Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 10
Day Two

Ash woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and a moment of pure disorientation. Wrong room. Wrong bed. Everything felt wrong—

Then he remembered.

The crib bars loomed above him. The stuffed bear he'd rejected last night was somehow tucked against his side now. He must have grabbed it in his sleep. The thought made him feel sick.

His diaper was wet.

The realization came with a wave of humiliation so intense he wanted to die. He'd wet himself in his sleep. Couldn't even control his own bladder anymore.

"Good morning, sweetheart!"

Ash's head whipped around. Shannon stood in the doorway, fully dressed, hair done, looking far too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour this was.

"Did you sleep well?" She crossed to the crib, lowered the side rail. "Let's get you changed and ready for breakfast."

"What time is it?" Ash's voice came out scratchy, hoarse from last night's screaming.

"Seven-thirty. A little later than we'll aim for once we have a routine established, but that's okay for today." Shannon lifted him out of the crib easily. "Oh, you're wet. That's normal, honey. Your body isn't ready for nighttime control yet."

The casual way she said it—like it was just a fact, not a catastrophic loss of dignity—somehow made it worse.

She laid him on the changing table. Ash stared at the ceiling while she unfastened his pajamas, unzipped them all the way down. The morning air felt cold on his skin.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Shannon said, reaching for the wipes.

And there it was. The thing Ash had been trying not to think about since he'd woken up in recovery yesterday.

He had a penis.

A real, functional, toddler-sized penis. The genitals he'd wanted for years. The body he'd dreamed about since he was old enough to understand that his body didn't match his mind.

He'd finally gotten it.

As a two-year-old.

In diapers.

The cosmic joke of it was almost funny. Almost.

Shannon cleaned him efficiently, matter-of-factly. Ash felt his face burning. This was what he'd wanted—to be seen as male, to have a body that matched his identity. But not like this. God, not like this.

"All clean," Shannon said, fastening a fresh diaper. "Let's get you dressed."

She pulled out clothes from the drawer—a t-shirt with a cartoon dinosaur, elastic waist pants, tiny socks. Boy clothes. Unambiguously boy clothes.

At least there was that.

Shannon dressed him quickly, then carried him downstairs. His legs dangled, completely useless for getting anywhere on his own. Everything required being carried or helped or managed.

Patrick was in the kitchen, coffee in hand, reading something on his tablet. He looked up when they entered.

"Good morning, Noam. How was your first night?"

"Don't call me that."

"That's your name," Patrick said calmly. "You'll get used to it."

"I won't."

"We'll see." Patrick took a sip of his coffee. "Oatmeal or eggs for breakfast?"

The question was so absurdly normal that Ash wanted to laugh. Like they were discussing breakfast options for a regular toddler, not an adult trapped in a nightmare.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat," Shannon said, setting him in the high chair. "Growing bodies need fuel. Oatmeal or eggs?"

"I don't want either."

"Oatmeal it is." Shannon moved to the stove. "We'll add some brown sugar and fruit. You used to love that when you were little."

When he was little. The first time. The implication that this was somehow a return to something familiar made Ash's skin crawl.

Patrick set down his tablet. "We should talk about the schedule. Structure is important, especially in the beginning."

"I don't want a schedule."

"What you want isn't really relevant right now," Patrick said, not unkindly. Just stating fact. "You're two years old. Two-year-olds need structure. So here's how it's going to work: Wake up at seven. Breakfast. Morning playtime. Snack. Lunch. Naptime—"

"I'm not taking naps."

"Yes, you are. Naptime from one to three. Afternoon activity. Dinner at six. Bath at seven. Bed at seven-thirty." Patrick recited it like he was reading a grocery list. "Every day. Consistency helps with adjustment."

"I'm not adjusting to this."

"You will." Patrick's certainty was maddening. "It might take a few weeks, but you will. The facility said resistance usually peaks around day three to five, then starts declining. You'll find it's easier to work with us than against us."

Shannon set a bowl of oatmeal on the high chair tray. It was cut with milk to a baby-food consistency, topped with blueberries cut into tiny pieces.

"I'm not eating that."

"Okay." Shannon sat down with her own coffee. "But you're staying in that chair until breakfast time is over. Which is thirty minutes."

"Thirty minutes? That's ridiculous."

"That's how long toddlers typically take to eat meals. Sometimes longer." Shannon pulled out her phone. "Let me know when you're ready to eat."

Ash sat there, trapped in the high chair, staring at the bowl of oatmeal.

His stomach growled.

He waited for them to coax him. To negotiate. To give in.

They didn't. Patrick went back to his tablet. Shannon scrolled through her phone. The kitchen clock ticked loudly.

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

"This is stupid," Ash said.

"Mmm," Shannon responded, not looking up.

"You can't just—I'm a person! I have rights!"

"You're a person who needs to eat breakfast," Patrick said, still reading. "Which you can do anytime in the next fifteen minutes."

Ash's hands clenched into fists. His stupid pudgy fists that could barely make an impact on anything.

He picked up the spoon—silicone, safe for toddlers—and took a bite of oatmeal.

It tasted good. Perfectly sweetened, warm, the blueberries adding tartness. He hated that it tasted good.

He ate three more bites.

"There you go," Shannon said, voice warm but not overly praising. Just... acknowledging. "Good job listening to your body."

Ash ate the rest in silence. Drank from the sippy cup—apple juice, the kind he used to like. Everything was designed to be appealing, comfortable, easy.

Everything was designed to make him complicit in his own infantilization.

When he was done, Shannon wiped his face and hands. "Good breakfast. Now, morning playtime. We have some options—"

"I don't want to play."

"—we can play in the living room, or go outside to the backyard if it's nice enough." Shannon continued as if he hadn't spoken. "What sounds better?"

"Neither."

"Living room it is." Shannon lifted him out of the high chair.

Morning playtime meant sitting on the mat in the living room again, surrounded by toys while his parents did adult things around him. Patrick left for work—Saturday hours apparently were a real thing. Shannon moved between the kitchen and living room, doing laundry, checking her phone, living her life while Ash sat there with nothing to do but stare at plastic trucks.

He tried to resist. Tried to just sit there and refuse to engage with any of it.

But God, it was boring.

And his body—his stupid toddler body—had a toddler attention span. His eyes kept drifting to the toys. His hands kept reaching for things almost against his will.

He picked up a puzzle. Simple shapes, six pieces. Triangle, circle, square, star, heart, diamond.

His hands fit the pieces into their slots automatically. The satisfaction of the click when they fit was—

No. No, he wasn't going to feel satisfied by completing a fucking baby puzzle.

He dumped the pieces out. Put them back. Dumped them again.

"Having fun?" Shannon asked from the kitchen.

"No."

"Okay. Let me know if you need anything."

The complete lack of pressure was somehow worse than if she'd been forcing him. There was nothing to push back against. Just... this. Endless, boring this.

Ash lay back on the mat and stared at the ceiling.

His body felt heavy. Sleepy. Even though he'd just woken up a few hours ago.

"Someone looks tired," Shannon observed.

"'M not tired," Ash slurred, eyes already closing.

"Okay, honey."

He didn't mean to fall asleep. Didn't want to. But his toddler body had different ideas, and consciousness slipped away before he could fight it.

When he woke up, he was in the crib again. Blanket tucked around him. The stuffed bear—when had that gotten there?—pressed against his side.

Panic spiked. How long had he been asleep? Why was he in the crib?

"You're awake!" Shannon appeared in the doorway. "You fell asleep on the mat, so I moved you to your crib for a proper nap. You slept for almost two hours."

Two hours. He'd lost two hours to involuntary sleep because his stupid baby body needed a morning nap.

"Need a diaper check," Shannon said, approaching the crib.

"I'm fine."

"Let me check anyway." She felt the outside of his diaper through his pants. "You're wet. Let's get you changed."

Another diaper change. Another violation of privacy. Another reminder that his body wasn't his own anymore.

Shannon lifted him to the changing table. Ash closed his eyes, tried to dissociate.

"I know this is hard," Shannon said quietly as she worked. "I know you hate this. But it's going to get easier, Noam. I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep. And don't call me that."

"I can keep that promise. And that is your name." Shannon fastened the fresh diaper. "The facility said most participants adjust within three to six months. They stop fighting as much. Start accepting their new reality."

"I'll never accept this."

"That's what they all say at first." Shannon pulled his pants back up. "But you will. Because fighting every single moment of every single day is exhausting. Eventually, you'll realize it's easier to just... let go. Let us take care of you. Let yourself be young again."

"I don't want to be young again."

"I know." Shannon lifted him off the table. "But here we are anyway."

She carried him back downstairs. Lunch was already on the table—cut up sandwich, apple slices, cheese cubes. All in toddler-safe pieces.

The high chair. Again. The tray locking him in place. Again.

This was his life now. This endless cycle of being fed, changed, put down for naps, fed again. Like a pet. Like an actual infant who couldn't do anything for himself.

"Eat up," Shannon said. "We have a visitor coming this afternoon."

Ash's head snapped up. "Who?"

"Claire. She wants to see how you're settling in."

"I don't want to see Claire."

"She's your sister. She loves you. And she's coming whether you want her to or not." Shannon's voice was gentle but firm. "You can be pleasant, or you can be difficult. But she's still coming."

Claire arrived at two-thirty. Ash heard her voice in the entryway, heard Shannon greeting her, heard footsteps coming toward the living room where he'd been placed on the mat again.

Then his older sister rounded the corner and stopped dead.

Her hand went to her mouth. Her eyes went glassy.

"Oh," she whispered. "Oh, Ash."

"It's Noam now," Shannon corrected quietly. "We're using his new name."

"Right. Sorry. Noam." But Claire's voice broke on the name.

She crossed the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. Knelt down on the mat next to him.

"Hey, little brother."

Ash turned away. "Don't."

"I know this is—I can't imagine—" Claire's professional nurse composure was cracking. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize," Shannon said from behind them. "This isn't something to be sorry about. This is saving his life."

"Right. Yes. Of course." Claire wiped her eyes. Took a breath. Got herself under control. "How are you adjusting?"

"How do you think I'm adjusting?" Ash's voice came out bitter. "I'm two years old and in diapers. I'm doing great."

"The facility said the first week is the hardest," Shannon offered. "Physically, he's perfectly healthy. The regression was flawless. It's just the emotional adjustment that takes time."

"Can I—" Claire gestured vaguely. "Can I talk to him alone?"

"No," Shannon said immediately. "The program materials are very clear about this. Family members can't undermine the parental authority or suggest alternatives. You're welcome to visit, but we supervise all interactions."

Claire's face did something complicated. But she nodded. "Okay. I understand."

She turned back to Ash. Picked up one of the trucks from the mat. "Want to play?"

"I'm not playing with you."

"Fair enough." Claire set the truck down. "For what it's worth... I think Mom and Dad are right. Prison would have killed you. This is—" she gestured helplessly, "—this is awful. I'm not going to pretend it's not awful. But you're alive. And in a few years—"

"A few years?" Ash laughed, sharp and bitter. "Claire, I'm two years old. I have to do all of childhood again. Two, three, four, five—all the way through seventeen. Sixteen fucking years of this. That's not 'a few years.' That's half my adult life gone."

"But you'll get another adult life after," Claire said. "You'll be eighteen again. Sober. Healthy. With your whole future ahead of you. You wouldn't have that in prison."

"At least in prison I'd be me."

"Would you?" Claire's voice was soft. "Or would you be someone broken and damaged and traumatized in completely different ways?"

Ash didn't have an answer for that.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. Claire tried to make conversation—about her pregnancy, about work, about anything that wasn't the elephant in the room. Ash responded in monosyllables or not at all.

Finally, Claire stood. "I should go. But Ash—Noam—" she corrected herself, "—I love you. We all do. And we're going to be here for you through this. Whatever you need."

"I need you to help me get out of this."

"I can't do that," Claire said, and she looked genuinely pained. "I'm sorry. But I can't."

She left. Ash heard her and Shannon talking in low voices by the front door. Heard his sister crying. Heard the door close.

Then Shannon was back, settling into the armchair with her knitting.

"That was nice of her to visit," Shannon said, needles clicking.

Ash didn't respond. Just stared at the trucks on the mat and tried to figure out how he was going to survive this.

One day down.

Five thousand eight hundred and thirty-nine days to go.

Sixteen years.

He'd be forty when this was over.

Forty, and having to pretend to be eighteen.

The math was incomprehensible.

His eyes were getting heavy again. God, why was he so tired?

"Looks like someone's ready for afternoon naptime," Shannon observed.

"No," Ash said, but he was already yawning.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you down for a nap."

And because his body was two years old and didn't give a shit about his adult consciousness, Ash fell asleep again before Shannon even got him to the crib.

Day two, and he was already exhausted.

This was going to be a long sixteen years.