Chapter 5 The Aftermath
Chapter 5 The Aftermath
It was late at night. No one saw him.
He moved her body to the car without hesitation. No panic. No pause. Just motion.
He drove for miles, far from the apartment, the neighborhood, the memory of her. The only sound was the radio—tuned to a station that still broadcast my lie. Steady. Comforting. Familiar.
He didn't think about her. Not once. When he found an abandoned building off a dark stretch of road, he pulled in, dragged her from the trunk, and left her there—alone, broken, already fading from his mind.
There was no remorse.
No second glance.
Just silence.
He returned to the car, shut the door, and turned up the volume.
And drove away—eager to hear more.
It's been a week since John killed his girlfriend because of the bug.
Lies like mine—powerful lies—don't just cloud judgment. They consume. They infect the body, the mind, the memory.
Now, John doesn't even believe she's dead.
He's convinced himself she left him. That she walked out one day for someone else. That she didn't say goodbye.
He repeats that story to himself every day.
He has, too, so he won’t have to admit to himself that he killed her.
Unlike my lie, this one keeps the pain of guilt away, and is not about fear.
This is a symptom due to the bug and not a lie that causes it.
John goes to work like always. Outwardly, nothing has changed. But on the drive, he gets his fix—radio stations that confirm his beliefs, social feeds that echo his thinking, headlines that insist he’s right. He knows the truth is out there, but he’s too deep now. The bug has him.
Every morning, commentators reinforce what he wants to hear. It’s not about facts—it’s about that rush of certainty, a daily hit he can’t function without. Without it, he spirals: headaches, unease, pain. Being wrong has become unbearable.
This addiction—to being right—leaves people tethered to radios, screens, and feeds. They need the constant drip of validation to sustain their worldview.
And so the bug spread.
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