My mom played audio of me crying at church and called it spiritual cleansing. When I finally asked her why she needed to record every moment of my life, she smiled and said, “Because secrets are how monsters are made.” I stayed silent.

That was nine months ago. This morning, she was standing outside the courthouse clutching a USB and shaking.

When did your parents treat you like a science experiment? My parents eliminated all physical contact from my life when I was eight because they said human touch was making children weak and dependent, and they wanted to create the world’s first truly self-sufficient child.

My parents were behavioral psychologists who blamed society’s problems on excessive physical affection. Dad had published papers about how hugging created emotional weakness. Mom studied isolated children in Romanian orphanages and decided they were more resilient than touched children. They’d make me watch documentaries about feral children while explaining how strong these kids were without human contact.

I once reached for my mom’s hand during a scary movie, and she jerked away like I’d burned her.

“Touch is a crutch,” she said. “You’re already too dependent.”

When I was eight, my parents announced their revolutionary child-rearing experiment. No more hugs, hand-holding, hair ruffling, or physical contact of any kind. They wore gloves around me to avoid accidental touches.

“We’re giving you the gift of complete self-reliance,” Mom explained from across the room. “You’ll thank us when you’re the strongest person alive.”

They installed cameras to ensure no one was weakening me with affection. If a teacher patted my shoulder or a relative tried to hug me, they’d file complaints.

The isolation was immediate agony. Humans need touch like they need food, but my parents treated it like poison. They’d stand three feet away during conversations. They modified our house so they could care for me without contact, using tongs to hand me things and automated systems for everything possible. When I cried, they’d observe from the doorway, taking notes about my withdrawal symptoms.

At first, I used school as an escape, high-fiving and hugging my friends whenever I could. But my parents put a stop to that quickly and pulled me out for homeschooling.

I started deliberately falling just to feel the ground hit my body, craving any physical sensation. My parents were delighted by my self-soothing behaviors.

I tried different ways to get touch. If my parents let me go to the store, I would bump into people accidentally, stand too close in lines, anything for brief contact. But my parents always found out. They started dressing me in clothes with “No touching, contagious condition” written on them. They told everyone I had a skin condition that made touch painful for me and hazardous for them. People would jump back if they accidentally brushed against me, apologizing while I wanted to scream.

By age ten, I developed visible problems. I rocked constantly, hit myself for stimulation, and pulled out hair just to feel something. The breaking point came when I got seriously sick with food poisoning.

I was hospitalized, delirious with fever, and the nurses needed to physically examine me. My parents tried to stop them, but I was too sick for their insanity.

When the nurse checked my lymph nodes, the gentle pressure of her fingers on my neck made me sob. They had to sedate me. I hadn’t felt human touch in five years.

The nurses reported my extreme touch starvation to social services, but my parents had anticipated this. They’d been building a legal case about their right to raise a contact-free child, complete with forged research and hired experts. They convinced the judge this was legitimate science, not abuse. With their credentials, it was actually believable, and the case was dismissed.

After that, they escalated.

They built a completely touch-proof environment with padded walls I couldn’t feel through thick clothing and floors that were always either too hot or too cold to touch comfortably. They were erasing every possible source of physical sensation.

“You’re so close to breakthrough,” Dad observed from behind glass. “Soon, you won’t even remember wanting touch.”

He was right. By thirteen, I was forgetting what hugs felt like. The memory of my mother’s hand in mine was so distant, it felt like a dream. I’d watch videos of people embracing and feel nothing but confusion. My parents celebrated this as success, documenting my evolution beyond physical needs.

But then one of their colleagues visited to observe me. Dr. Mills was supposed to validate their experiment, but when she saw me, her face changed.

She insisted on conducting a private interview. My parents reluctantly agreed, watching through cameras. But Dr. Mills did something unexpected. She turned off her microphone, pulled out a pen, and wrote on her notepad: “I’m going to help you.”

She conducted a normal interview out loud while writing her real observations:

“This is severe abuse. I’m reporting them. Be ready.”

My heart pounded. After five years, someone finally saw what they were doing to me.

But my parents must have sensed something because the moment Dr. Mills left, Dad locked me in my touch-proof room.

“We’re moving the experiment to the next phase,” he said through the intercom. “Complete sensory elimination.”

I watched through my window as trucks arrived with medical equipment. Mom explained cheerfully that they’d developed a gel that would numb all nerve endings.

“Like a full-body anesthetic you can live in,” she said. “You’ll finally be free from all physical sensation, not just touch.”

They’d already tested it on animals. The rats floated peacefully in vats, unable to feel anything.

“We’ll start with your hands tomorrow,” Dad announced. “By next week, your whole body will be beyond the need for feeling.”

I pressed my palms against the glass, trying to memorize the sensation while I still could. Somewhere, Dr. Mills was hopefully making phone calls, but it was too late. Once the gel numbed my body, I’d never feel touch again, and there would be nothing Dr. Mills or anyone could do to save me from this prison.

The next morning arrived too quickly. I hadn’t slept, spending the night testing every surface in my room, pressing my fingertips against walls, floors, even my own skin, trying to store up sensations.

My parents entered wearing surgical gear, wheeling in a metal cart with vials of clear gel. Mom prepared syringes while Dad set up recording equipment. They moved with practiced efficiency, discussing my treatment like I wasn’t there.

I backed into the corner, hands behind me, feeling the wall’s texture through my shirt. Dad approached with restraints. I tried to dodge, but he cornered me using a pole with loops to secure my wrists without touching me. They’d thought of everything.

Mom wheeled the cart closer as they forced me into a chair.

The door burst open.

Dr. Mills stood there with two police officers. My parents froze. Relief flooded through me until I saw the officers’ confused expressions as they took in the medical equipment.

My parents immediately shifted into professional mode. Dad calmly explained they were administering prescribed medication for my condition. Mom showed falsified medical documents. They’d prepared for this.

Dr. Mills argued with the officers, insisting this was abuse, but my parents had answers for everything. They claimed Dr. Mills was a disgruntled colleague trying to sabotage their research. The officers looked uncertain, caught between two groups of professionals.

Then Mom played their trump card.

She produced a video of me from last week, rocking and hitting myself, looking disturbed. She explained these were symptoms of my rare neurological condition that made touch painful. The gel was an experimental treatment to ease my suffering.

The officers’ expressions shifted from suspicion to sympathy. One asked me directly if my parents were hurting me. I tried to explain, but the words came out jumbled. Years of isolation had damaged my ability to communicate under pressure. I sounded exactly like the disturbed child my parents claimed I was.

Dr. Mills kept fighting, but the officers were convinced. They apologized for the intrusion and left. Dr. Mills gave me one last desperate look before my parents escorted her out, threatening legal action if she returned.

Alone with them again, I watched Dad prepare the first syringe. Mom held the camera, documenting everything. They weren’t angry about the interruption. If anything, they seemed energized by successfully defending their experiment.

Dad approached with the needle. I thrashed against the restraints, but couldn’t break free. The needle went into my left palm. Within seconds, numbness spread across my hand. I watched my fingers move but felt nothing. The sensation of touch, my last connection to the world, was being erased.

They injected my right palm next. Both hands went completely numb. I tried to make fists but couldn’t tell if my fingers were moving without looking. Mom noted my reactions while Dad prepared more syringes.

Over the next hour, they systematically injected the gel into my arms. The numbness crept higher with each dose. By the time they reached my elbows, I couldn’t feel anything below them. My arms might as well have been prosthetics.

They finally stopped, saying they’d continue tomorrow.

The partial numbness was worse than complete loss would have been. I could still feel my shoulders and torso, making the contrast unbearable. I kept forgetting my hands were numb and trying to touch things, only to feel nothing.

That night, I discovered something.

While I couldn’t feel with my hands, I could still use them. I practiced moving without sensation, learning to navigate by sight alone. My parents had taken feeling but not function.

I used my numb hands to search my room differently than before. Without worrying about sensation, I could reach into spaces I’d previously avoided. Behind the ventilation grate, my fingers found something unexpected: a folded paper. I carefully extracted it using visual guidance.

Dr. Mills had left a note during her visit. My eyes strained to read her rushed handwriting.

“They’re moving you tomorrow night. Overheard them arranging transport to their private lab. Be ready.”

My heart sank. A private lab meant complete isolation. No chance of outside help. I had one day before they took me somewhere no one would ever find me.

The next morning brought more injections. They numbed my forearms completely, working toward my shoulders. I didn’t resist this time, saving my energy. I needed them to think I was accepting the treatment.

During the afternoon session, something changed. Dad received a phone call that made him step outside. Mom continued preparing syringes, but I caught her glancing nervously at the door. When Dad returned, his expression was grim. They whispered urgently. I caught fragments: “social services,” “court order,” “Mills filed an emergency petition.”

My parents’ carefully constructed defense was under real scrutiny now.

They accelerated the treatment schedule. Instead of gradual injections, they prepared multiple syringes. They were racing against time, trying to complete the experiment before anyone could stop them.

As they worked, I noticed something they’d overlooked. The restraint pole Dad had used earlier was propped against the wall. With effort, I could probably reach it with my numb but functional hands.

Mom approached with more syringes. I let my body go limp, feigning unconsciousness from the stress. They’d seen me shut down before during overwhelming situations. Mom paused, consulting with Dad. They decided to monitor my vital signs before continuing.

While they prepared monitoring equipment, I slowly moved my numb hand toward the pole. Without sensation, I had to watch carefully to guide my movements. My fingers closed around it just as Dad turned back.

I swung awkwardly, the pole connecting with the cart. Syringes scattered across the floor. Mom jumped back while Dad lunged for the pole. I couldn’t feel his grip, but saw him trying to wrestle it away.

The door opened again.

This time, Dr. Mills had returned with different officers and a social worker. She’d learned from her mistake, bringing authorities who specialized in child abuse cases.

My parents tried their routine again, but these officers weren’t easily fooled. The social worker examined the scene: a child partially paralyzed with mysterious injections, fighting desperately against her parents. She made a call for immediate protective custody.

My parents protested, demanding warrants and threatening lawsuits. But the social worker had emergency authority when a child was in imminent danger. The officers moved to separate me from my parents.

That’s when Mom made her final move.

She grabbed one of the fallen syringes and lunged toward me, trying to inject my neck. If she could numb my vocal cords, I couldn’t testify against them. An officer caught her arm just in time. The syringe fell, shattering on the floor.

Both my parents were restrained while the social worker called for medical transport.

At the hospital, doctors ran tests on the gel in my system. It was reversible, they said, but would take months of treatment. The numbness in my hands and arms would fade gradually. I might never regain full sensation, but I’d have some feeling again.

Dr. Mills stayed with me during the initial exams. She explained how she’d fought to get the right authorities involved, learning which departments would take the threat seriously. She’d saved me just in time.

My parents were arrested on multiple charges. Their colleagues distanced themselves from the experiment. The research community condemned their methods. Their reputations were destroyed along with their freedom.

But I was finally free from their twisted experiment.

The foster family who took me in was warned about my touch aversion. They didn’t force physical contact, but made it clear hugs were available whenever I felt ready. It took three months before I could shake someone’s hand without panicking. Six months before I accepted my first hug in seven years. The sensation was overwhelming, but I held on, feeling human warmth against me.

My parents had tried to evolution-proof me against needing touch.

They failed.

Humans are built for connection, for contact, for the simple comfort of another person’s hand in ours. No amount of behavioral conditioning could change that fundamental need.

The gel’s effects faded slowly. Sensation returned in patches, pins and needles giving way to real feeling. Each recovered nerve ending was a small victory against their experiment.

Dr. Mills testified at their trial. I gave my statement through written testimony, still struggling with verbal communication. The judge sentenced them to prison and permanent loss of their licenses. They’d never experiment on another child.

In the end, their obsession with creating a touch-free human only proved how essential touch really is. They documented my deterioration in detail, creating evidence of their own cruelty. Their revolutionary experiment became a cautionary tale in psychology textbooks.

I still have bad days. Sometimes I forget people can touch me safely. Other times, I can’t get enough contact, making up for lost years. But I’m healing, one hug at a time.

My parents wanted to make me the world’s first self-sufficient child. Instead, they taught me that humans need each other, need connection, need the simple comfort of touch. Their failure was my salvation.

The foster home placement lasted exactly three weeks. My new guardians, Catherine and Sebastian, were kind people who’d fostered dozens of children, but they’d never encountered someone like me.

They tried their best, leaving doors open so I could approach them, announcing their movements to avoid startling me. Catherine would sit on the opposite end of the couch during movie nights, slowly inching closer every day until I could tolerate her presence nearby.

But my parents weren’t finished with their experiment.

The first sign came through a letter delivered by their lawyer. They were appealing the custody decision, claiming the state had no right to interfere with their therapeutic protocol. The letter included documentation from three psychologists who supposedly supported their methods. Catherine’s hands shook as she read it to me from across the kitchen table.

Child Services assured us the appeal would fail, but my parents had connections throughout the academic community. Former colleagues who owed them favors began submitting affidavits about their groundbreaking research. They painted the touch deprivation as a legitimate treatment for a fabricated condition they’d invented just for me.

Meanwhile, the gel’s effects were proving harder to reverse than doctors anticipated. The numbness in my arms came and went unpredictably. Some mornings I’d wake with full sensation, only to lose it again by noon. The inconsistency made recovery harder. I’d finally work up courage to accept Catherine’s offered handshake, only to feel nothing when our palms met.

My parents exploited this during their first supervised visitation. The social worker, Ms. Fedore, sat in the corner taking notes while Mom and Dad maintained their three-foot distance. They spoke calmly about wanting to complete my treatment and showed charts documenting my progress under their care.

When Ms. Fedore asked why I seemed afraid of them, Dad produced videos of me before the experiment, playing happily without any signs of trauma. They’d been planning this defense for years, creating a false narrative where I’d always been troubled, and their extreme methods were a last resort.

Mom presented forged medical records suggesting I’d been diagnosed with sensory processing disorder as a toddler. Dad showed emails from fictional specialists recommending touch limitation. Ms. Fedore wasn’t fooled, but she had to document everything for the court.

My parents used the visitation to study my current condition, noting how I still flinched when anyone moved too quickly, how I kept my arms crossed protectively. They were gathering evidence that I was still sick and needed their cure.

After they left, I found a tiny device under my chair, a recording device no bigger than a button. They were still monitoring me, still collecting data.

Catherine helped me search the room and we found two more devices. My parents had turned the visitation into another phase of their experiment.

The foster home security increased after that. Sebastian installed new locks and cameras. Catherine started checking my room for devices every night, but my parents were too clever for simple precautions. They began their counterattack through the academic community.

Papers started appearing in minor journals questioning the hysteria around touch deprivation. Mom gave interviews to psychology podcasts about the misunderstanding of their work. They were building a narrative where they were persecuted scientists and I was a troubled child being used by the system.

Dr. Mills fought back, publishing rebuttals and organizing colleagues to speak out. But my parents had spent years building their reputation. For every psychologist who condemned them, they found two who defended their theoretical framework without endorsing the actual experiment.

The legal battle intensified. My parents’ lawyer filed motion after motion, demanding access to my medical records, psychological evaluations, even my foster home’s daily logs. They wanted to prove I was deteriorating without their care.

Catherine and Sebastian had to hire their own lawyer just to protect our privacy.

During this chaos, I was trying to heal. Physical therapy helped restore some sensation, but progress was slow. The therapist, a gentle woman named Kat, had to work without actually touching me at first. She demonstrated exercises while I copied them, gradually working up to minimal contact. The first time she guided my arm through a movement, I cried from the simple pressure of her fingers.

My parents must have been monitoring these sessions somehow because their next legal filing included details about my therapy that should have been confidential. They argued that my emotional reactions to touch proved their theory correct: that I was psychologically dependent on physical contact now, and they’d been right to eliminate it.

The custody hearing was set for six months after my removal. My parents spent every day preparing while I struggled with basic human interactions.

Catherine found me a therapist who specialized in attachment disorders, but even she was shocked by what my parents had done. We worked on simple goals: sitting next to someone without panicking, accepting a pat on the shoulder, tolerating brief hugs.

Every small improvement I made in foster care became evidence that I was unstable and needed consistent treatment. When I finally let Catherine brush my hair, my parents filed a report claiming I was forming unhealthy attachments. When I managed a brief hug with Sebastian, they called it regression to infantile behavior.

My parents somehow obtained recordings, probably through more hidden devices, and used them in court filings. They twisted every word, every emotional breakthrough into evidence of pathology.

When I told my therapist about missing human touch, my parents claimed I’d developed an addiction. When I described the pain of isolation, they called it withdrawal from therapeutic intervention.

Dr. Mills remained my strongest advocate, but my parents attacked her credibility, too. They dug up an old research dispute from her graduate school days, spinning it into a pattern of professional jealousy. They suggested she was using me to advance her own career by opposing their innovative methods.

The stress began affecting my physical recovery. The numbness in my arms returned with a vengeance during particularly difficult days. My parents noted this in their court filings, arguing that the instability of foster care was harming my neurological condition. They presented themselves as the stable, scientific option compared to the emotional chaos of traditional parenting.

Five months into foster care, they made their boldest move. Mom published a book about