Tomorrow, on what, according to the Met Office, is shaping up to be a gloriously warm September day, I will die so that you can live. There’s something almost elegant about that, don’t you think?

Oh, I know, if we were having this conversation for real, you would argue that you live just fine thank you very much, you cheeky bitch; but that’s not really true, is it? Yes, you exist, as you have done since you were five, when he started hurting you. But existing is not the same as living. You’d say that no therapist in their right mind would give up their life for the sake of a client– it’s not even a thing! And I’d reply that no, I don’t suppose it is, but don’t worry, nobody will make the connection between us, and my death won’t, I imagine, make the papers.

You’d cast up the maxim that I trotted out in your (and every client’s) first-ever session – therapists don’t save people; they help people to save themselves – asserting that what I’m about to do makes me a bad one, and I’d say yeah, fair enough, but that’s hardly relevant given that tomorrow I’m meeting my maker.

Then, incredulous, but still curious despite yourself, you’d regard me with those pale blue eyes and chew on your lip a little before breaking out in a wavering smile and asking: you’re not serious, are you?

And I’d say, of course I am, because you, Kass, have to live.