moved it. The ball never moved unless you kicked it and the lamp never moved until the ball hit it and it fell on the floor and the glass broke and Remus started yelling because he wanted it cleaned before mother got home. And then mother got home and yelled at Remus for knocking the lamp over and then told him that his feet could not move one step out of the house for an entire three weeks for being so careless. But he did move his feet outside the house when mother told him that he should bring the mail inside the house which moved when he took it out of the mailbox to show mother. And mother was downstairs crying right now but I don't know why she would be crying.