Quote:
"The worst feeling isn't being lonely; it's being forgotten by someone you could never forget." – Solomon M. Mahlangu
Time became a viscous, syrupy thing, each second stretching into a minute, each minute into a hollow eternity. Thembi remained on the floor, the cold from the shattered glass and spilled water seeping through the thin cotton of her panties, a dull, grounding ache. She was a statue of shock, her arms locked around her knees, her chin tucked down, as if making herself small could make the world, and the horror in her bathroom, small too.
The initial, deafening roar in her ears had subsided, replaced by a high-pitched tinnitus whine, underneath which the muffled bass from above continued its oblivious rhythm. Thump-thump-thump. It was no longer just music; it was a countdown. A timer on a bomb she was sitting on.
Her eyes were fixed on the doorway to the bathroom. From her position on the floor, she could only see a sliver of the white tiles and the bottom of the vanity cabinet. But her mind's eye painted the rest in brutal, detail: the angle of the neck, the gloss of the sequins, the dreadful stillness. She found herself listening for a sound that would never come—a breath, a sigh, a shift of fabric. The silence from that room was a physical presence, heavier and more oppressive than the music.
Her phone buzzed again, skittering a half-inch across the nightstand. The sound was a cattle prod to her nervous system. She flinched, her whole body jerking violently. Lerato (15 Missed Calls). Followed by a new one: Sbu (8 Missed Calls).
They know, a voice, cold and alien, whispered in her mind. They already know. They're calling to see if you've discovered the body yet. They're part of it.
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the paranoid thought. This was Lerato. Her Lerato. The one who had held her hair back in first year when she'd drunk too much cheap wine and sobbed about her father's disappointment. The one who knew every one of her secrets, every insecurity. Lerato wouldn't. She couldn't.
But then another, more terrifying thought surfaced: What if they're calling because they're worried about me ? What if they think I'm hurt? What if they come here?
The idea of someone—anyone—knocking on her door, demanding entry, sent a fresh wave of pure, undiluted panic through her veins. They would find her like this, huddled and broken. They would find Kagiso. The image of Lerato's face, contorted from concern to horror, was as vivid and painful as a slap. The police would come. Blue lights would paint her walls in strokes of accusation. Her father's face, that permanent mask of stern disappointment, would finally find its ultimate justification. "I knew you would bring shame to this family, Thembeka. I knew it."
Thembi. He never called her Thembi. It was always Thembeka, her full name, spoken like a verdict.
She had to move. She couldn't stay on this floor, a passive participant in her own ruin. The thought was a spark in the darkness of her paralysis. With a groan that was part pain, part sheer effort of will, she uncurled her stiff limbs. Pushing herself up, her hands pressed into the fine shards of glass still littering the floor. She felt tiny pricks of pain, looked down, and saw minuscule beads of blood welling on her palms. The sight was almost comforting. It was a real, tangible pain, something outside the cataclysm in her mind.
She stood, her legs trembling, and leaned against the wall for support. Her gaze was drawn, magnetically, back to the bathroom door. She had to look again. She had to be sure. Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe it was a prank, a grotesque joke orchestrated by Kagiso herself to finally, completely break her.
Taking a shuddering breath, she forced one foot in front of the other, each step a monumental effort. She stopped at the threshold, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she felt lightheaded. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, praying for a different reality, then forced them open.
It was worse the second time.
The details were sharper, more cruel. She saw the chipped silver polish on Kagiso's thumbnail. She saw the way a few strands of her perfectly styled hair were stuck to her cheek with what looked like dried sweat or… something else. She saw the slight swelling on one side of her jaw, a shadow of a bruise beginning to form. The reality of it was absolute and undeniable. This was not a drunk hallucination. This was death. And it was here, in her home.
Her eyes darted around the small room, searching for anything out of place, any clue her panic had missed. The bathmat was rumpled and kicked into a corner. Her can of Dove deodorant lay on its side on the vanity. A damp, grey towel was slung over the shower rail—had she showered last night? She couldn't remember. Everything was hers, except for the centerpiece of this nightmare.
A new, more practical terror gripped her. Fingerprints. DNA. She had already touched the doorframe, the glass. Her footprints were probably in the… she didn't want to think about what she might have stepped in. The scene was contaminated. She was contaminating it further just by standing here.
She stumbled back into the hallway, her mind racing in frantic, disjointed circles. Call the police. No, they'll arrest you. Call Lerato. And say what? Call your father? A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat at that thought. He would probably call the police himself, just to be done with her.
She needed to think. She needed to remember.
She walked back into the living room, her body on autopilot, her senses hyper-aware. The spilled contents of her purse seemed to accuse her. The wine glass with the foreign lipstick was a silent witness. She picked it up, her fingers leaving smudges on the stem. The lipstick was a cheap brand, something sparkly. Kagiso's? Did Kagiso wear cheap lipstick? Thembi realized with a start that she only knew her rival's public, polished facade. She had no idea what she was like in private.
Flash: The flame. The small, dancing flame. It felt important. A lighter? The gas stove in her kitchen? She looked over. The stove was pristine, untouched.
Flash: The whisper. That single, chilling word. It was on the tip of her memory, a ghost on her tongue. …listen? …stop? …sorry?
The word evaporated, leaving her frustrated and more afraid. What if she never remembered? What if the void in her mind was permanent?
Her eyes fell on her laptop, closed on her small desk. Her emails. Her social media. Was there a digital trail? A message sent in a blackout? A photo? The thought of opening it, of seeing evidence of her own actions spelled out in pixels, was terrifying.
As she stood there, trapped in the agonizing limbo between action and paralysis, a new sound cut through the muffled music and the whine in her ears.
A sound that stopped her heart dead in her chest.
It wasn't her phone.
It was a knock. Firm, authoritative. Three sharp raps on her apartment door.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Thembi froze, her blood turning to ice. She stopped breathing. The world shrunk to the thin, wooden panel of her door.
A voice followed, deep and familiar, laced with a concern that did nothing to mask its underlying tension. "Thembi? Thembi, are you in there? It's Sbu. Open up. We need to talk."
He was here. Her boyfriend, the one she'd fought with, the last person she'd seen before the Forgotten Hour began, was standing on the other side of the door. And a few feet behind her, in her bathroom, was the girl he'd been accused of cheating with.