Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 76
Irritable

The anger was always there now. Just under the surface, waiting.

Ash didn't recognize it for what it was. Didn't understand that his body was flooding with testosterone, that puberty was beginning its slow transformation, that the irritability and rage weren't situational—they were chemical.

He just knew he was angry. All the time. At everything.

It started small.

Tuesday morning, three weeks into the gifted program. Ash came downstairs for breakfast and Mom had made oatmeal.

"I don't want oatmeal," he said, staring at the bowl.

"It's what we're having this morning. It's healthy and—"

"I said I don't want it." His voice came out sharper than he intended.

Mom looked at him, surprised. "Noam, I spent time making breakfast. You can eat oatmeal."

"I hate oatmeal."

"You've never said that before."

"Well I'm saying it now." He pushed the bowl away. "I'll just have cereal."

"You'll eat what I made."

"I'm not hungry anymore." Ash stood up, grabbed his backpack. "I'll eat lunch."

"Noam Francis Walsh, sit down and eat your breakfast."

"No."

Mom opened her mouth, closed it. Looked like she wanted to argue but didn't have the energy this early in the morning.

Ash left without eating anything.

On the bus, Marcus tried to talk to him about the upcoming basketball game.

"You coming Friday? Should be a good game. Tyler says—"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You don't know? You've been to every game."

"I said maybe, okay? Stop pushing."

Marcus went quiet. Looked at him weird. "Dude, what's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because you're being kind of a dick lately."

Ash felt the anger spike—hot and immediate. "I'm being a dick? You're the one who won't shut up about basketball!"

"Okay, forget it. Jesus." Marcus moved to a different seat.

Ash sat alone, fists clenched, knowing he'd overreacted but unable to make himself apologize.

In Advanced English, Ms. Callahan handed back their essays on The Outsiders.

Ash got a B+. With notes in red pen about "superficial analysis" and "needs deeper engagement with themes."

A B+. On an English paper. When his writing had gotten him recommended for gifted classes in the first place.

He stared at the grade, felt something hot and ugly curl in his stomach.

After class, he approached Ms. Callahan's desk.

"I don't understand this grade."

"Your analysis was competent but not particularly insightful," she said, not looking up from her laptop. "You summarized the plot well but didn't engage critically with the text's deeper meanings."

"I engaged with it."

"Superficially. The gifted track expects more sophisticated literary analysis." She glanced at him. "You're clearly bright, Noam, but you're not putting in the effort. This reads like you dashed it off the night before it was due."

Which he had. Because he'd been exhausted from algebra homework and science reading and just wanted to be done.

"It's a good essay."

"It's an adequate essay. Good for regular English, perhaps. But in this class, we expect excellence." Ms. Callahan went back to her laptop. "Rewrite it if you want to improve the grade. Otherwise, accept the B+ and do better next time."

Ash wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she was being unfair, that his writing was fine, that she was expecting too much.

Instead, he grabbed his backpack and left before he said something he'd regret.

At lunch, Emma asked how his classes were going.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth.

"Just fine?"

"Can everyone stop asking me how I'm doing? I'm fine. Everything's fine."

"Okay, geez. Just asking." Emma exchanged glances with Daniel.

Tyler leaned over. "You seem stressed."

"I'm not stressed."

"You kind of seem stressed."

"Well I'm not, so drop it."

"Dude—"

"I said drop it!" Ash stood up abruptly, grabbed his tray. "I'm going to the library."

He dumped his barely-touched lunch and left, ignoring his friends calling after him.

In the library, he tried to work on homework. But his algebra problems weren't making sense, and his science reading was boring, and everything felt too hard and too easy at the same time.

He wanted to throw his textbook across the room. Wanted to break something. The urge was so strong his hands were shaking.

Instead, he put his head down on the desk and breathed slowly until the bell rang.

Wednesday was worse.

PE was flag football. Ash's team was losing, and Brett was on the other team, talking shit every time he pulled someone's flag.

"Nice try, Walsh! Maybe stick to basketball!"

Ash tried to ignore it. Focused on the game.

But then Brett intercepted a pass meant for Ash, ran it back for a touchdown, and made a point of celebrating in his face.

"What's wrong, genius? Too smart for sports now?"

Ash felt the anger surge. Felt his fists clench, felt the urge to hit Brett so strongly his vision went red at the edges.

"Back off," he said quietly.

"Make me."

Coach Mitchell blew the whistle. "Brett, knock it off. Walsh, back to your side."

Ash walked away. But his hands were still shaking. His jaw hurt from clenching so hard.

In the locker room after, Brett kept going.

"Heard you're struggling in your genius classes. Not so smart after all, huh?"

"Shut up."

"What, can't handle a little challenge? Too used to being the smartest kid in the room?"

"I said shut up."

"Or what? You gonna cry about it? Run to your mommy?"

Ash spun around. Got right in Brett's face, even though Brett was taller and bigger and this was stupid, this was so stupid.

"Say that again," Ash said, voice low and dangerous.

Brett grinned. Pushed Ash's shoulder. "Your. Mommy."

Tyler grabbed Ash's arm before he could swing. "Not worth it, man. Come on."

Ash let himself be pulled away. But the rage didn't fade. It sat in his chest, burning, making it hard to breathe.

That night at dinner, he barely spoke. Pushed his food around his plate.

"How was your day?" Mom asked.

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Ash snapped. "Why can't I just say fine without everyone interrogating me?"

"Honey, I'm not interrogating—"

"Yes you are! You always are! Can I just eat dinner without a therapy session?"

"Noam," Dad's voice had warning in it. "Don't talk to your mother that way."

"I'm just answering her question!"

"You're being rude."

"I'm being honest!"

"You're being disrespectful. Apologize to your mother."

Ash stared at his plate. The anger was right there, so close to the surface. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Look at her and say it properly."

"I said I'm sorry!"

"Noam—"

"What more do you want from me?" Ash threw his fork down. It clattered loudly against his plate. "I said I'm sorry! I'm doing everything you tell me to do! I'm in the stupid gifted classes, I'm doing the hard work, I'm trying! But nothing is ever good enough!"

"That's not—" Mom started.

"Just leave me alone!" Ash stood up, pushed his chair back hard. "I'm not hungry anymore."

He went to his room. Slammed the door.

Downstairs, he heard his parents talking in low voices. Couldn't make out the words, but could hear the tone. Worried. Concerned.

He didn't care. He threw himself on his bed, stared at the ceiling, still angry.

Everything was making him angry. Everything was too much. The hard classes, the mean kids, the disappointed teachers, his worried parents, his concerned friends.

He was so tired. But when he tried to sleep, he just lay there, angry, replaying every frustrating moment of the day.

Thursday after school, Ash had swim practice. That helped. The physical exertion burned off some of the restless energy. Made the anger manageable.

Coach Sarah pulled him aside after. "Good practice today. You're swimming aggressive. Using that competitive fire."

Ash just nodded. Didn't know how to explain that he wasn't being competitive—he was just angry, and swimming was the only thing that made it bearable.

But Friday, no practice. No game. No sports. Just school and homework and the anger with nowhere to go.

At dinner, Dad asked about his progress in algebra.

"It's fine."

"Just fine? Mr. Patel emailed. Said you seemed frustrated in class yesterday."

"The material is hard."

"That's the point. It's supposed to challenge you." Dad cut his chicken. "But if you need a tutor—"

"I don't need a tutor."

"Mr. Patel thinks—"

"I don't care what Mr. Patel thinks!" Ash's voice came out louder than he intended. "I'm doing the work! I'm trying! Why is everyone always on my case?"

"No one's on your case. We're trying to support you."

"It doesn't feel like support! It feels like criticism! Like nothing I do is ever good enough!"

"Noam, that's not fair—"

"You know what's not fair?" Ash stood up, voice rising. "Being forced into classes I didn't want! Being told I have to be challenged when I was happy where I was! Having everyone constantly watching me and judging me and expecting me to be perfect!"

"We don't expect perfection," Mom said quietly. "We expect effort."

"I am giving effort! But the classes are hard and the kids are mean and the teachers expect too much and I'm tired all the time and everyone keeps asking if I'm okay when I'm obviously not okay!" Ash felt his voice crack—embarrassingly high-pitched. "And now you're emailing my teachers behind my back?"

"We're monitoring your progress," Dad said. "That's our job as parents."

"Your job is to leave me alone!"

"That's enough." Dad stood up too. "I understand you're frustrated. I understand the transition has been difficult. But you do not get to yell at us. You do not get to be disrespectful just because you're having a hard time."

"I'm not being disrespectful, I'm being honest!"

"You're being rude. And you need to get control of yourself."

Something in Ash snapped. The careful control he'd been maintaining, the filter between thought and speech—it just dissolved.

"Control of myself?" He laughed, bitter and sharp. "That's rich coming from you. You who decided I needed control so badly you literally regressed me to childhood. You who took away every choice I had because you thought you knew better. You who forced me into this life and then act surprised when I'm not grateful!"

The room went silent.

Dad's face had gone pale. Then red.

"Go to your room," he said quietly. "Right now."

"Dad—" Ash started.

"Now, Noam."

Ash wanted to argue. Wanted to say more. But something in Dad's expression stopped him.

He went upstairs. Heard Dad's voice behind him, low and shaking: "Shannon, we need to talk."

In his room, Ash paced. The anger was still there, burning in his chest. He'd crossed a line. He knew he'd crossed a line. But he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry.

Everything he'd said was true. They had taken his choices. They had forced this. They had no right to be upset when he pushed back.

But even as he thought it, part of him knew he'd gone too far. Knew that throwing the regression in Dad's face was cruel. Knew that Dad carried guilt about that decision.

He didn't care. Couldn't care. The anger was too big.

He threw himself on his bed. Grabbed his pillow and screamed into it. Wanted to hit something, break something, hurt something.

Eventually, exhausted, he fell asleep. Still angry. Still furious.

Shannon POV

After Noam stormed upstairs, Shannon and Patrick sat at the kitchen table in silence.

"Well," Patrick said after a moment. "That was familiar."

Shannon let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "He hasn't brought up the regression like that in years. Not since he was five, maybe six."

"I know." Patrick rubbed his face. "Thought we were past that particular argument."

"We're not past it. We're never going to be past it." Shannon started clearing dishes. "But that's not what concerns me most."

"No?"

"No. What concerns me is the volatility. The way he goes from zero to screaming in seconds. The way he can't seem to control his temper at all anymore." Shannon loaded plates into the dishwasher. "This has been building for weeks."

Patrick nodded slowly. "The gifted program stress."

"Partially. But Patrick—" Shannon turned to face him. "I've been tracking it. Noticing patterns. He's worse on days when he doesn't have sports. Thursday and Friday, when he has no practice, no games? He's impossible. But days with swim practice or basketball? He's still irritable, but manageable."

"You think it's about needing a physical outlet?"

"I think it's about puberty." Shannon said it plainly. "He's eleven. His body is starting to change. And he's never experienced male puberty before—never dealt with testosterone surges, with the aggression that comes with it."

Patrick was quiet, considering. "You think this is hormonal."

"I think it's hormonal and situational. The gifted program stress, the bullying, the loss of control over his schedule—that's all real. But the intensity of his reaction? The way he can't regulate himself? That's new. That's physical." Shannon sat back down. "And he doesn't recognize it. Doesn't understand what's happening to his body."

"So what do we do?"

"We restart therapy." Shannon pulled out her phone, scrolled through contacts. "He had Miss Jessica for play therapy during the early years. That helped him adjust to the regression, process the transition. But that was appropriate for a toddler. Now he needs something different—adolescent-focused therapy from someone who understands his situation."

"Someone from the facility?"

"Dr. Reeves works with the program. She specializes in adolescent boys going through the regression puberty phase. She's seen this before—the anger, the volatility, the hormonal changes combined with adult consciousness." Shannon found the contact. "She'll understand what he's dealing with in ways a regular therapist couldn't."

"She knows about his situation?"

"She's cleared to know. Part of the program network." Shannon made a note to call Monday. "I think we start with weekly sessions. Give him a space to process the anger, the frustration, the hormonal changes he doesn't understand yet."

Patrick reached across the table, took her hand. "Do you think it'll help?"

"I think it can't hurt. And I think—" Shannon paused, choosing words carefully. "I think we're seeing the beginning of teenage years with an adult consciousness. That's uncharted territory. The anger, the volatility, the way he's fighting against every boundary—that's normal adolescent behavior. But combined with his adult memories and the trauma of the regression? He needs support."

"He's going to fight us on this too."

"Probably. But we're not giving him a choice." Shannon squeezed his hand. "Just like the gifted program. This is a parenting decision, not a negotiation."

Patrick smiled slightly. "He's going to love that."

"He'll survive." Shannon stood up, continued clearing the table. "And honestly? I think part of him will be relieved. He's clearly miserable. He knows something is wrong. He just doesn't have the tools to fix it himself."

They finished cleaning up together. Patrick washed, Shannon dried. A comfortable routine from years of marriage.

"Do you ever regret it?" Patrick asked quietly. "The conservatorship. Choosing regression for him."

Shannon was quiet for a long moment. "I regret that we had to make that choice at all. I regret that his addiction got so bad that there were no good options left. But do I regret choosing what I thought would save his life?" She set down the dish towel. "No. Even on nights like tonight, when he throws it in our faces. Even when he hates us for it."

"He doesn't hate us."

"Right now he does. Or thinks he does." Shannon leaned against the counter. "But he's alive. He's healthy. He's got friends and interests and a future. Whatever anger he carries—we can help him work through that. But we couldn't help him if he was dead."

Patrick pulled her into a hug. They stood there in the kitchen, holding each other.

"Monday I'll call Dr. Reeves," Shannon said into his shoulder. "Set up an intake appointment."

"Should we tell him tonight?"

"Let him cool down first. We'll tell him tomorrow." Shannon stepped back. "Right now, let's just give him space."

They headed upstairs. Shannon paused outside Noam's door, listening. Nothing. Just silence.

She wanted to check on him. But Patrick's hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"He needs to be alone right now," he said softly.

In their own room, Shannon changed into pajamas, went through her nighttime routine. But her mind was on Noam.

The anger in his face. The way his voice had cracked—embarrassingly adolescent in the middle of his rage. The pain underneath the fury.

This was going to be a rough few years. Puberty combined with adult consciousness combined with the trauma of the regression. There was no roadmap for this.

But they'd gotten him through toddlerhood. Through elementary school. Through the initial adjustment period.

They could get him through adolescence too.

They had to.

Shannon got into bed, but didn't turn off the light. "Patrick?"

"Hmm?"

"Make a note to talk to Coach Sarah about extra swim practices. And see if there are any basketball leagues starting up. He needs more physical outlets."

"You really think that'll help?"

"I think a teenage boy with testosterone flooding his system needs to tire himself out. Preferably in productive ways." Shannon finally turned off the light. "It won't solve the anger, but it might make it more manageable."

Patrick pulled her close. "You're a good mother."

"I'm a worried mother."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

Shannon closed her eyes. Tried to sleep. But her mind kept circling back to Noam—upstairs, alone, carrying rage he didn't understand.

Tomorrow they'd tell him about therapy. He'd fight it. But they'd hold firm.

Because that's what parents did. Made hard decisions. Held boundaries. Provided support even when it wasn't wanted.

She just hoped it would be enough.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under. She dreamed of Noam at different ages—two years old and screaming, five years old and defiant, eight years old and finally smiling, eleven years old and full of rage she didn't recognize.

Growing up was hard. Growing up twice was harder. Growing up twice with an adult consciousness while your body flooded with hormones for the first time?

There was no manual for that.

They were making it up as they went along.

And hoping they got more right than wrong.

Noam POV

Ash woke Saturday morning still angry.

Lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying last night's argument. What he'd said to Dad. The look on both their faces.

He should feel bad. Should feel guilty for throwing the regression in Dad's face.

He didn't. Still felt justified. Still felt like everything he'd said was true.

Downstairs, he heard his parents moving around. Making breakfast. Talking quietly.

He didn't want to face them. Didn't want the conversation about his behavior, about controlling his temper, about being respectful.

He was tired. So tired. But it wasn't physical tiredness—it was the bone-deep exhaustion of constantly fighting. Fighting the anger, fighting the expectations, fighting himself.

His phone buzzed. Marcus: you ok? you were really off yesterday

Emma: hey did something happen? you seemed upset

Tyler: let us know if you need anything

His friends. Concerned about him. And he'd been such an asshole to them all week.

He should respond. Should apologize. Should explain—

Explain what? That he was angry all the time? That he didn't know why? That everything felt too big and too hard and he wanted to punch walls?

He put the phone down without responding.

Got up. Got dressed. Avoided looking at himself in the mirror because he hated what he saw lately—the baby face, the skinny frame, the kid who couldn't even grow a proper mustache yet.

His body was wrong again. Different wrong than before, but wrong nonetheless. Too young. Too small. Too unprepared for everything he was feeling.

Downstairs, Mom and Dad were at the kitchen table. Coffee and toast. The Saturday morning ritual.

They looked up when he entered. Looked at him with concern and wariness and something else—worry, maybe. Or fear.

"Good morning," Mom said carefully.

"Morning."

Silence. Awkward and heavy.

"Noam," Dad said finally. "About last night—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"We need to talk about it."

"I said I don't want to." Ash grabbed a granola bar from the cabinet. "I'm going to Marcus's house."

"You're not going anywhere until we have a conversation about your behavior."

"My behavior? What about yours?" Ash turned around. The anger was right there again, immediate and hot. "You're the ones who won't leave me alone. Who keep pushing and pushing—"

"We're your parents. It's our job to push you to be your best."

"Well maybe I don't want to be my best! Maybe I just want to be!"

"Noam—"

But Ash was already leaving. Grabbed his jacket, headed for the door.

"You're grounded!" Dad called after him. "You don't get to just walk away from this conversation!"

Ash walked away anyway.

Outside, the autumn air was cold. He walked fast, hands jammed in his pockets, not really knowing where he was going.

Not to Marcus's house. Marcus would ask questions. Would want to talk about feelings.

He walked until his legs hurt. Until the cold numbed his face. Until the anger settled into something manageable.

Then he turned around and walked home.

Mom and Dad were waiting. Had that look—united front, serious conversation face.

"Sit down," Dad said. "We're going to talk, and you're going to listen."

Ash sat. Crossed his arms. Waited.

"Your behavior lately has been unacceptable," Dad continued. "The disrespect, the anger, the way you've been talking to us and your friends—it needs to stop."

"I'm having a hard time."

"We understand that. But having a hard time doesn't give you permission to lash out at everyone around you." Dad looked tired. Older than usual. "We're trying to help you. But we can't help you if you won't let us."

"I don't need help. I need everyone to back off."

"That's not going to happen," Mom said gently. "You're our son. We're not going to back off just because you're going through something difficult."

"Then we're at an impasse."

"No," Dad said firmly. "We're at a point where you need to make a choice. You can work with us, accept help and support and try to manage this anger. Or you can keep fighting us, keep being angry, and face consequences for that behavior."

"Consequences like what? Grounding me? Taking away my phone?" Ash laughed bitterly. "You've already taken everything that matters. What else is there?"

Mom and Dad exchanged glances.

"We're getting you into therapy," Mom said. "Professional support for managing your anger."

"I don't need therapy."

"That's not your decision to make." Dad's voice was final. "You start next week."

Ash wanted to argue. Wanted to refuse. But he saw their faces—determined, worried, exhausted.

They were going to make him go. Just like they'd made him go to the gifted program. Just like they'd made him be Noam in the first place.

Another choice taken away. Another decision made for him.

"Fine," he said flatly. "Can I go to my room now?"

"Yes," Mom said quietly.

Ash went upstairs. Closed his door. Sat on his bed.

Therapy. Great. Some stranger who'd want to talk about his feelings, want to dig into his anger, want to fix him.

He didn't need fixing. He needed everyone to leave him alone.

His phone buzzed again. His friends, still checking in.

He ignored it.

Lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

The anger was still there. Always there. Burning under his skin, making everything harder.

He didn't know what was wrong with him. Didn't know why everything made him so angry lately, why his temper was so short, why he wanted to break things and hit people.

He just knew something felt different. Wrong. Like his skin didn't fit right, like his emotions were too big for his body.

He just knew he was angry. At his parents, at his teachers, at Brett, at his own inadequate body.

And therapy wasn't going to fix that.

Nothing was going to fix that.

He closed his eyes. Tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come.

Just the anger. Always the anger.

Waiting for something to break.