The Fall. Jen Thorpe

it’s not like I want him to die. I’m not causing this. I’m just seeing things and hoping that they don’t come true. But I told the journalist, like I said, and hopefully she can fix this.’

      ‘The journalist who reported on Sindiwe’s father’s death?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I see.’ She closes her notebook, interlacing her fingers, signalling to me that our session is almost at a close. ‘Do you feel like the journalist will be able to help you in the way that you want her to?’

      ‘I hope so.’

      She smiles, an unreadable smile, and nods. ‘Well, Thulebona, I hope that when I see you next week, this has all been resolved in a peaceful way for everyone.’

      ‘Me too, Doctor.’

      I mean it, even if she thinks I don’t.

      She stands slowly, placing the notebook on the desk and ushering me to the door. I look at her and have the urge to embrace her, to be swallowed by the softness of her green jersey and to feel safe the way I used to feel with Mom before she couldn’t forgive me for loving whom I loved. I catch the faintest smell of perfume, floral and rosy, as she opens the door and moves out of my path. Outside her room, I hear the students chanting.

      ‘Be safe, Thulebona. Remember to take care of yourself, too.’

      I hope I can do what she asks.