Quote:
"The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water." – Miguel de Cervantes
The three knocks were not just sounds; they were physical impacts, each one vibrating through the flimsy wooden door and into the very bones of her apartment. Into her bones. Thembi stood frozen in the centre of her living room, a ghost in her own home, her heart performing a frantic, wild tap-dance against her ribs. She had stopped breathing. The world had narrowed to the thin, painted slab of wood separating her from Sbu.
"Thembi? I know you're in there. Your car's downstairs."
His voice was strained, a tight mix of concern and frustration. It was the same tone he'd used last night at the club, the one that had made her see red. Now, it made her see only the cold, still form in her bathroom.
He knows. The thought was a ice pick in her brain. He's not here to talk. He's here to see what you've done.
But another part, a smaller, more desperate part, clung to the concern in his voice. This was Sbu. Her Sbu. For two years, he had been her sanctuary from the pressure, the one who told her she was more than her father's disappointment. He'd seen her break down after a vicious phone call from home, he'd held her while she cried, he'd told her she was brilliant, she was strong. That Thembi, the one who was loved, wanted to fling the door open and collapse into his arms, sobbing out the impossible horror.
But the other Thembi, the one standing in a crime scene, knew that girl was a luxury she could no longer afford.
"Baby, please," Sbu's voice came again, softer now, pleading. "Lerato's going crazy. She said you were... not yourself last night. I was worried. We all were. Just open the door. Let me see you're okay."
Not yourself. The words were a key, twisting in the lock of her memory.
Flash: Her own voice, shrill and raw, screaming at him in the pulsating dark of the club. "You're always on my case! You want a perfect little girlfriend who stays home and studies? Well, I'm not her! I'll never be her!"
Flash: His hands, up in a placating gesture. "Thembi, that's not what I'm saying! I'm saying you're drinking too much, you're pushing everyone away! Look at you!"
Flash: Her shoving him. A hard, two-handed push to his chest that made him stumble back a step, shock and hurt blooming in his eyes. The music swallowing the sound of his gasp.
Flash: A glass, her glass, falling from a table and shattering on the floor. Had she knocked it over? Had he?
The memory was a jolt. Violence. She had been violent. The swelling on Kagiso's jaw... the unnatural angle of her neck...
Her eyes darted to the bathroom door, then back to the front door. A trapped animal. She had to say something. Silence was an admission of guilt. But her voice was gone, stolen by terror. She tried to swallow, but her throat was a dust-dry tunnel.
"Go away, Sbu." The words came out a strangled croak, barely audible.
A pause. She could picture him on the other side, his head tilting, his brow furrowing.
"Thembi? I can barely hear you. Just open the door. Two minutes. I just need to know you're alive."
"I'm fine," she forced out, louder, injecting a frayed wire of irritation into her tone. The same irritation she used to wield like a shield against her father. "I have a hangover. I look like death. I don't want to see anyone."
"See? That's what I'm talking about," he said, and she could hear the exasperation returning. "You shut down. You push people out. Last night—"
"Last night is over!" she snapped, the words cracking like a whip. The force of it surprised her. "I don't want to talk about last night. I just want to be left alone. Please, Sbu. Just go."
Another, longer pause. She could feel him there, a presence through the wood, weighing her words, her tone. She held her breath, praying he would accept it, that he would just turn and walk away, giving her time to think, to... to what? What could she possibly do?
"Thembi," his voice was low, serious now. All pretense of light concern was gone. "This isn't just about a fight. After you left... Kagiso left too. About five minutes after you. She was really upset. She said some things."
The name, spoken aloud in her apartment, was a physical blow. Thembi's knees buckled and she grabbed the back of her sofa for support. The room swam. Upset? What things? What had Kagiso said?
Flash: The small, dancing flame. A cigarette lighter, its metal cap open. A hand, holding it. Whose hand?
Flash: The whisper. That word. It was closer now, just on the edge of recollection. ...quiet...?
"She was crying," Sbu continued, his voice muffled but clear enough to pierce through her fragmenting thoughts. "She said you'd threatened her. Seriously threatened her. She said she was scared of you."
The pieces were falling into a damning pattern, arranged by an invisible, malevolent hand. The public threat. The witnessed fight. The rival following her out of the club, scared. And now, here.
"Did she come here, Thembi?"
The question hung in the air, toxic and heavy. It was the question she had been dreading. How did he know? Had Kagiso told someone she was coming here? Had he seen her?
"She's not answering her phone," Sbu added, and the worry in his voice was now unmistakably, terrifyingly, directed at Kagiso. "No one's seen her since she left Vudu."
Thembi's mind raced, a cornered animal looking for any escape. Deny it. Deny everything.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice trembling despite her efforts to steady it. "I came home alone. I passed out. I haven't seen Kagiso. Now please, just leave me alone."
She heard a soft thud. Was he leaning his head against the door? The image was so intimate, so painfully familiar, it made her want to scream.
"Okay," he said, finally, the word heavy with resignation. "Okay, Thembi. I'm going. But... if you see her, or if you remember anything, call me. This isn't a game. People are worried."
She didn't answer. She just stood, rigid, listening. She heard his footsteps, slow at first, then retreating down the tiled hallway. She waited, counting the beats of her own heart, until the sound faded completely.
The silence that rushed back in was somehow louder and more threatening than his presence had been. He was gone, but he had left the ghost of his words behind, and they filled the apartment like poison gas.
She was scared of you.
Thembi slid down onto the sofa, pulling her knees up to her chin, mirroring her earlier position on the hallway floor. She was shivering uncontrollably, a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. Sbu wasn't just a worried boyfriend. He was a link. A link between the club, Kagiso, and her apartment. He knew Kagiso had been planning to confront her. And now he knew, or strongly suspected, that Kagiso had succeeded.
How long until that suspicion turned into action? How long until he called Lerato, or campus security, or even the police, out of genuine fear for Kagiso?
She was out of time. The walls were closing in. The muffled music from above seemed to be mocking her, a soundtrack to her entrapment. She had to do something. She couldn't just sit here and wait for the world to break her door down.
Her eyes, wide and frantic, scanned the room again, but now with a new purpose. Not just to understand, but to survive. They landed on her laptop, a black, closed slate on her desk. The digital trail. It was the only thing she could control, the only crime scene she might be able to clean before anyone else saw it.
With a surge of adrenaline that made her feel nauseous, she stood and walked to the desk. Her hands were shaking as she opened the lid. The screen glowed to life, asking for her password. This was it. The first active step into the darkness. What would she find? A sent message? A searched term? A history of her own descent?
She typed in her password, her finger hovering over the enter key. Behind her, the bathroom door stood ajar, a silent audience to her desperate act. The truth was in this apartment, both digital and horrifyingly physical. And she was about to confront one to hide the other.