Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 4
The Pattern

Ash woke up to white ceiling tiles and the steady beep of a heart monitor. For a moment, he didn't remember. Then it all came rushing back—Jordan's apartment, lying on the floor, the creeping wrongness, the panic, the darkness.

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His head swam. His mouth tasted like copper and chemicals.

"Ash?" His mother's voice, raw and exhausted.

He turned his head. Shannon sat in a chair beside his bed, still in her robe, hair uncombed, eyes red and swollen. She looked like she'd aged a decade overnight.

"Mom," Ash croaked. His throat felt scraped raw.

She didn't move toward him. Just sat there, staring at him with an expression Ash couldn't quite read. Grief. Anger. Exhaustion. All of it at once.

"You're awake," she said flatly.

"What—" Ash's voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. "What happened?"

Shannon's laugh was bitter and short. "You overdosed. Again. Jordan called 911. They gave you Narcan. You've been unconscious for almost six hours."

"I didn't—" The words came automatically, muscle memory. "Mom, I didn't use. I swear to God, I didn't—"

"Don't." Shannon's voice went sharp. "Don't do this. Not again. Please, Ash, just... don't."

"Mom, I'm serious. I fell asleep on Jordan's floor. I was asleep. When I woke up, I was already—something was wrong—I didn't take anything—"

"Then where did the heroin come from?"

"Jordan must have—I don't know—Mom, please, you have to believe me. I was trying. I was staying clean. This wasn't—"

"You snuck out." Shannon's voice was shaking now. "You climbed out your window in the middle of the night. You went to Jordan's apartment—Jordan, who you knew we didn't want you seeing. You were there for hours. And you're telling me you just... what? Somehow accidentally overdosed?"

"Jordan did something. He must have. I was asleep, Mom. I didn't—"

"We talked to Jordan."

Ash's heart sank. "What did he say?"

Shannon's face did something complicated. "He said you asked him for it. That you brought your own drugs, or you had some on you. That you wanted to use and he tried to talk you out of it."

"He's LYING." Ash tried to sit up again, fighting through the dizziness. "Mom, he's lying. I didn't ask for anything. I didn't bring anything. I fell asleep and when I woke up I was already—"

"How convenient." The voice came from the doorway. Patrick stood there, still in his pajama pants and a hastily-thrown-on shirt, arms crossed, face carved from stone. "How very convenient that this time, it's not your fault. Someone else did it to you."

"Dad—"

"Do you have any idea," Patrick said, his voice deadly quiet, "how many times we've heard this? Do you have any conception of how familiar this script is?"

"This is different—"

"It's always different, Ash. It's always someone else's fault. It's always bad luck. It's always 'I was trying, I swear.'"

"But I WAS trying!" Ash's voice cracked. "I did twenty-six days! I went to every meeting! I followed every rule! I only went to Jordan's because I was going crazy being locked in that house—"

"So this is our fault?" Shannon stood up, voice rising. "We were too strict, so you had to sneak out? We were too protective, so you had to go see a friend you knew was using?"

"That's not what I'm saying—"

"Then what ARE you saying?" Patrick moved closer to the bed. "Because from where I'm standing, you made a choice. You chose to sneak out. You chose to go to Jordan's. And whether you used voluntarily or not—and forgive me if I have my doubts—you put yourself in a situation where this was the inevitable outcome."

"Jordan shot me up while I was unconscious!" The words exploded out of Ash. "He did this to me! Why won't you believe me?"

"Because you've lied to us too many times," Shannon said, and her voice broke. "Because every time—every single time—you have an explanation. And we want to believe you. God, Ash, we want to believe you. But we can't. We just... we can't anymore."

Ash felt something crack inside his chest. "So that's it? You've already decided I'm guilty?"

"You ARE guilty," Patrick said. "You violated your house arrest terms. You lied about where you were going. You were at a known drug user's residence. The toxicology report shows heroin in your system. Those are facts, Ash. Whether Jordan 'did this to you' or not doesn't change the facts."

"It changes everything—"

"Not to the court, it won't."

Ash froze. "What?"

Patrick and Shannon exchanged a look. Something passed between them, some conversation they'd already had while Ash was unconscious.

"Your probation officer has been notified," Patrick said. "You'll have a hearing. Given your pattern of violations, given the multiple overdoses, given the fact that you were already on your last chance..." He paused. "You're looking at mandatory sentencing, Ash. Seven to ten years."

The room tilted. "What?"

"There are options," Patrick continued, his lawyer voice fully engaged now, clinical and detached. "Alternatives to prison. Programs you might qualify for. But that's a conversation for later. Right now, you need to focus on getting medically cleared."

"Programs?" Ash looked between his parents. "What programs?"

"We'll discuss it with your lawyer," Patrick said. "After you're released."

"Dad—"

"Not now, Ash." Patrick turned toward the door. "I need to make some calls. Your mother will stay with you."

He left. Shannon sank back into her chair, face in her hands.

"Mom," Ash said quietly. "Mom, please. I'm telling you the truth. Jordan did this. I fell asleep. I was clean. I was trying."

Shannon looked up at him with eyes that had seen this movie too many times. "Even if that's true, Ash—even if Jordan really did shoot you up without your consent—you still chose to be there. You still snuck out. You still put yourself in that situation. Don't you see? Even in your version of events, you made choices that led to this."

"So I deserve it? I deserve seven to ten years in prison because I wanted to see a friend?"

"You wanted to see a using friend. Against explicit instructions. While in recovery. That's not the same thing as 'seeing a friend,' and you know it."

Ash stared at the ceiling. Felt tears burning at the corners of his eyes. "I was trying so hard."

"I know you were." Shannon's voice softened slightly. "I know you were doing well. But trying isn't enough, honey. You have to actually succeed. You have to make it stick."

"How am I supposed to make it stick when I can't even leave the house? When I can't see anyone or do anything or feel like a person instead of a problem to be managed?"

"You were leaving the house. We were going to start supervised outings. Your father and I had a whole plan—"

"Supervised outings." Ash laughed bitterly. "Like a dog on a leash."

"Like someone in recovery who needs support."

"It's the same thing."

Shannon stood up. "I can't do this right now. I can't sit here and be the villain in your story when all we've done is try to keep you alive." She grabbed her purse. "I'm going to get coffee. A nurse will check on you soon."

"Mom—"

But she was already gone.

Ash lay in the hospital bed, alone except for the machines tracking his vitals, and tried to figure out when everything had gone so catastrophically wrong.

Twenty-six days. He'd made it twenty-six days. And one night—one stupid, impulsive, desperate decision—had erased all of it.

Seven to ten years.

He tried to imagine it. Prison. Real prison, not house arrest or rehab or any of the softer landings he'd been given before. Prison with actual criminals, actual violence, actual danger. Seven to ten years of his life gone. He'd be in his thirties when he got out. The same age his parents were when they had Claire.

His phone wasn't in the room. Neither were his clothes. He had no way to contact Jordan, no way to prove what had happened. It was his word against Jordan's, and his word was worth exactly nothing.

The door opened. A nurse came in, checked his vitals, adjusted his IV.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, professionally pleasant.

"Like shit," Ash said honestly.

"That's normal. The Narcan can be rough. You'll probably feel pretty awful for the next day or two."

"Great."

She made a note on her tablet. "The doctor wants to keep you under observation until tomorrow morning. Then you'll be discharged to your parents' care."

"What if I don't want to be discharged to my parents' care?"

The nurse gave him a sympathetic look. "That's not really up to me, honey."

She left. Ash closed his eyes and tried not to think about seven to ten years. Tried not to think about Jordan lying through his teeth. Tried not to think about his mother's face when she said you've lied to us too many times.

He must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes again, Claire was sitting in the chair his mother had vacated.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hey." Ash's voice was hoarse. "Mom call you?"

"Yeah. I came as soon as I could." Claire leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "How are you feeling?"

"Everyone keeps asking me that."

"Because we care about you."

Ash turned his head away. "Right."

"Ash—"

"Did they tell you? About the sentencing?"

Claire was quiet for a moment. "Yes."

"Do you believe me? That I didn't use?"

"I..." Claire paused. "I don't know what to believe, Ash. I want to believe you. But you snuck out. You went to Jordan's. And this has happened before—"

"Not like this."

"How is it different?"

"Because I was trying!" The words came out raw, desperate. "Claire, I swear to God, I was actually trying this time. I made it almost a month. I was going to make it to ninety days. I was going to prove I could do it. And then Jordan—" His voice broke. "He shot me up while I was sleeping. I know how it sounds. I know nobody believes me. But it's true."

Claire studied his face for a long moment. "Even if it's true—and I'm not saying it's not—you still made choices that put you in that position. Don't you see that?"

"So everyone keeps telling me."

"Because it's true." Claire reached out, took his hand. "I love you. We all love you. But love doesn't mean enabling. It doesn't mean making excuses. And it doesn't mean protecting you from the consequences of your choices."

Ash pulled his hand away. "Consequences. Right. Seven to ten years for getting drugged against my will."

"For violating probation. For a pattern of behavior that shows you can't or won't control your addiction. The overdose is just the most recent incident in a long line of incidents, Ash. You have to see that."

"I see that nobody believes me. I see that no matter what I say or do, I'm always going to be the junkie who can't be trusted."

"That's not fair—"

"Isn't it?" Ash looked at her. "Tell me honestly. If I told you right now that I was going to stay clean forever, that this was the wake-up call I needed, would you believe me?"

Claire opened her mouth. Closed it. Her silence was answer enough.

"Yeah," Ash said. "That's what I thought."

"I want to believe you—"

"But you don't. None of you do. And I get it. I really do. I fucked up. I fucked up so many times that even when I'm telling the truth, nobody can tell the difference anymore." He laughed, sharp and bitter. "That's kind of poetic, actually. The boy who cried wolf, except the wolf really did eat him this time and everyone just shrugged."

"That's not—" Claire stopped. Started again. "The court is going to offer you options. Alternatives to prison. Dad's been researching them."

"What kind of options?"

"I don't know the details. But programs. Rehabilitation programs that are more intensive than what you've done before."

"More rehab. Great. Because that's worked so well in the past."

"Ash—"

"I'm tired, Claire. Can you just... can you go? Please?"

Claire looked like she wanted to argue. But she stood up, shouldered her purse. "I'll come back tomorrow. Before you're discharged."

"Don't bother."

"I'm coming anyway." She leaned down, kissed his forehead. "I love you, little brother. Even when you're being an asshole."

She left before he could respond.

Ash lay in the hospital bed and stared at the ceiling and tried to remember what it felt like to be believed. To have someone hear his words and accept them as truth instead of automatically filing them under "excuses and manipulation."

He couldn't remember. Maybe it had been too long. Maybe he'd burned through all his credibility years ago and there was nothing left to spend.

His phone buzzed somewhere nearby—someone must have brought it up from the ER. Ash craned his neck, spotted it on the rolling table that had been pushed too far away for him to reach.

He could see the screen lighting up. Text notifications. Probably from Jordan. Probably trying to get their stories straight, or make sure Ash wasn't going to rat him out.

Not that ratting him out would matter. Nobody would believe it anyway.

Ash closed his eyes and let the exhaustion pull him under. When he woke up, maybe this would all turn out to be a nightmare. Maybe he'd be back in his room at home, ankle monitor still on, still on day twenty-six of sobriety, still trying to prove himself.

But when he woke up six hours later, he was still in the hospital bed. His parents were both there, sitting on opposite sides of the room like opposing lawyers. And Patrick was holding papers that looked very official and very final.

"We need to talk," Patrick said. "About your options."

Ash sat up slowly. His head still ached. His whole body felt wrong, violated in a way he couldn't articulate.

"Okay," he said. "Talk."

Shannon watched her husband lay out the legal situation with clinical precision. Watched Ash's face go progressively paler as the reality settled in.

Mandatory sentencing. Seven to ten years minimum. The pattern of violations. The multiple overdoses. The fact that he'd already been on his last chance.

"You'd be in your early thirties when you got out," Patrick continued, his voice steady but his eyes betraying something deeper. "Older than your mother and I were when we had Claire."

Ash felt the weight of that comparison. His oldest sister, the successful one, born when his parents were twenty-five and establishing their lives. He'd be thirty-one to thirty-four, with nothing but a prison record and an addiction that would have gone untreated for a decade.

"However," Patrick said, "there is an alternative."

Ash looked up, hope flickering in his eyes for the first time since he'd woken up.

Shannon felt something twist in her chest. She knew what was coming. She and Patrick had argued about it for hours while Ash was unconscious. She'd researched it, read testimonials, watched videos of success stories. She'd also read the criticisms, the concerns, the ethical debates.

But when she weighed it against seven to ten years in prison—against her son being victimized, becoming hardened, possibly dying in a fight or from drugs smuggled inside—there was no contest.

"There's a program," Patrick continued. "The Fresh Start Initiative. It's a state-run rehabilitation program for young offenders between sixteen and twenty-five. You just barely qualify—you're twenty-four now, but you'll be twenty-five in a few months."

"What kind of program?" Ash asked warily.

Patrick and Shannon exchanged a look. This was the hard part. The part that sounded insane when you said it out loud, even though thousands of families had chosen it over the past five years.

"It's a regression program," Patrick said carefully. "Complete physical age regression. You'd be brought back to approximately two to three years old—physically. Your mental state remains intact, but your body would be reset. The idea is to address addiction at a neurological level while giving you a chance to... to rebuild. Under supervision."

The silence in the hospital room was absolute.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Ash's voice was barely a whisper.

"Language," Shannon said reflexively, then caught herself. This probably warranted profanity.

"You want to—what? Turn me into a toddler?"

"We don't want anything," Patrick said. "We're presenting you with options. Option one is seven to ten years in state prison. Option two is the Fresh Start Initiative, which would involve physical regression and reparenting under our supervision."

"Reparenting." Ash looked between them. "You want to raise me again. From scratch."

"Not from scratch," Shannon interjected. "You'd retain all your memories, all your knowledge. You'd still be you. Just... physically younger. It would give your body a complete reset. No more drug damage. No more cravings. A genuine fresh start."

"This is insane. This is actually insane."

"It's a legally recognized alternative to incarceration," Patrick said. "Thousands of families have chosen it. The success rates are significantly higher than traditional rehabilitation."

"Success rates for what? Turning your adult child into a baby you can control?"

"Success rates for long-term sobriety," Patrick said sharply. "For preventing recidivism. For giving young people who made mistakes a real second chance."

"I'm twenty-four years old—"

"And you're facing a decade in prison," Patrick interrupted. "Ash, I need you to think clearly about this. Prison isn't rehab. It's not a hospital. You'll be surrounded by other addicts, by violence, by the exact opposite of support. Seven to ten years. You'd be in your mid-thirties when you got out. No job skills, no prospects, an addiction that hasn't been addressed, and a prison record. Is that really preferable to this?"

"To being turned into a baby? Yeah, actually, it is."

Shannon felt tears prickling at her eyes. "Ash, please. Just think about it. We'd be there with you. We'd take care of you. You'd be safe. You'd be clean. And when you're eighteen again—"

"When I'm eighteen again?" Ash's voice went shrill. "Do you hear yourselves? You're talking about erasing sixteen years of my life!"

"Not erasing," Patrick said. "Resetting. You'd still remember everything. You'd still be you."

"In a toddler body. In diapers. Unable to control my own life. Completely dependent on you."

"Temporarily," Shannon said. "Until you're old enough to—"

"How long?" Ash demanded. "How long does this 'program' last?"

Patrick hesitated. "Until you're eighteen. Physically."

"So sixteen years. Sixteen years as a toddler, then a child, then a teenager. Sixteen years of growing up again under your control." Ash laughed, hysterical. "And you're presenting this as the better option?"

"Than prison? Yes." Patrick's voice was hard. "Absolutely yes."

"What about college?" Ash asked. "What about my art? What about my life?"

"You'll have a life," Shannon said. "A better life. A sober life."

"A life where I'm wearing diapers and being spoon-fed."

"Initially," Patrick admitted. "But you'd grow out of that phase. In a few years, you'd be—"

"A few years?" Ash pressed his palms against his eyes. "Jesus Christ. You're serious. You're actually serious about this."

"We're giving you a choice," Patrick said. "That's more than the court has to give you. Seven to ten years in prison, or the Fresh Start program under our care. Those are your options, Ash. I'm sorry they're not better, but this is where we are."

Ash was quiet for a long time. Shannon watched emotions play across his face—horror, disbelief, calculation, desperation.

"What if I don't choose either?" he asked finally. "What if I just... what if I try to run?"

"Then you go to prison anyway," Patrick said bluntly. "And you'd be running from a probation violation, which would add time to your sentence. There's no option three here, Ash. I'm sorry."

"What about..." Ash's voice got smaller. "What about house arrest? What about rehab again? Actual rehab, not this insane sci-fi dystopia shit?"

"You violated house arrest," Patrick reminded him. "And you've been to rehab three times. The court isn't going to offer you a fourth chance at traditional rehabilitation. Not with your record."

"So it's prison or infantilization. Those are my choices."

"Yes," Patrick said simply.

Ash looked at his mother. "What do you think I should do?"

Shannon felt the weight of the question like a physical blow. She'd been dreading this moment, dreading having to voice what she actually thought about a program that sounded like science fiction horror.

But when she opened her mouth, what came out was the truth.

"I don't want to bury my child," she said quietly. "That's all I know. If you go to prison, I'm terrified you'll die there. Either from drugs, or violence, or..." She couldn't finish. "The Fresh Start program keeps you alive. It keeps you safe. It gives you a real chance at recovery. Is it extreme? Yes. Is it what I would have chosen for you if we had unlimited options? No. But we don't have unlimited options. We have these two. And of the two..." She took a shaky breath. "I'd rather have you as a toddler than not have you at all."

Ash stared at her. "You really mean that."

"I really mean that."

He turned to Patrick. "And you?"

"I want you to have a future," Patrick said. "Prison takes that away. The Fresh Start program, as bizarre as it sounds, actually gives you one. You'd be physically healthy. Addiction-free. Under supervision until you're old enough to make better choices. It's not ideal. But it's better than the alternative."

Ash was crying now, silently, tears streaming down his face. "I didn't use. I keep saying it and nobody believes me, but I didn't use. Jordan did this to me."

"I know you believe that," Shannon said gently.

"I don't just believe it. It's true. It's the actual truth. And it doesn't matter. Nothing I say matters. Nothing I do matters. I'm always going to be the fuck-up junkie who can't be trusted."

"That's not—"

"It is, though." Ash wiped at his face angrily. "Even if I chose this program, even if I went through with it, you'd still think I chose to use that night. You'd still think I'm lying. I'd spend sixteen years as your toddler and you'd still never really believe me."

Shannon wanted to argue. Wanted to say that wasn't true. But the words stuck in her throat.

Because maybe it was true. Maybe she'd heard too many explanations, too many excuses, too many promises. Maybe her capacity to believe had been worn down to nothing.

"What I believe doesn't change what happened," she said instead. "And what happened is that you're facing seven to ten years in prison. That's the reality we have to deal with, Ash. Not whether Jordan was telling the truth, not whether you're lying, but what happens next."

"I need time," Ash said. "I need time to think."

"You have until your sentencing hearing," Patrick said. "That's in three weeks. You'll be released from the hospital tomorrow, back to our custody with ankle monitoring reinstated. You'll meet with a lawyer. We'll discuss everything in detail. But you need to start thinking seriously about this, Ash. Start weighing the options. Because three weeks goes by fast."

Ash nodded mutely. Shannon wanted to go to him, wanted to hold him, wanted to promise that everything would be okay.

But she couldn't promise that. Because everything might not be okay. Depending on what choice he made, everything might get much, much worse.

Or differently worse.

She didn't know which option counted as worse anymore.

Patrick stood. "I'm going to talk to the doctor about discharge paperwork for tomorrow. Shannon, are you staying?"

Shannon looked at her son, curled up in the hospital bed, still crying silently.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm staying."

Patrick left. Shannon moved to the chair beside Ash's bed but didn't touch him. Just sat there, present but not intrusive.

After a long time, Ash spoke.

"Do you really think I'd die in prison?"

Shannon's throat closed. "I think the odds aren't good."

"What about the program? What are the odds there?"

"Better," Shannon said. "Much better. The success rates are actually impressive. Ninety-two percent of participants remain sober after the program ends."

"And the other eight percent?"

Shannon was quiet for a moment. "Some don't adjust well. Some are removed from family care and placed in state facilities. Some..." She couldn't say it.

"Some die anyway," Ash finished. "Just differently."

"It's rare. Very rare."

"But it happens."

"Yes."

Ash closed his eyes. "This is all so fucked up."

"I know."

"I was trying, Mom. I really was."

"I know, baby. I know you were."

And the terrible thing was, she did know. She'd seen the effort. Had watched him doing everything right, following every rule, showing up every day.

She just didn't know if trying was enough anymore.

Or if it ever had been.