Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 77
Breaking Point

Monday morning, Ash woke up still angry.

The weekend hadn't helped. The conversation with his parents hadn't helped. The grounding, the lecture, the promise of therapy—none of it had touched the rage burning under his skin.

He got dressed, went downstairs, ate breakfast in silence while his parents watched him with concerned faces.

"Have a good day," Mom said as he grabbed his backpack.

Ash didn't respond. Just left.

On the bus, Marcus tried to talk to him. "Hey, you okay? You didn't answer any of my texts—"

"I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine."

"Well I am. Drop it."

Marcus dropped it. Moved to sit with Tyler instead.

Ash sat alone, staring out the window, jaw clenched.

First period English. Ms. Callahan handed back revised essays.

Ash got a B. Still. Even after rewriting it, even after putting in actual effort, even after trying to do what she wanted.

He stared at the grade. Felt the anger spike.

"This is better," Ms. Callahan said quietly, stopping by his desk. "More analytical depth. But you're still holding back. I can see you're capable of more."

"Maybe this is all I've got," Ash said flatly.

"I don't believe that."

"I don't care what you believe."

Ms. Callahan's eyebrows went up. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Sorry." Ash shoved the paper in his folder. Kept his eyes down.

After class, she asked him to stay for a moment.

"Is everything alright, Noam? You seem—"

"I'm fine. Can I go?"

She studied him. "If you're struggling with something, you can talk to me. Or to your counselor—"

"I said I'm fine." Ash grabbed his backpack. "I need to get to my next class."

He left before she could say anything else.

By lunch, the anger was a living thing inside him. Coiled tight, ready to strike.

His friends were talking about the upcoming dance. Some social thing he didn't care about.

"You should come," Emma said. "It'll be fun."

"I don't want to go to a stupid dance."

"It's not stupid—"

"It is stupid. Standing around in a gym with bad music and watching people pretend they know how to dance? Sounds terrible."

"Okay, you don't have to come," Tyler said carefully. "Just thought it might be fun."

"Well it's not. Nothing is fun. Everything here is awful."

Daniel frowned. "Dude, what's your problem lately?"

"My problem? My problem is everyone keeps asking what my problem is!" Ash stood up. "Maybe if everyone would just leave me alone, I wouldn't have a problem!"

He left the cafeteria. Heard his friends behind him but didn't care.

The rage was right there. Right under the surface. Looking for a target.

Sixth period. PE. Flag football again.

Ash was on edge before they even started. Could feel the anger humming in his muscles, making his hands shake.

Brett was on the other team. Of course he was.

The game started. Ash tried to focus. Tried to just play.

But Brett was talking. Always talking.

"Nice throw, Walsh. Oh wait, that was to my team."

"Maybe stick to swimming. You're terrible at this."

"What's wrong? Gifted program too hard for you?"

Ash tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on the game.

But Brett wouldn't shut up.

When Ash's team was on offense, Brett was right there, pulling flags aggressively, shoving a little harder than necessary.

"Come on, genius. Show us what you've got."

Ash ran a route, caught the ball, turned—

Brett hit him hard. Too hard for flag football. Knocked him flat on his back.

"Oops. Accident."

Ash got up slowly. His vision was red at the edges. His hands were fists.

"Back off," he said quietly.

"Or what?" Brett stepped closer. "You gonna do something about it?"

"Brett, Walsh, break it up," Coach Mitchell called from the sideline.

But Brett wasn't done. Pushed Ash's shoulder. "Come on. Hit me. I dare you."

"What's wrong? Scared?" Brett laughed. "I bet you hit like a girl anyway."

Something in Ash snapped.

He swung.

His fist connected with Brett's face. Hard. The impact sent shock waves up his arm.

Brett stumbled back, hand to his nose. "You fucking—"

He swung back. Hit Ash in the jaw.

And then they were fighting. Really fighting. On the ground, fists flying, both of them yelling.

Ash felt Brett's weight on top of him, felt the impact of fists against his ribs, his face. Felt his own fists connecting—nose, jaw, stomach.

The rage was everything. He couldn't think, couldn't control himself, couldn't stop.

He heard shouting. Coach Mitchell. Other students. Tyler yelling his name.

Hands grabbed him, pulled him off Brett. Coach Williams—the other PE teacher—had him by the arms, lifting him away.

"Enough! Both of you, enough!"

Ash struggled, still trying to get to Brett. Still wanting to hit him. The rage hadn't burned out yet.

"Walsh, I said enough!" Coach Mitchell's voice was sharp. "Calm down!"

Gradually, the red faded. Ash stopped struggling. Looked down at his hands—scraped knuckles, already swelling.

Brett was being held by Coach Williams. His nose was bleeding. His eye was starting to swell.

Ash had done that. Had hurt him. Had wanted to hurt him.

The realization was distant. Ash couldn't quite feel sorry about it.

"Both of you, principal's office. Now." Coach Mitchell's face was furious. "Williams, take Walsh. I'll take Brett to the nurse first."

Ash sat in the principal's office, still breathing hard. His jaw hurt where Brett had hit him. His knuckles throbbed.

The anger was fading now, leaving behind something hollow and numb.

Principal Donovan—a middle-aged man with gray hair and a stern expression—sat behind his desk, looking at Ash with disappointment.

"I'm calling your parents."

"Okay."

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"We fought."

"I can see that. I'm asking why."

Ash shrugged. "He's been bullying me for weeks. Today I hit him back."

"Violence is never the answer, Noam."

"Telling teachers didn't help. Ignoring him didn't help. What was I supposed to do?"

"Use your words. Come to administration. We have protocols—"

"Protocols don't work when someone is determined to make your life miserable." Ash looked at the wall. "I'm not sorry I hit him."

Principal Donovan sighed. Made a phone call.

Ash heard him talking to someone—calling both sets of parents. Explaining the situation. Using words like "altercation" and "unacceptable behavior" and "immediate consequences."

After he hung up, he looked at Ash. "Your father is on his way. So are Brett's parents. You'll both be suspended pending a full investigation."

"Fine."

"Noam—" Principal Donovan leaned forward. "This isn't like you. You've never been in trouble before. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"Something is clearly going on. Your teachers have all expressed concern about your behavior lately. The anger, the attitude—"

"I'm fine."

"You just got in a fistfight. You're not fine."

Ash didn't answer. Just sat there, jaw clenched, waiting.

Twenty minutes later, the office door opened.

Dad walked in, still in his work suit. His face was controlled, professional. But Ash saw the concern underneath.

"Mr. Walsh," Principal Donovan stood, shook his hand. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Of course. What happened?"

They went into Principal Donovan's private office. Ash stayed in the waiting area, nurse checking his face, his ribs, his hands.

"You'll have some bruising," she said. "But nothing serious. Ice it when you get home."

Ash nodded. Didn't care about the bruising.

Through the closed door, he could hear voices. Dad's lawyer voice—calm, measured, asking questions. Principal Donovan explaining the situation. Something about suspension policies and disciplinary procedures.

Then Brett's parents arrived. Brett's father was loud, angry. Ash heard him yelling about pressing charges, about violent behavior, about demanding expulsion.

Dad's voice stayed calm. Professional. Ash couldn't hear the exact words, but could hear the tone—de-escalating, negotiating, managing the situation.

After almost an hour, the door opened. All the adults came out.

Brett's parents looked angry but controlled. Brett's father glared at Ash.

Principal Donovan looked exhausted. "Both boys are suspended for three days. There will be a formal hearing when they return to address ongoing consequences. And both families will need to provide documentation of counseling or anger management support before the students can return."

Dad nodded. "We have an appointment with a therapist scheduled for later this week. I can have her office send documentation."

"That would be appropriate." Principal Donovan looked at Brett's parents. "Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman?"

"We'll handle it," Brett's father said curtly.

After Brett's family left, Principal Donovan turned to Dad and Ash.

"Patrick, I've known your family for years. This isn't the Noam we know. I understand he's been under stress with the gifted program transition, but the violence—"

"I understand completely. And we're taking this very seriously." Dad's hand was on Ash's shoulder—firm but not harsh. "We've already been in contact with Dr. Reeves from the program. She specializes in adolescent behavioral issues. Noam will be starting weekly therapy, and we'll be implementing additional support at home."

"Good. Because St. Catherine's has a zero-tolerance policy for violence. If this happens again—"

"It won't," Dad said firmly. "We'll make sure of it."

Principal Donovan nodded. "Noam, do you have anything you want to say?"

Ash looked at him. At Dad. At the nurse still holding an ice pack.

"No," he said quietly.

"Then you're dismissed. Your father will take you home. We'll see you Thursday for the hearing."

In the car, Dad didn't speak until they were out of the parking lot.

Then: "Are you hurt?"

"Not really."

"The nurse said you'll have bruising."

"It's fine."

Dad drove in silence for a few blocks. Then pulled into a parking lot. Turned off the car.

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"About why you just got into a fistfight at school."

Ash stared out the window. "He's been bullying me for weeks. I got tired of it."

"So you hit him."

"Yes."

"Noam—"

"Don't." Ash's voice was flat. "Don't lecture me about violence and better choices and using my words. I know all of that. And it doesn't work. Brett doesn't care about words. He only understands force."

Dad was quiet for a long moment. "Did it feel good? Hitting him?"

Ash thought about it. About the moment his fist connected with Brett's face. About the satisfaction of finally, finally fighting back.

"Yes," he admitted quietly. "It felt good."

"I understand that." Dad's voice was surprisingly gentle. "When you're that angry, when someone's been pushing you, violence feels like the only option. Like the right option."

Ash looked at him, surprised.

"But it's not. It's not the right option, even when it feels good. Because now you're suspended, Brett's parents are talking about pressing charges, and you're in serious trouble at school." Dad started the car again. "We're going home. You're going to ice your face, and then we're going to talk about what happens next."

At home, Mom was waiting. She took one look at Ash's face—bruised jaw, split lip, swollen knuckles—and her expression crumbled.

"Oh, honey—"

"He's fine," Dad said. "Nurse checked him. Nothing serious."

"You got in a fight." Mom looked between them. "You actually hit someone."

"He hit me first." Which wasn't true, but felt true.

"That doesn't matter! You don't solve problems with violence!"

"Shannon," Dad's voice was firm. "Not now. Let me handle this."

Mom looked like she wanted to argue. But after a moment, she nodded. "Ice. Kitchen. I'll get the first aid kit."

While Mom patched him up—cleaning the split lip, checking his ribs, wrapping his swollen knuckles—Dad made phone calls. Ash heard him talking to someone from Dr. Reeves's office, scheduling an emergency session.

After Mom finished, Dad called Ash into the living room.

"Sit down."

Ash sat.

Dad remained standing. "You're suspended for the rest of this week. During that time, you will not see friends, you will not play video games, you will not have any privileges. You'll do your homework, you'll help around the house, and you'll think about your choices."

"Okay."

"And you'll start therapy tomorrow morning. Dr. Reeves has cleared her schedule for an extended session—intake and getting to understand what's going on with you."

"Okay."

"When you get home tomorrow, you'll pack. Because Friday at dawn—" Dad crossed his arms. "You, me, and your Uncle Nate are going hiking. Three days in the mountains. We'll be back Sunday evening. No phones, no technology, just walking and talking."

Ash looked up, surprised. "What?"

"You heard me. Uncle Nate's taking time off work. I'm taking time off work. We're leaving at five AM Friday."

"Why?"

"Because you need to get out of your head. You need physical activity, fresh air, and time away from school and stress and all the things that are making you angry." Dad's expression softened slightly. "And you need time with men who understand what you're going through."

"You don't understand what I'm going through."

"Maybe not entirely. But I understand anger. I understand testosterone. I understand what it's like to be a young man who wants to hit things." Dad sat down across from him. "And Nate understands better than anyone. He was angry at your age too. Got in his own share of fights. He can talk to you about managing it."

Ash didn't know what to say. A hiking trip seemed random. Seemed like punishment disguised as bonding.

"Do I have a choice?"

"No. This is happening." Dad stood up. "After therapy tomorrow, you'll pack. Hiking boots, warm clothes, your sleeping bag. We're leaving Friday morning whether you're ready or not. Then Monday you have therapy again, and Tuesday you're back at school."

Ash went upstairs. In his room, he looked at his reflection in the mirror.

His jaw was purple. His lip was swollen. His knuckles were wrapped in gauze.

He looked like someone who'd been in a fight.

He looked angry. Violent. Dangerous.

He looked like a different person.

Was that who he was now? Someone who solved problems with fists? Someone who couldn't control his temper?

He didn't know. Didn't know who he was anymore.

Just knew that tomorrow he'd be hiking with his father and uncle. Three days in the mountains. No escape.

Maybe that's what he needed. Space to breathe. Space to burn off whatever was building inside him.

Or maybe it would just make everything worse.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to his reflection. "I'm thirty-three years old. I'm eleven years old. Today I got in a fight and got suspended and my face looks like hell. Today I hurt someone and didn't feel sorry. Today I discovered I'm capable of violence in ways I never knew before."

He paused, touching his bruised jaw gingerly.

"Today I found out what testosterone-fueled rage actually feels like. And it scares me."

Tomorrow, the mountains. Tomorrow, trying to figure out who he was becoming.

Tomorrow, therapy. Dr. Reeves and her questions. Trying to explain the inexplicable rage.

Then Friday, the mountains.

Four thousand, six hundred and thirty-seven days to go.

But first: an extended therapy session to dig into what's wrong with him. Then three days of hiking with Dad and Uncle Nate.

Three days to figure out if he was still human underneath all the anger.

Or if he'd become someone else entirely.

Someone he didn't recognize.

Someone who scared him.