Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 80
The Weight of Anger

The sun had been down for two hours.

Ash's wrists hurt despite the rope not being tight. His back ached from sitting against the tree. His stomach was a hollow, angry thing.

From the campfire ten feet away, the smell of hot dogs and beans made his mouth water. Dad and Uncle Nate sat by the fire, eating dinner, talking quietly like he wasn't there.

Like he wasn't tied to a tree, hungry, getting cold as the mountain temperature dropped.

"Temperature's going down to about forty tonight," Nate observed, poking the fire with a stick.

"Good thing we have warm sleeping bags," Dad replied.

They weren't even looking at him.

Ash's throat was raw from screaming earlier. His anger had burned hot, then cooled to sullen resentment, and now...

Now he was just hungry. And cold. And his pride was starting to seem less important than food and warmth.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Dad and Nate continued their conversation.

"I said I'm sorry," Ash said louder.

"Sorry for what?" Nate asked without turning around.

Ash gritted his teeth. "For trying to hit you."

"And?"

"And for being disrespectful."

"To who?"

"To you and Dad."

Nate finally turned to look at him. "Do you mean it? Or are you just hungry?"

Ash wanted to lie. Wanted to say whatever would get him untied. But something in Nate's expression said he'd know.

"Both," Ash admitted. "I'm hungry. But I also... I shouldn't have tried to hit you. That was stupid."

"Why was it stupid?"

"Because you're bigger and stronger and it was never going to work."

"Wrong answer." Nate turned back to the fire. "Try again when you actually understand."

Another hour passed. The temperature kept dropping. Ash's fleece wasn't enough anymore. He was shivering.

"I'm sorry," he tried again. "I was wrong because... because violence doesn't solve anything. Because hitting people when you're angry is wrong."

Dad looked at him this time. "Is that what you really think? Or what you think we want to hear?"

Ash's eyes burned with frustrated tears. "I don't know what you want from me!"

"The truth," Dad said simply.

Ash was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I was wrong because I let my anger control me. Again. Just like with Brett. I didn't think, I just reacted. And now I'm tied to a tree instead of eating dinner."

"Better," Nate said. He stood, walked over, efficiently untied the ropes. "Come eat. But understand this—tomorrow, we do this differently."

Ash rubbed his wrists, stumbled on stiff legs to the fire. Dad handed him a plate—hot dog, beans, piece of bread. It tasted like the best meal he'd ever had.

"Tomorrow," Nate said, sitting back down, "we're hiking to the peak. Ten miles round trip, decent elevation gain. And you're going to learn about consequences."

"I just did—"

"No, you learned about immediate consequences. Tomorrow you learn about carrying the weight of your choices."

Ash didn't know what that meant, but he was too tired and hungry to care. He ate in silence, then helped clean up camp—no one had to tell him to, it just seemed smart to cooperate.

In the tent, in his sleeping bag between Dad and Nate, Ash fell asleep immediately.

"Up."

Ash opened his eyes to pre-dawn darkness. His phone would have said 5:30 AM if he'd had it.

"Five more minutes—"

"Up. Now. We're breaking camp in thirty minutes."

Ash dragged himself out of the sleeping bag. Everything hurt. His legs from yesterday's hike, his back from sitting against the tree, his pride from everything else.

They broke camp efficiently, packed up, had a quick breakfast of instant oatmeal and hot chocolate.

"Ready?" Dad asked.

"Do I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice," Nate said, shouldering his pack. "You can hike cooperatively, or you can hike uncooperatively. But you're hiking either way."

The trail toward the peak was steeper than yesterday. Switchbacks up the mountain, gaining elevation with every step. Ash's legs protested immediately.

After the first mile, he was breathing hard.

After the second mile, he needed water.

"Can we stop?"

"We'll stop at mile three," Dad said.

"I need water now."

"Should have drunk more at breakfast," Nate commented.

"That's not—" Ash caught himself before finishing the sentence. Knew it would sound whiny.

But Nate heard the tone anyway.

"Stop."

They all stopped. Nate picked up a rock from the side of the trail—about the size of a baseball, probably three pounds.

"Open your pack."

"What?"

"Open your pack."

Ash shrugged it off, unzipped the main compartment. Nate dropped the rock in.

"What are you doing?"

"Adding weight. Every time you're disrespectful, every time you let your anger control your words or actions, you get a rock. They stay in your pack for the rest of the trip."

"That's stupid."

Nate picked up another rock. Added it to the pack.

"That wasn't even—"

"Calling the consequence stupid is disrespectful." Nate zipped up the pack. "Put it back on."

The pack was noticeably heavier. Not unbearable, but definitely heavier.

They kept hiking.

At mile three, they stopped for water and trail mix. Ash's shoulders were already aching from the extra weight.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered.

Another rock.

"I didn't even say anything bad!"

"Muttering complaints is disrespectful." Nate added the rock. "The point isn't to be cruel, Noam. It's to make you think before you speak or act. Every choice has weight. Anger has weight. You can choose to carry it or not."

By mile four, Ash had seven rocks in his pack. His shoulders were screaming. His back hurt. The straps dug into his collarbones.

Dad and Nate hiked ahead of him, chatting easily.

"—works well with recruits," Nate was saying. "Especially the angry ones. The ones who come in thinking rage makes them strong."

"How long does it usually take?"

"Depends on the recruit. Some figure it out in a day. Some need a week of carrying half their body weight before they realize anger is literally weighing them down."

"And they can't just dump the rocks?"

"They can try," Nate said, loud enough for Ash to hear. "But that just means starting over with bigger rocks."

They were talking about him again. About this technique. Like he was some kind of lab experiment.

Ash opened his mouth to say something, felt the weight of the pack on his shoulders, closed it again.

They reached the peak at noon. The view was spectacular—mountains stretching in every direction, sky impossibly blue. Dad and Nate took pictures, pointed out distant peaks, shared trail mix.

Ash sat on a rock, trying not to let them see how exhausted he was. The pack was probably fifteen pounds heavier than when they'd started. It didn't sound like much, but after five miles uphill...

"Nice view," Dad said, sitting beside him.

Ash nodded.

"You're being quiet."

"Talking gets me rocks."

"No," Dad corrected. "Being disrespectful gets you rocks. Being angry gets you rocks. Talking is fine."

"Everything I want to say would get me rocks."

Dad was quiet for a moment. "What do you want to say?"

"That this is manipulative bullshit. That you're treating me like an animal you're training. That I hate both of you right now."

"That would definitely get you rocks," Dad agreed. "But you didn't say it. You thought it, recognized it would have consequences, and chose not to say it. That's progress."

"That's exhaustion."

"Sometimes they're the same thing."

The hike down was worse. Ash's knees shook with each downhill step. The pack seemed to get heavier with every switchback. By the time they got back to where they'd camped last night, he could barely stand.

"Four miles to go," Nate announced. "Next campsite."

"I can't."

"Can't isn't a choice. Won't is a choice. Which is it?"

Ash wanted to scream at him. Wanted to throw the pack off, dump out all the rocks, tell them both to fuck off.

But he was too tired. The anger was there, but it was like a fire without fuel. It flickered but couldn't catch.

"I need a break."

"Five minutes," Dad said.

Ash sat on a log, head in his hands. Everything hurt. His shoulders, back, legs, feet. And the worst part was knowing he'd done it to himself. Every rock was a moment he'd chosen anger over control.

"You know," Nate said conversationally, not looking at him, "in basic training, we had this kid. Eighteen, full of rage, thought he was tough. First week, he tried to fight a drill instructor."

Dad made a sound of disbelief.

"Yeah, it went about as well as you'd expect. But instead of washing him out, the DI made him carry rocks. Every infraction, every outburst, another rock. Kid carried probably sixty pounds by the end of the second week."

"What happened to him?"

"He figured it out. Realized the anger was literally breaking his back. Started thinking before he reacted. By week four, he had the lightest pack in the unit." Nate glanced at Ash. "Last I heard, he made Staff Sergeant. Good soldier. Still had the anger, but he controlled it instead of it controlling him."

Ash didn't respond. Couldn't respond. If he opened his mouth, something angry would come out and he'd get another rock. And he genuinely didn't think he could carry another rock.

They made it to the second campsite just as the sun was setting. Ash collapsed the moment Dad said they could stop. Didn't even take his pack off, just sat down with it still on his back.

"You need to help set up camp," Dad said.

"I know." Ash struggled to his feet, shrugged off the pack—God, the relief of that weight gone—and mechanically helped set up the tent.

No anger. No defiance. Just exhausted compliance.

Dinner was freeze-dried mac and cheese that tasted like heaven. Ash ate in silence, cleaned his dish without being asked, helped hang the food in a bear bag.

"You can take the rocks out now," Nate said as they sat by the fire.

Ash looked at him in surprise.

"Day's over. Tomorrow we start fresh. But remember how they felt."

Ash opened his pack, pulled out rock after rock. Twelve total. Maybe forty pounds. He lined them up by the fire pit.

"That's what your anger weighs," Dad said quietly. "That's what you carry every day."

Ash stared at the rocks. Remembered how each one had gotten there. The complaints, the muttered curses, the disrespectful tones. Each one had seemed justified at the moment. Each one had added weight.

"I'm going to bed," he said quietly.

"It's only eight—"

"I know. I'm tired."

In the tent, in his sleeping bag, Ash lay awake despite his exhaustion. His shoulders still ached from the phantom weight of those rocks.

Tomorrow they'd hike out. Six miles to the car. And if he was smart, he'd do it without adding a single rock to his pack.

Because Nate was right about one thing—the anger was literally weighing him down.

And Ash was tired of carrying it.