Story about Asperger's?

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Hi, I'm kinda new here if you didn't guess that already. I'm still pretty shy around here and am not very familiar with autism/Asperger's, but am trying to learn it better. My girlfriend's been telling me I have it lately since she has a younger brother with Asperger's and knows what it looks like, and it's looking thus far like she might be right.

Anyway, I started writing a story with a main character who experienced life a lot as I do just to see what would happen, even though being this open kind of scares me. She and several of my friends read it and were all amazed at it. I was only planning on writing it as a piece of fan fiction, but now my girlfriend's demanding that I write this story so it can be publishable and that if I don't want to publish it, she will. Is it really that good? It's hard for me to see with my own work, especially since the writing of this was really simple, but working up the courage to do so wasn't.

Also, do any of you have any thoughts or perhaps some contributions you might like to add to the book? Like I said, I'm new, and I don't fully get how autism or Asperger's affects a person's life, only how my life has played out. Some other perspectives could be really helpful in figuring out where I'm going.

Anyway, here's the first chapter. It's written as fan fiction for the series Fullmetal Alchemist, though you should be able to understand it without knowing that series:

I am an existence. That much I know right now, but no more. As I stare into the mirror upon brushing my hair in the morning, I even question that. My reflection does everything I do, but the wrong way. When I grab something with my right hand, he grabs something with his left. When I turn my head one way, he turns the other. But he always mimics my expressions perfectly. Or perhaps I am the one mimicking him.

I put down my brush and lean to rest my head on the cool, clean mirror. My double does it too. He always thinks of the same things I do, and I've never been able to trick him into doing things even a fraction of a second later. Somehow he always does the same things at the exact same time, like we think alike. But we don't think alike, because nobody thinks alike, do they? That's what everyone tells me.

I raise my head and look at my reflection once again, trying in vain to ignore the grease spot where my forehead rested a moment ago. My double is annoyed at the grease spot, and sharing a mutual look with each other, we get up at the same time and run off for something to clean it up with. A grease spot on a mirror just won't do.

It doesn't take long for the grease spot to be cleansed from the mirror, me doing the job on my side, him doing the job on his. We share another look of understanding and half-heartedly smile a thank you to each other, then turn and leave the room. Too much communication with one's double can get a bit awkward. Especially when one wonders sometimes if you're supposed to be the reflection and your reflection be in the place where you're standing. When we ever switched places, I can't recall, but I can't tell anyone or I may be destroyed.

I leave my bedroom and transform into my outdoor mode as my consciousness ascends and watches over my body while it goes about its daily tasks. I shall keep a close eye on Edward to ensure he makes it safely through the day unless such time comes that I need to pop back in to respond more immediately. I hope I don't have to.

Edward walks into the kitchen. Breakfast is necessary. He doesn't feel hungry right now, but breakfast is necessary. He knows what will happen later in the day if he doesn't eat. He opens the refrigerator and looks in, then closes it with disgust and looks around. There has to be something better in this place.

Al was sitting in the dining room within sight of the kitchen. Edward looks up at him, catches his eye, and then looks back at the refrigerator. "Hey, you, what are you eating?"

Al, seeming unperturbed as ever by the reference that avoids calling him by name, says, "I'm just eating some cereal, Brother."

"Yeck!" Edward shakes his head and opens the refrigerator again, inspects it again, then slams it again in disgust. "Isn't there any good food?"

Al shrugs. "Well, what do you want?"

"I don't know!" Edward's voice raises in pitch. "I just want food!"

"Geez, calm down, Brother!" Al takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh. "There is plenty of food in there. What's the problem?"

"I just need some real food!" Edward starts stomping around the kitchen, frustrated that no one seems to understand the situation and get any decent food. What made them think it was perfectly okay to just buy cereal all the time and expect that to be eaten for breakfast? Did no one think that maybe he didn't want to eat cereal for breakfast?

Just then, Winry walks in, sees the situation, and looks over at Edward. "Are you looking for something to eat, Ed?"

"Yeah..." he says irritably.

"Well, what do you want?"

"Food."

"Yeah, what kind of food?"

Edward crosses his arms. How is he supposed to know what kind of food he wants if that kind of food is clearly not there? Maybe if she were to take him to the store right then, he could answer that question properly.

It seems Winry is able to decipher Edward's problem with answering the question, because she then says, "Do you want something starchy, proteiny, or fatty?"

Edward uncrosses his arms. He can probably answer that question. "Something with protein would feel good."

"Okay," she says, and without another word, buzzes into the kitchen and starts preparing something. Edward shakes his head at her and leaves the kitchen to give her her space while she cooks. It's amazing how she can just know what he needs and give it at times.

In just a matter of minutes, she comes out with a steaming hot plates of scrambled eggs and bacon and calls Edward to the table to eat it, which he readily does. He nearly cries as he takes a bite of the lovingly crafted food and tastes the different flavors playing over his tongue. She even remembered to put brown sugar on it while it was cooking. He likes that. He smiles.

"Thank you," he says upon finishing and pushes his plate away, flashing an awkward smile to Winry, and getting up out of his seat to head back to his room.

But he decides not to go back all the way this time. He already dealt with Mirror Man today, and he doesn't want to find out if anything strange happened while he was eating breakfast. He will have to go back into his room soon, he knows, but he won't have to do it for at least a little while. He sits in a little alcove that hides him from view of the dining room, though he can still see them. The security helps him deal with being here, right now.

He stares at the figures in the room for several moments, he's not sure how long. Al finally finishes his plate and shoves it away, and then turns to Winry. "Why did you go and cater to him like that? He's perfectly capable of making his own food."

"Because," she says, "It was easy enough to do, and I don't want him to have an anxiety attack first thing in the morning."

Al rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. "He needs to learn how to handle things on his own. You shouldn't be encouraging his laziness."

Winry sighs and sits down in Edward's former chair with a plate of her own food. "Maybe you're right, Al, but-well-you know he's got problems. I just don't see any point in making him suffer over little things."

"How better to teach him how to handle the big things?"

Edward places his head in between his knees, refusing to cry, but refusing to look at the scene in the dining room any longer. If he doesn't look, perhaps it's not happening. He just wants people to accept him, not hate him. Does Al hate him? Does Winry?

Despite his efforts, Edward still manages to hear Al say, "Al he wants is attention, Winry. Stop giving it to him and he'll stop acting like this."

Edward couldn't take it anymore, and he jumped up and ran to his room, slamming the door closed behind him, and I abruptly fell back into my body just as the tears broke forth. I was a stupid, incompetent excuse for a human being, and I didn't deserve to live on this earth. I was just a pain to everyone I knew when I couldn't even decide on a meal suitable for breakfast without angering my loved ones.

I throw myself on the bed. I don't want to cry. It's not manly to cry, but it seems I can't help it any longer, since I'm already crying. I can't stop crying. I'm stupid. Everyone hates me. I have to stop crying and be normal, but I can't. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this!

I scream and rock back and forth on my bed, crossing my arms over my chest as though someone will come and stab me any moment for being a horrible nuisance. Would Winry do that since I made her cook for me when it seems she didn't want to? Would Al? I'm afraid, and I can't stop reacting, and I find myself rocking on my heels. I have to calm down. I have to. No one loves me when I get upset like this. I have to calm down.

Al throws the door open, sees me like this, and shouts, "Brother, calm down!"

Screams fill my head, wordless screams that are more like a current of electricity flowing down a river too small for it, and I grab my head to keep them from breaking it apart. Stop it, Al. Stop it! You have to stop now!

He doesn't listen. He never does. He comes and grabs me and tries to hold me still. "Brother, stop!"

I can't stop. The screams are getting louder. I'm going to fall apart if I don't silence the screams. They have to come out. Al lets go and holds his hands over his ears before shouting something else at me which I miss. I guess my screams became audible. I hadn't noticed.

They're still in my head. I have to get them to stop. I spin around to face the wall and bang my head on it. It has to stop. Bang. It has to. Bang. Stop. Bang. Just stop!

I feel my hair being tugged against the force I was using to drown out the screams, and I turn to see Winry standing behind me with her hand around my braid, tears streaming down her face. I broke her heart again. I'm such a horrible person. How could she possibly put up with someone like me? She must hate me, and if she doesn't, she should.

"Ed..." she whimpers, and throws herself around me in a hug. "Please don't hurt yourself. I'm sorry we hurt you. I'm so sorry."

And I start crying again. I am the one who hurt everybody, not her. She shouldn't be apologizing to me, I should be apologizing to her, but I can't. I try, and I can't. My mouth is doing its own thing now, and it doesn't even resemble speech. I am not even slightly manly at the moment as the two of us sit here and cry on each other's shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Winry," I say once my mouth works again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm..."

"Don't be," she says, and she sniffles, breaking my heart once again at having broken hers. "We didn't know you were listening. I'm so sorry. We didn't want to hurt you."

"But I'm such a horrible person!" I say, and she shakes her head.

"No, you aren't. Please stop saying that."

"But I am!" I gulp. "Even you said I had problems."

She sighs. "You're emotionally disturbed, Ed. We don't yet know what's going on, but we're trying to find out. You're not a bad person for that."

"I feel like I am," I say, and turn away. She had looked up at me, and I don't want to look into her face. I was too ashamed to do so.

"You're not," she says. I don't respond, so she grabs my chin, makes me face her, and again says, "You're not!"

I close my eyes and cry some more.

Time slips by in that room, unknown to me. I don't know how long it takes, but eventually I settle down enough so that Winry is able to give me one last hug and leave. Al hugs me too and says that he's sorry he hurt me, though I know he's bothered by what happened. Both of them leave and shut the door, and I finally stand up and face the man in the mirror.

He's been through something just as bad, seeing how his cheeks are puffy and red. I sit down in a chair and stare into the mirror without saying anything for several minutes, watching as he does the same thing, and both of us try to understand the situation as best we can. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing that could explain what's going on, anyway.

I blink and lean forward so no one will hear me speak, and I whisper. "It looks like we're on our own here." I cough. "If we want to know what makes us so different, we'll have to figure it out for ourselves."

I stand up and walk back to my bed and flop down onto it. I must be crazy, talking to the mirror like that. I know very well my reflection isn't real, but I need it to be real to keep me sane. Or close to sane, whatever sanity is. I roll over and place a pillow over my face to shut out the world. If sanity exists, I have to find it somehow. I have to. I just have to.