Who was the most unexpected threat to your child?

The Unwelcome Therapist and the First Attack

My uncle tried turning my brother into his personal lab rat until I exposed him and destroyed his life. Now he is back pretending to care again, and I am prepared to put him in his grave.

My little brother, Timothy, was diagnosed with epilepsy at age 8. As you can probably guess, certain light flashes would trigger his seizures.

What most people do not know is that his diagnosis would sometimes make him extremely numb to emotions, too. He would go days without smiling, crying, or reacting to anything, like someone had switched off his feelings.

But gaming was different. When Timothy gamed, something sparked. For those precious hours, he would actually laugh at wins, groan at losses.

He was incredible at competitive games, like reaching champion rank in Valerant at age 12. His neurologist said the emotional numbing made him tactically perfect.

No tilt, no rage, just pure strategy. During all this, I was left to babysit him because my mom worked double shifts as an ER nurse.

Until one day, my mom made a mistake that would traumatize us forever. She accepted Uncle Dererick’s offer to move in and act as a live-in babysitter.

Dererick was Dad’s brother, always talking about how he had studied psychology in college. He spoke about how he had helped friends through tough times; he seemed stable and responsible.

In just the first week, Dererick immediately noticed Timothy’s numbness.

During dinner, he would wave his hand in front of Timothy’s face. When Timothy did not react to his jokes or stories, Dererick took it personally.

“Hello, anyone home?”

“Kid’s rude,” he told me.

“Needs to learn some manners.”

I tried to explain the emotional numbing and showed him Timothy’s medical papers. Instead of apologizing or leaving Timothy alone, his eyes lit up.

“So, he can’t feel anything, like anything at all.”

The way he said it made my skin crawl. I slowly nodded, and from there I made sure to keep a closer eye on Timothy.

I did not want Timothy to think I thought he was made of glass, or grow up to think he could not do anything by himself. So I tried to give him some distance when I could.

Whenever Dererick seemed preoccupied, I was fast asleep and taking one of those midday summer naps when I heard it.

Dererick was in Timothy’s bedroom speaking in implicit detail about how he was going to turn him into a human centipede.

I barged in and instinctively went to hold Timothy, who was extremely pale with a faraway look in his eyes.

What the actual f?

“Um, you’re welcome,” Derek interrupted.

“It’s exposure therapy.”

“I’m helping him feel again, you ungrateful brat.”

I felt Timothy’s trembling fingers slowly wrap around my hand. Anger boiled my blood.

The next evening, when my mom came home from work, I ambushed her. I sighed.

“Mom Derek told Timothy, ‘Son, whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.'”

She kept going. Derrick is a free babysitter. We are lucky to have him. So, if he says a few weird things, you have to let it slide.

I kept my eyes glued to the ground, trying my best not to cry. That was the moment my childhood ended. I would have to be the parent that I never had.

But for the next few weeks, everything seemed okay. I figured that my mom had talked to Derek, and he had finally decided to stop abusing my little brother.

He made it seem so convincing. He would bring us ice cream and be patient while Timothy took 10 minutes to choose a flavor.

He canceled his concert when he found out there would be aggravating flashing lights.

Then came Timmy’s gaming tournament: the Valerant Champions Tour Open qualifiers. There was a $5,000 prize pool for the qualifier stage.

I was not sure if he would win, but I reassured him that I believed in him and I always would.

Derek acted supportive, even posting on Facebook about his brave nephew overcoming disabilities.

The morning of the tournament, I had to work. Dererick promised to help Timothy set up.

“I’ve got something special planned,” he said.

“Get to make this kid a star.”

So, there I was putting the fries in the bag at work when my phone started buzzing. My Discord exploded with notifications.

Timothy was streaming the tournament, but something was wrong. Friends were messaging frantically.

Instead of seeing Valerant on the screen, I saw dozens of browser tabs. There were photos of our unalived grandmother.

I saw videos of our old dog being put down, and recordings he had secretly made of Mom crying after Dad left.

The worst part: between each emotional trigger, he had embedded strobe effects at Timothy’s exact seizure frequencies.

“Come on, buddy,” Dererick’s voice came through the mic.

“Just react to something.

“Show them you’re human,” Dererick repeated over and over.

He did this all whilst holding Timothy’s shoulders, keeping him in the chair. Timothy’s hands twitched on the keyboard; his eyes were locked open.

The viewer count climbed as people shared the stream in horror. I called the ambulance but was put on hold.

Then, I heard it: a sound I had never heard from Timothy during his numb periods, crying. Tears streamed down his frozen face while his body seized.

The emotional numbness and seizure activity had created a nightmare.

He could feel everything, but could not move, speak, or even close his eyes. Rage filled every organ in my body.

I dropped everything and sprinted out of the restaurant. My manager yelled something about being fired, but I did not care. Timothy needed me.

I jumped into my hitup Honda and peeled out of the parking lot, tires screeching against asphalt.

The stream was still playing on my phone as I drove. Dererick’s voice continued through the speakers, calm and clinical.

See how his pupils dilate?

Fascinating.

The emotional barriers are cracking.

My hands gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I ran three red lights, honking at anyone who dared slow me down.

When I burst through our front door 15 minutes later, the house was eerily quiet. There were no sounds from Timothy’s room.

I bounded up the stairs three at a time and found his bedroom door locked. I pounded on it with both fists.

Derek, open this door right now.

From inside, I heard shuffling and whispering. Dererick’s voice was low, almost soothing.

“This is just the beginning, Timothy.”

“These therapy sessions will help you break through those emotional barriers permanently.”

“Trust me.”

I threw my shoulder against the door once, twice. On the third hit, the cheap lock splintered and the door flew open.

Timothy sat in his gaming chair completely still. His eyes stared at nothing. His hands rested limply on his keyboard.

Dererick stood behind him, one hand on Timothy’s shoulder. He pulled out his phone and showed me the screen.

“Ah, you’re home early,” Dererick said, not even looking up.

“I’ve been recording everything.”

“Clear evidence that Timothy is mentally unstable.”

“Look at him. Catatonic. He needs institutional care.”

Derek reached into a folder on Timothy’s desk and produced official looking documents.

“I took the liberty of getting my psychology credentials updated.”

“And here’s a recommendation letter from Dr. McBenjamin, a respected therapist.”

“He agrees.”

“Timothy requires immediate psychiatric intervention.”

I snatched the papers and scanned them. The letter head looked legitimate, but something felt off.

The signature was too perfect, like it had been traced. Dererick smiled.

“These are fake,” I said.

“Prove it.”

Meanwhile, as the only available adult with psychological training, I would be granted temporary guardianship while he receives treatment.

My phone buzzed. Mom was calling. I answered and put it on speaker.

“I got your messages,” she said, sounding panicked. “I’m coming home now.”

“What happened?”

Dererick grabbed my phone before I could respond.

“Thank goodness you’re coming.”

“Timothy had a complete psychotic break during his tournament.”

“I have video evidence.”

“Your other son abandoned his job responsibilities while I was here trying to help.”

That’s not what happened, I shouted.

But Dererick was already sending her files from his phone. 20 minutes later, mom rushed through the door.

Dererick had cleaned up the room, hiding any evidence of his therapy session. He positioned Timothy in bed, making it look like he was resting peacefully.

The footage had been edited. It showed Timothy at his computer, but the context was completely changed.

It looked like Timothy was doing this to himself. He seemed to be frantically clicking through disturbing content while I was nowhere to be seen.

Where were you? Mom asked me, her voice sharp.

At work.

Where you told me to be?

Dererick said he’d watch him.

Dererick pulled out more papers from his folder. He showed photos of Timothy sitting alone in the house.

“I’ve been documenting the neglect for weeks.”

“Look.”

He showed screenshots of my work schedule showing all the hours I was gone.

“The boy needs proper care, professional care.”

Mom’s face crumpled. She looked between Dererick and me, torn.

I noticed Timothy’s medication bottles lined up on his dresser. Something clicked. I grabbed one and examined it closely.

The pills looked different, slightly off color.

What did you do to his medication? I demanded.

Dererick’s expression did not change. I saw it now: tiny modifications and extra powder residue in some bottles.

“I’ve been organizing them by day and time, helping out,”.

I remembered how Timothy’s numbness had gotten worse lately.

I also remembered how his seizure sensitivity had increased.

“You’ve been tampering with them,” I said, adding something to make his symptoms worse.

“Paranoid accusations from a guilty conscience,” Dererick said smoothly.

I stormed into Dererick’s room and started searching. Under his mattress, I found it: a journal filled with cramped handwriting.

I flipped through pages of notes about induced emotional responses in epileptic subjects and breakthrough trauma therapy. One entry made my stomach turn.

Failed thesis rejection still stings.

“Professor McBjamin said my methods were unethical and dangerous, but Timothy is proof the theory works.”

“Extreme stimuli can break through any emotional barrier.”

I ran back to show Mom, but Dererick had already started his next move. He was on the phone with someone speaking in concerned tones.

“Yes, child protective services.”

“I need to report a case of severe neglect.”

“Two children in danger.”

Over the next hour, our house became a circus. Dererick presented his evidence to the social worker who arrived.