Ashes of reality

Chapter 6 - Awakening

Smell.

The first thing he felt — a sharp, sterile smell. As if his whole body had been immersed in bleach and alcohol. Then — a hollow, steady beep. Not piercing, but rhythmic, like a countdown. The beep of life.

He tried to inhale — and it was like inhaling needles. His throat burned, a tube lodged inside. Panic clenched in his chest. His body jerked, but something held him. Straps?

The light blinded his eyes. Everything was too real.

— He's awake, — a cold voice. Without emotion. Not excited. Not joyful. Just a statement.

— Remove the tube. Yes, carefully. He's conscious.

Something was pulled out of his throat — and he began to cough. His throat felt charred. He instinctively turned his head, trying to see who was nearby.

— Ethan Carter? — a man's voice, tired. A nurse or a doctor. — Can you hear me?

He barely nodded.

— You're in the county hospital. You were placed in a medically induced coma. Do you have anything to say?

He wanted to ask where Jake was. Where Allison was. But no words came.

— Your attorney will be here tomorrow. You need recovery. — A patient, not a person.

— What… — hoarsely, almost inaudibly. — What… happened to me?

— You were in an accident. You have fractures, a head injury, but you're recovering. — A pause. — There's an investigation pending. I'm not authorized to discuss the details.

The doctor left, not even closing the door behind him.

He was alone. In the present.

Pain — not a metaphor. It throbbed in every joint, pounded in his temples, burned in his chest.

Tears — real. Bitter. Not from guilt. From life.

He was alive, and that was… worse than death.

He stared at the white ceiling, which seemed too flat, too human. Without distortions. Without illusions. Everything in this room was real — and, as if on purpose, disgustingly ordinary. The monotonous IV drip, the oxygen machine, the muffled hum beyond the door. Life. Just as he had left it — ugly, cruel, without embellishment.

Several minutes — or hours — passed before he heard footsteps again. Not the light, soft ones he used to hear in his dreams. These were heavy. Masculine. Confident.

— Ethan Carter, — said a new voice. No longer medical. More neutral, businesslike. — I’m Officer Peters. We’ll talk later. For now — just came to confirm you woke up. Your attorney will be here tomorrow. Is everything clear?

Ethan tried to say something again, but could only nod. The officer didn’t wait for a response. He simply left. As if he were speaking to a bag of evidence, not a person.

A young nurse entered the room. Without a word, she changed the IV. Not a glance, not a compassionate smile.

He was alone again.

His thoughts were tangled. The past and present had not yet fused. He remembered Jake. How the boy had looked at him. How he disappeared on that bridge. He knew: it was a farewell gift, not a promise. Now everything depended on him.

Through the pain, he raised his hand. Slowly, as if it were someone else's limb. He ran it over his face. Stubble. Dry skin. No embellishments.

He sniffled — the sound cracked out. And then everything came crashing down. Not like on a screen, not like in a dream. But like a bullet to the chest.

He killed Allison.

He left Jake alone.

He lay there while time moved on without him. While someone buried, someone cried, someone judged. And he… just slept. No. He didn’t sleep. He hid.

He clutched the sheet. He wanted to scream — but could only breathe. With difficulty. But it was the first step. And he took it.

The next morning, the light was the same — sterile, sharp, morning light. But inside, something had changed. For the first time in a long while, Ethan didn’t wake up in a nightmare. He woke up in hell, but he knew — he was real.

The door opened without a knock. A man in a dark suit entered, holding a thin folder and wearing a tired face. His lawyer.

— Mr. Carter. My name is Wayne Brauell. I was appointed by the court. The situation, to put it mildly, is complicated.

He didn’t approach close. He kept his distance.

— You are charged with the murder of your wife — Allison Carter, and with creating a situation that put the life of a minor in danger. Your son, Jake Carter, is alive. He is currently working with psychologists. He is in the custody of the state.

Ethan turned away. The tears no longer flowed. Everything was dry. And terrifying.

— You have the right to remain silent, — the lawyer continued. — But if you are willing to cooperate, we can... try not to turn this into a public execution.

— I... — hoarse, nearly broken voice. — I want to know how he is. Jake. My son.

Wayne looked at him sternly, as if checking if there was any conscience left in him.

— He is alive. Scared. And wants nothing from you. For now.

The silence was as heavy as the coma he had just emerged from.

— This will be a long road, Mr. Carter. If you step onto it — you will not walk it as a person. But as a shadow. — He closed the folder. — But there is a chance — there is.

The lawyer left. Leaving behind an air that smelled of paper, laws, and cold. Ethan was left alone — on the first day of his new life. A life where he had nowhere further to fall. That meant there was only one way left to go — up.

…

Rehabilitation. Day one.

He couldn’t feel his legs.

The nurse — young, wearing a mask, with a neutral expression — was securing a strap under his chest, preparing him for transfer to a chair.

— Hold onto the armrests, — she said flatly. — Slowly. No jerking.

Ethan gripped the bed's armrests. His hands were trembling. He had no strength, but his body obeyed — poorly, but it obeyed. When they lifted him, he groaned. The pain shot down his spine, as if someone had dragged a nail across it.

He sat in the chair. His head was buzzing, sweat was dripping down his temples. But he was sitting. Straight. Consciously. In reality.

— In a couple of days, we’ll try to take a step, — she said. — For now, you’re just rolling. — Uh-huh, — he whispered. — Am I... cargo now? — Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.

They moved down the hallway. Fluorescent lights, pale walls, silence, broken only by the squeaking of wheels and the distant clattering of metal trays. He felt like an empty vessel, moving by someone else’s will. The task was simple: sit by the wall, straighten his back, breathe deeply. Fifteen minutes. To him — like a marathon.

— How’s the pain? — the rehabilitation therapist asked. An older woman, with short hair and a voice worn by cigarettes and life.

— Real, — he exhaled. — Means I’m alive.

She didn’t respond. She just looked at him for a long time. Then abruptly said:

— Then we’ll work.

When they returned him to the room, his muscles were already burning. His heart was pounding like crazy. But inside — for the first time — there was something like... a beginning. Not hope. Just movement.

He looked at his hands. Touched the sheet with them.

— I’ll do it myself, — he said. Quietly. But no longer to a foreign dream.

...

Rehabilitation. Day four.

He took his first step.

Supported on both sides, with a strap around his waist and burning pain in his legs, Ethan placed his left foot forward. Then the right. His knees buckled. His back felt like it was breaking. But he kept moving. Even if it was just three steps. Even if he had to stop for each breath.

— Like that, — said the therapist. — Don’t try to be a hero. This is not a marathon. This is climbing out of a pit.

He sat back in the chair, sweaty, with a red face, but he didn’t fall.

— You’re a human again, — she added. — Not a vegetable. Congratulations. — Is sarcasm part of the therapy? — It’s part of reality.

That evening, lying in the room, he stared at the ceiling and for the first time didn’t wander in his thoughts. He didn’t remember, didn’t regret, didn’t retreat into himself. He just… was.

With each drop of pain, with each cursed movement, his body returned to him. And with his body — responsibility. Not just for Ellison. Not just for Jake. But for himself. For who he had been and who he could still become. If he does.

At night, he dreamt of a voice.

— Daddy?

He didn’t know if it was a dream. But when he woke up — for the first time, he smiled.

…

Rehabilitation. Day eight.

He could already sit without assistance. He could slowly walk around the room with a cane. His hands trembled less. The pain was still there — but now it was not a scream, but a whisper reminding him: you’re alive.

But the real pain didn’t start in the body.

— Today is psychotherapy, — said the nurse, bringing breakfast. — You must.

Ethan nodded. Without words. He had already learned to accept what he would have rejected before. It was as if he accepted the punishment silently, almost with respect. The psychotherapist turned out to be young, with sharp facial features and a gaze devoid of compassion. Not the kind who listens — but the kind who forces you to look at yourself until it becomes unbearable.

— Do you want to talk about her? — he asked, opening a notebook.

Ethan was silent.

— Then let’s talk about you. Your name is Ethan Carter. You’re thirty-one. You’re an alcoholic. You’re a father. You’re a murderer.

The voices in his head screamed. But outside, he remained calm. Only his fingers clenched.

— You need to accept yourself. Not the self from the past. Not the ideal self. This self. Here. Now. — The therapist looked straight at him. — Otherwise, you'll leave here… to die somewhere else. Slowly. Without meaning. — I have… a son, — Ethan said for the first time during the session. — Jake. Seven years old. Now, maybe eight. He lives with your wife’s sister. — Pause. — And what do you want for him?

Ethan looked away. His fingers trembled.

— I don’t want him to be me, — he whispered.

That evening, sitting on the bed, he took a piece of paper and started writing. Slowly. By hand. Without templates.

"Jake, I don’t know if you’ll ever want to read this. I don’t know what I am to you now — and maybe I don’t have the right to know. But I’m alive. I’m learning to walk. And I think about you every second."

He wrote. And with each word, he got closer to being the father he still could be.

…

Rehabilitation. Day thirteen.

He had learned to stand without assistance. To walk — almost without the cane. To eat — without spilling half of the soup on himself. His muscles trembled, but held. His heart — beat. His consciousness — didn’t fade. But every morning began the same way. He opened his eyes and asked himself: why?

There was no answer.

…

— You have a visitor, — the nurse said, not looking him in the eyes. — By attorney’s permission. Five minutes.

Ethan wanted to ask: who? But he already knew he had no right to choose. When the door opened, a woman entered the room. Strict. Composed. With an expression on her face that conveyed not hatred, but a verdict.

— Hi, Ethan, — she said.

Ellison’s sister. Mary. He hadn’t seen her since… since he locked himself in the bathroom, stained with blood.

— Mary… — his voice cracked.

She didn’t come closer. Didn’t sit down. Just stood by the wall.

— I don’t know why I came, — she said. — Maybe to make sure you’re really suffering. Maybe to tell you that Jake lives with us. That he… talks. Learns. Laughs. — She paused. — Doesn’t ask for you. Never.

It cut deeper than any surgery.

— I... — He tried to rise. Not for excuses. For an apology. — I didn’t... I didn’t know how... — Don’t justify yourself, I didn’t come for that.

Silence hung in the air.

— I’ll say just one thing, — she continued, her voice softer now. — You have one chance left. Not for yourself. For him. So that one day, when he’s ready, you can say: I became better. For you.

She left. Leaving behind the scent of Ellison’s perfume — light, lavender, like in those days when everything was still alive.

That night, he picked up the pen again.

"Jake. I’m learning to be human again. Not for forgiveness. For the memory of who I was supposed to be."

…

Rehabilitation. Day twenty-seven.

The room smelled of morning oatmeal and old plastic. The orderly had forgotten to turn off the radio — someone on the speaker was quietly talking about the weather, as if from another world, distant and unnecessary.

— Time to get up, Mr. Carter, — the nurse smiled, but her eyes were tired. — Today we’ll try walking down the hallway. Without the gurney.

Ethan nodded. He no longer wanted to hide.

Getting up turned out to be almost impossible. His legs — as if not his own. His whole body responded with dull pain, like it wasn’t his. He was dressed in a simple gray pajama, a cane was placed in his hand.

— Careful. No sudden movements, — the nurse’s voice was patient and calm.

Step.

Each step felt like dragging the weight of past lives behind him. The hallway walls were faded, with peeling paint. The faces of the patients — empty, dimmed. No one looked at anyone. It was as if everyone here was already dead, the body just didn’t know it yet.

— Good. Better already. See? You’re walking.

He walks. Wobbly. Slowly. With pain. But he walks.

At the end of the hallway — a window. Beyond it — a yard, trees, the sun. No symbolism. Just a street. But he stands and looks — as if he’s never seen a real day before. And for the first time since that night, something stirred in him. Not hope. But... hunger for the real. For what is felt. For what hurts. For what is alive.

— Is everything okay, Mr. Carter? — No, — he whispered. — And thank God.

…

Rehabilitation. Day thirty-four.

The room for meetings with the psychologist was no different from any other — the same white walls, the same metal chairs with peeling paint. Only the smell was different — more alive. It smelled like coffee, paper, and something pungent, like an old sweater. The psychologist sat at a small table. A woman. Around forty. No lab coat. In a gray sweater, with straight dark hair and eyes that looked not through, but into.

— Mr. Carter, — she didn’t rise. — Please sit down.

He sat. Slowly. Almost cautiously, as if afraid of falling back into the black hole.

— My name is Dr. Grace Lynn. I’m not following your case. I’m not interested in the accusations. I’m here to talk. If you want to.

He was silent. He looked at his hands. Knobby, with scratches, as if everything inside had also been scorched.

— Would you like me to just sit with you in silence? — Is that allowed? — Anything is allowed. As long as you’re alive.

He smiled. Without joy.

— That… sounds bad. — But it’s true, — she nodded. — Ethan. You don’t have to tell everything. Start with one thing. It doesn’t matter what. Any memory. Even if it’s empty.

He was silent for a long time. Then, slowly, as if detaching himself from himself, he said:

— Jake… always fell asleep when I played him music. The same one. An old rock ballad. He used to say: "Dad, it’s like a wave. I swim in it."

Dr. Lynn nodded. No notes. No analysis.

— Good. We’ll start with that wave. Not with guilt. Not with judgment. With what lives longer than the night.

He lowered his head. Something tightened in his throat. But it wasn’t pain. It was movement. Small, like a ripple in warm water.

Dr. Lynn didn’t rush to ask questions. She just sat across from him — not as an observer, but as silence, in which one could hide. Ethan for the first time didn’t feel watched. Not evaluated, not waiting for confession. Just being there.

— What do you feel when you remember this? — she finally asked. Her voice steady, soft. — Shame, — he answered almost immediately. — Not for remembering. For not... being who I should’ve been at that moment. — And who should you have been?

He lifted his gaze. Slowly, heavily. As if each movement carried a thousand grams of guilt.

— A father. A human. Not… a monster.

She didn’t react sharply. She just nodded. The word "monster" didn’t evoke disgust or sympathy from her. Just calmness, as if she had heard it hundreds of times — in other voices, from other people, who came with scorched lives.

— You’re not a monster, Ethan, — she said. — You’re a human who did terrible things. There’s a difference.

He sighed. Abruptly. Bitterly.

— No one will believe me. Not even him… — It’s not their job — to believe. It’s your job — to live with what was. And to be different. If you want to.

He fell silent. He stared at the wall for a long time. Then, barely audibly, as if to himself:

— I want… once in my life… not to be the one people run from.

Dr. Lynn stood up. She carefully walked over, placed a sheet of paper and a pen on the table.

— Then start with a letter. Not for him. For yourself. Write about the father you could have been. And what you would say to yourself if you ever meet the person you became back then.

She left. Without drama. Without farewells.

Ethan was left in silence. Only him. And the white sheet. Empty. Like a beginning. Not a punishment. But a chance.

He stared at the sheet for a long time.

The pen seemed heavier than his body when he first moved his leg after the coma. Strange — writing had always been easy. But now each word seemed to pass through flesh. Through guilt. He touched the paper. First — absentmindedly. Then — consciously.

"Jake…"

His hand trembled. He exhaled. Rewrote:

"Son…"

I don’t know if what I did can be forgiven. And I’m not expecting it. I just want you to read this one day and understand — I wasn’t always like this. And I didn’t want to be.

You were the light. Even when I didn’t deserve it. You looked at me as if I was the best thing you had. And I looked at you — like a memory of her. I didn’t cope. I withdrew into myself. I got lost. And I lost you, too.

You don’t need to believe me. But know this: from the moment I opened my eyes, I’ve been living for one thing — not to be the past. To be someone who won’t hurt the ones he loves…

He stopped. His handwriting was trembling. The lines were blurring — not from tears, but from strain.

…I don’t expect you’ll want to see me. But if you ever have a question, pain, or fear — know: I’m here. Not as a father. Just as the one who was once guilty. And now — wants to be here.

Forgive me, if you can. Forget me — if you can’t. But live, Jake. Not the way I did.

Ethan put the pen down.

The paper lay on his lap. Clean, but heavy. This was not redemption.

But it was the first step toward breathing — truly.

...

— It’s... good, — the woman finally said, tearing her eyes from the paper. — You’ve expressed something important. For yourself. Not for him.

Ethan silently looked at the floor.

— Sometimes a letter is not a way to reach someone. It’s a way to stop shouting into the void, — she continued, softer. — Jake may never read this. But you needed to say it. To yourself.

He nodded weakly.

— I feel, — he said quietly, — that nothing will change. That I did this... too late.

— Late doesn’t mean in vain. — She looked directly at him, without pity. — You survived. That’s unfair to many. But since you’re here — it’s not a coincidence. We don’t choose what we pay for. We just pay.

Silence stretched.

— Do you know what will happen next? — she asked.

— Court.

— Yes. And perhaps years. But you must start building from the ashes. Not for forgiveness. But so that something can grow.

He closed his eyes.

— I’m afraid. That I’ll remain this person forever.

— You will remain. — Pause. — But that’s not all you can be. Fear is already a step. It means you see where you don’t want to return to.

She took the letter and placed it in the folder.

— We can keep this. Or send it. You’ll decide later. The most important thing is not to stop.

She stood up and walked to the door.

— See you tomorrow, Ethan.

When the door closed, the room grew quieter. But for the first time, the silence didn’t frighten him. He was alone. With an empty room. And a tiny, yet living hope.

...

Two months later. The hall was cold, just like the looks of those sitting in it.

Ethan sat on the defendant's bench. Not chained — but shackled inside. He wore a dark suit, foreign, borrowed from the hospital charity fund. A white shirt, too large in the shoulders. He had lost weight. His face was pale, dark shadows under his eyes. Not from sleep, but from memory.

The judge entered. Everyone stood. Then sat.

The judge’s voice was dry, like paper:

— Case No. 4179. The state versus Ethan Carter. Charged with second-degree murder and creating conditions threatening the life of a minor.

There were cameras in the hall. Several. Reporters whispered, someone clicked a shutter.

Ethan felt nothing. No fear, no anger. Only — waiting.

The prosecutor stood slowly. A woman around forty, with cold eyes.

— Your Honor. Before you stands a man who, under the influence of alcohol, killed his wife — the mother of his child. After which, in a state of emotional distress, he got behind the wheel and almost died himself, leaving his son on the brink of orphanhood.

The words flew like bullets. No emotions. But precise. Direct. Ethan’s lawyer remained silent, enduring. His time hadn’t come yet.

Someone behind sniffled. A woman. Not Allison. Maybe her sister. Or just a spectator who wanted to see a monster. But instead, there was a man.

The judge struck the gavel.

— Order in the court.

Ethan raised his head. For the first time — in all this time.

— I am guilty, — he said. Quietly, but clearly. — I don’t deny it. I only want one thing — for my son to know: I didn’t stop being his father. Even if he hates me.

The hall fell silent.

...

The trial lasted several days. Witnesses, expert opinions, video recordings. Everything was laid out on the table. Every detail — like a knife in the flesh.

Everything he tried to forget — now became evidence.

Ethan’s lawyer, Wayne Brawell, spoke on the third day:

— My client fully admits his guilt. He does not seek justification. But I ask the court to consider — this was not a premeditated act of cruelty. This was a breakdown of a man who had been living in the swamp of pain and dependency for years.

He spoke clearly. Not pleading, not justifying. Simply — stating.

— After waking from the coma, he underwent a full medical and psychological evaluation. He cooperated with the investigation, did not resist the charges. He knows what he’s done. He is not trying to escape.

The prosecutor stood:

— He killed. And that’s all that needs to be said.

...

On the seventh day — the verdict.

The judge looked at Ethan. Not with anger. With the indifference of the system.

— Ethan Carter. The court finds you guilty of second-degree murder and creating conditions threatening the life of a minor. Given your condition, your acknowledgment of guilt, your cooperation with the investigation, and the rehabilitation assessments... The sentence is: seven years of imprisonment, two of which you have already served in a state of medical coma and subsequent treatment. The remaining five will be served in a correctional facility with the possibility of parole after three years.

Ethan didn’t flinch. He knew. He had accepted it.

Behind him — silence. No one screamed. No one applauded. When they led him away, he turned just once. In the hall — no one from his family. Except for one. A boy with a guard by the exit. Jake. His face hidden by a hood. But he was standing. Watching. Ethan stopped for a moment. They locked eyes.

Jake didn’t approach. Didn’t turn away. Just stood.

It was more than forgiveness. Ethan didn’t smile. He just exhaled. For the first time — truly.

...

Cell. Cold, concrete, narrow. Faceless. But it had a window. A small, barred one. Through it, dim light flowed — sometimes yellow, sometimes gray, depending on the weather.

Ethan sat on the bunk. His back straight, hands on his knees. He didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t get involved. Didn’t seek enemies or friends. He was just there.

At first, it was hard — especially at night. Screams from other cells. The screech of doors. Shadows.

Then — silence came. And in that silence, he began to gather himself.

He wrote down everything he could remember. Not justifying himself. Not seeking mercy. Simply... to preserve what was left of himself.

The psychologist who visited him once a month said one day:

— You know, Mr. Carter, most people here talk about freedom. About home. About justice. But you keep silent.

— Because I live. That’s enough.

Time passed differently. It was as if someone stretched it between their fingers, and the days began to resemble water.

On the third year, they brought him a letter. No return address. In child’s handwriting.

“Hi, Dad. I don’t know what to feel. Sometimes I hate you. Sometimes I pity you. But I remember how you read me fairy tales. I don’t know if I’ve forgiven you. But I haven’t forgotten. — Jake.”

He read this letter many times. It became a prayer. A pulse. And then he began to write back. Not knowing if it would be read. Just because he couldn’t do otherwise.

...

Three years later

The doors opened.

A metallic clang. Papers. Signatures. They silently handed him clothes. His things. No one was there to meet him. But it was honest. He hadn’t expected it. He left. The air was different. Everything was different.

Life was beginning anew.