Why my Bully learnt Hypnosis

Foreword:

All characters within this story are above the age of 18. If you enjoy my stories and wish to drop in or request a story of your own, join my discord: https://discord.gg/SXZQjsuwpA. I also create AI generated pictures using pop culture characters which could be found on my links page here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/12DAE-46noOO5YJ1Dhs7s9c3YUknw7FszaO7QREcs0is/edit?tab=t.0

Diego

The mornings had started to feel like countdowns for Diego Rivera. A steady, silent ticking in his head from the moment he woke up, warning him of the gauntlet to come. Each tick represented a hallway he didn’t want to walk down, a locker he didn’t want to open, a voice he didn’t want to hear. His body moved on autopilot now — brush teeth, get dressed, fake a smile — like a condemned man learning to look casual in front of other prisoners.

He sat at the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, chin in his palms, staring at the worn-out sneakers he should’ve replaced two years ago. The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that gave your thoughts too much room to breathe. He hated when it was like this.

There was a time not long ago when Diego didn’t wake up dreading the world. When the only thing he worried about was whether his mom had remembered to buy Froot Loops or if she’d sneak bran flakes into the pantry again. Back then, home was safe. His mom, Dr. Valeria Rivera, was the warmest thing in his life — a **** of nature in heels and a white coat, who’d fight off nightmares with a single kiss to the forehead.

But things change. People change.

Especially when someone like Chase Whitmore decides you’re the perfect target.

Chase had been a blur in the background at first — tall, golden, loud — the kind of guy who filled a room whether he had something to say or not. Diego didn’t even know what he’d done to deserve the attention. Maybe Chase just liked breaking things that didn’t fight back.

The bullying started simple: locker slammed shut just as he reached for it, pencils snapped in half in passing, subtle shoulder checks in crowded halls. But that was Chase’s art — he made it look like Diego was clumsy, paranoid, even delusional. When Diego tried to speak up, it never went anywhere. “He’s just a kid,” they’d say. “Don’t be so sensitive.”

The others laughed. Some joined in. A few teachers looked the other way. And over time, Diego found it easier to keep his head down. Easier to avoid eye contact. To accept that there were worse things than being invisible.

But Chase didn’t want him invisible. He wanted him humiliated.

And lately… it had gotten worse.

Shoved into a trash can after gym. His backpack was taken and dumped into the girl’s locker room. A doctored photo of him photoshopped with cartoonishly tiny genitalia sent around the school group chat. All of it followed by that same smug grin and mocking laugh.

Diego had tried to hide the bruises — physical and otherwise — from his mother. But Valeria wasn’t the kind of woman to stay blind for long. Especially not when her only son came home with one sleeve torn and the haunted look of someone who's trying not to cry in front of someone they love.

This morning, she’d found the messages.

He should’ve deleted them. He meant to delete them. But she was faster than he expected. Her sharp blue eyes scanned the screen, then narrowed with the kind of rage he’d only ever seen when someone cut her off in traffic.

“What the hell is this?” she’d snapped, holding up his phone.

“It’s nothing,” Diego muttered, already pulling the blanket back over his lap.

“This isn’t nothing, Diego. This is harassment. This is ****. This is—” She cut herself off. Her chest rose with a deep, measured breath. “What’s this kid’s name?”

He hesitated.

“Diego. Tell me.”

“…Chase Whitmore.”

There it was. Recognition. The same name that had sat at the top of every honor roll and charity event for years. The mayor’s golfing buddy’s son. Untouchable.

But his mother didn’t flinch.

She stood up, walked to the closet, pulled out her beige blazer, and started buttoning it with a calmness that terrified him.

“I’m going to have a little chat with the Whitmores.”

“Wait. Mom—”

“I’ve let this slide too long. That ends today.”

Now, Diego sat alone at the kitchen table, watching his untouched cereal dissolve into milky mush, trying not to picture how that conversation would go.

The Whitmores weren’t people you confronted. They were people you politely endured.

His mom wasn’t good at polite when she was angry.

He imagined her standing at their door, fire in her eyes, dressed like a runway model ready for war, dragging the sins of their golden boy into the light. She’d eviscerate them — that was just who she was.

And yet, a pit formed in Diego’s stomach.

Because if there was one thing he knew about Chase Whitmore… it was that he never let himself be humiliated without finding a way to make someone else pay for it.

And right now, Diego couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going to be the one who paid.

Valeria

She didn’t usually make house calls.

Not outside of working hours. Not without a stethoscope slung around her neck and the comfortable armor of clinical detachment. But this? This wasn’t a patient’s house.

This was war.

The morning sun caught the sharp edges of her cheekbones through the windshield as Valeria Rivera steered the wheel with one hand, the other gripping her phone knuckle-white. She hadn’t spoken since leaving the house — she didn’t need to. Her thoughts were a storm cloud behind her composed exterior.

My poor boy.

The phrase kept replaying in her head like a sad, stubborn lullaby. She remembered tucking him in when he was five, six, seven years old — that soft, sleepy mumble of "Love you, Mommy," before he slipped into dreams. Somewhere along the way, he stopped saying it. She hadn’t even noticed when.

He’d started to change. Pulling away. Growing quiet. But she thought that was just teenage years, hormones, school stress.

She had missed the signs. And that was what enraged her most.

This Chase Whitmore... he picked the wrong mother to fuck with.

The Whitmore estate appeared like something out of a luxury magazine: white stone, tall columns, ivy climbing with perfect symmetry, a fountain burbling with obnoxious elegance in the circular drive. Valeria’s heels clicked purposefully as she stepped out of her car, every inch of her a vision of power — sculpted calves, pencil skirt that hugged her skin, her chestnut hair swept into a calculated updo that left just enough softness to frame her scowl.

Before she even reached the door, it swung open.

A tall, silver-haired butler bowed his head with a trained stiffness.

“Dr. Rivera, I presume. Master Chase is inside. The Whitmores are expecting you.”

She’d called Mrs. Whitmore and informed her that she would be visiting without mentioning the reason of course. She wanted to be there to witness it on their faces when she told them off.

“Good,” she said. Her voice was clipped, precise. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

The interior of the mansion was what you’d expect from old money: polished marble floors, chandeliers that probably cost more than her med school tuition, and the faint scent of imported lavender. She barely took it in.

The butler led her to a sitting room, where three figures turned toward her.

Mrs. Whitmore looked like Botox in heels — blonde, sculpted, graceful in that performative way rich women tend to be, wrapped in cream cashmere and pearls. Her husband, Arthur Whitmore, had the kind of politician’s face that smiled even when he was furious. And Chase…

Chase slouched in an armchair, trying to play aloof, but his jaw was tight. His golden boy aura was dimmed slightly today. Maybe he knew what was coming.

Good.

Valeria smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Thank you for receiving me,” she began, her voice laced with ice and civility. “I won’t waste your time. I’m here because your son has been bullying mine for months. Physical ****. Psychological ****. Online harassment.”

Mrs. Whitmore blinked. “I’m… sorry?”

“Don’t be. Be embarrassed.” Valeria turned toward Chase now, her eyes narrowing. “Because your son — your pride and joy — shoved mine into a trash can last week. He distributed humiliating, doctored images. He’s turned my son’s daily life into a living hell.”

Chase’s face twitched. “I don’t—”

“Do not interrupt me.”

It was so sharp, even the butler flinched.

“You think I’m unaware of what boys like you get away with in schools like ours?” Valeria leaned forward slightly, her voice lower. “You’re used to people looking the other way. Not me.”

Arthur Whitmore cleared his throat. “Is there… evidence of these claims?”

Valeria handed him a printout of the group chat. Screenshots. Names. Photos.

As the parents read, their faces darkened. Mrs. Whitmore’s lips pressed into a trembling line. Arthur’s hand visibly clenched. Chase tried to look unaffected, but there was sweat at his brow.

“Well, I’m ashamed,” Arthur said, his voice suddenly booming. “This is not how we raised you!”

“What the hell were you thinking, Chase?!” Mrs. Whitmore added, her voice cracking. “Do you realize what this could do to your record? Your college chances?!”

Even the butler gave a quiet snort of laughter from the corner of the room.

Chase glared at him, face hot with humiliation.

“You’re grounded,” Arthur declared. “One week. No car, no phone, no anything. And tomorrow, you’re apologizing properly. Face to face.”

“I don’t want some half-assed ‘sorry’ text,” Valeria said coolly. “I want guilt. I want remorse. I want you to make my son feel safe.”

Chase was silent. His lips pressed into a thin line as the blood roared in his ears.

She didn’t even look back as she left, heels tapping like a gavel striking judgment. The Whitmores didn’t see the ghost of a smile tug at her lips.

But Chase did.

And he’d remember it.

Chase

His room felt like a cell now.

The blinds were drawn halfway, casting striped shadows across his walls and floor. Chase paced like a caged animal, fists clenched at his sides, breath shallow.

Humiliated.

In front of everyone.

His parents, the butler, that woman. Valeria Rivera with her perfect tits and perfect voice and perfect, holier-than-thou rage. She walked in like she owned the place and walked out even taller.

And all because of that little brown cockroach, Diego.

“Fucking loser,” he spat under his breath, kicking the leg of his desk chair. “Can’t take a joke, so he sends Mommy in to fight his battles.”

He could still hear his dad’s voice yelling at him — the same man who once said boys will be boys. And his mother, shrieking like some beauty queen realizing the crown was slipping.

But the worst part?

He couldn’t say anything back. Not to her. Not in front of them.

Valeria had won.

For now.

He slumped into his desk chair, running a hand through his hair, fuming. His fingers tapped angrily along the edge of his desk. He needed something. Anything. Some way to shut her up. To make Diego pay. To take back control.

That’s when he saw it.

Tucked sideways, buried under dust and forgotten clutter on the second shelf of his bookcase.

A book.

Its spine was dark red leather, cracked at the edges. He couldn’t even remember where it came from. Maybe one of his dad’s old weird gifts. But the title stood out now like a neon sign, practically glowing in the dim light.

“Do you want to learn hypnosis?”

Chase stared at it.

His lips slowly curled.

“…Huh.”

He pulled the book down with a soft thump and began to read.