His father, Michael, stormed into the room exhausted and furious, a man unraveling under pressure. Instead of comfort, he reacted with force. He shoved Ethan onto the bed and restrained the injured arm as the boy fought back in panic.
“Stop it! You’re going to cripple yourself!” Michael shouted.
In a moment of desperation and rage, he tied Ethan’s wrist to the bed frame with a leather belt, convinced his son was hysterical and out of control. He ignored the fever burning beneath Ethan’s skin and the violent tremors shaking his small body.
Watching coldly from the doorway stood Vanessa, the stepmother. Arms crossed, expression calm, she observed like a spectator.
“I told you this wasn’t physical,” she said coolly. “The doctor said recovery would be simple. This is psychological. He wants attention. First pain, now imaginary bugs. He needs sedation and psychiatric care before he hurts himself—or us.”
Her words sealed Ethan’s fate. His truth was dismissed as madness.