Runtar’s Diary: The Cost of a Lie

We were warned before we entered the place.

Not that we couldn’t lie, but that we shouldn’t. The warning was clear enough, lying would have consequences, just not straight away. There would be no sign in the moment, no feeling that anything had gone wrong. Whatever it cost you would come later.

At the time, it didn’t seem so different from anywhere else. You could still speak freely, say what you liked, and nothing would stop you. That was the unsettling part of it, knowing there was no way to tell, in the moment, whether you had just done something that would change you.

We met a mother and her son not long after entering.

The son had already changed. That was how it was explained to us, not as a punishment handed down by someone, but as the result of something he had done. They called it an awakening. I still don’t think that word fits. It makes it sound like something gained, rather than something taken away.

We didn’t have long to speak before everything turned.

The child attacked us, suddenly and without hesitation. There wasn’t time to reason with him, or to understand what remained of who he had been before. Whatever the consequence of that lie had done, it hadn’t left him as he was.

We defended ourselves as best we could.

In the middle of it, I made a decision I’m still trying to understand properly. The mother was close enough to see what was happening, to watch the whole thing unfold. I couldn’t stop what was coming, but I could stop her from seeing it.

So I blinded her.

Not out of anger, and not to punish her. It felt, in that moment, like the only kindness I could offer, to spare her from watching something she couldn’t change.

I don’t know if that was the right thing to do.

The fight didn’t end the way I expected.

Daisy stepped in and sent the boy away. Just like that, he was gone, pulled out of the moment before it could go any further. We didn’t have to finish it. We didn’t have to decide what came next.

I don’t know if we’ll see him again.

I don’t know if he can be helped, or if anyone who’s been changed like that can be brought back to who they were.

But I do know I was glad we didn’t have to kill him.

That felt like something worth holding onto.

Afterwards, there wasn’t much to say. The warning made sense then, not as a rule, but as something real. Something that changes people quietly, and only shows itself when it’s already too late to undo.

We left soon after.

On the way out, I found myself thinking back over everything I had said since we entered. Not because anything had felt wrong at the time, but because I couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t matter later.

That kind of uncertainty stays with you.

I miss you.
I miss the Grove.
I miss mistakes that end when you make them.