A Forest On Fire

The Fate of Francis Phorus

Jeanne Phorus visited him on the first and last of every month, just to make sure he wasn't lonely in this lightless, dreary building. She pitied him, as this was now his permanent home until the day he died. She was his wife, after all. It was her job to look after him. Ruth was with her this time, and she was sure that this would make him, at least, a little happier. This was the first time in years that her daughter agreed to visit her father, for Ruth found the asylum to be both physically and emotionally oppressive.

Francis Phorus's condition only seemed to be degrading as the days passed. He hadn't see his daughters in years until now, and, at that, only one of them. He could hardly recognize Ruth. She had grown very much since he last saw her as a teenager, and she had blossomed into motherhood long since then. He knew he had grandchildren and longed to see them, but he knew, as much as Jeanne and Ruth loved him, that it would not be permitted.

He was slipping deeper into his dementia, and they knew not if, when they next visited, he would even know their names. Francis did not care. In fact, he longed to forget. He longed to forget what he did as Governor of Fluie. He longed to forget what made him do those things. He longed to forget everything, even if it meant forgetting the ones he loved, that he had ever loved someone at all.

He wished they would stop visiting, wished that they wouldn't make this harder for him, but he couldn't bring himself to tell them to stop. Deep down, Francis wanted to see his wife. He wanted to see her badly, wanted to see her every day, in fact, for he did not know if this particular visit was the last he would ever see of her. He did not know if this visit would be the last time he remembered who she was.

This was why he wanted them to stop. He wanted them to leave. He knew it was selfish, but, damn it, if there's ever a time to be selfish, it's when you're losing your mind. If they didn't choose to stop on their own, he would make it so they didn't have a reason to visit. This was how Francis decided it was time for him to die. He was sure of it; he was so sure, in fact, that he had even taken the time to diligently plan it out.

The room in which he slept was on the second floor of the asylum. He would tell the busy nurses that his back was being too bothersome to walk up the stairs unaided. Knowing his providers were too occupied to help him exclusively, he would request a cane. Thus given this cane, he would travel to his room, smash the single window with the tool, and leap to the paved street below. He was old and brittle; it would not take even this to kill him. Francis would see, however, that this plan would fail.

On the day he would jump, a week after his wife and daughter visited him, he found that he had another visitor. His caretaker told him that the woman's name was Maribelle Volleh. Francis knew the woman's name but had never truly seen her in person. He pondered the reason she had of visiting him. She was as beautiful as could be expected of an aristocrat. Her olive skin and dark, wavy hair, which was no doubt proud to be of the same shade as her dazzling eyes were nothing in comparison to the charming smile she greeting him with. She wore a green dress of linen, which did not exactly meet the expectations of a noble, but which suited her nonetheless.

They spoke for a long while- hours, perhaps. Francis was not able to recall of what they spoke as soon as they had stopped. It was as if time had lapsed. It was as if she had hypnotized him. He then remembered his plan. Like the actor he learned to be as Governor, Francis shakily stood from his chair and groaned as he fully stood.

"My dear Maribelle," he began in the light, airy voice that comes with age, "I'm afraid it's getting late, and my age no longer permits me to do these kinds of things; staying up, that is. Would you excuse me? My room is on the second floor and-"

"It's quite alright," Maribelle interrupted, standing up alongside the man. "I'll help you up the stairs, if you wouldn't mind," she paused. "sir."

"No, no, no need, Madame Volleh. All I must do is fetch a cane, and I'll be able on my own."

"Faccen e ories ellas vou derusch pur voulesch, no, Governor? It is my pleasure to help you."

Francis gave in. He supposed his plans could wait until another day- some day when he would be truly alone.

Thus, Maribelle helped him clamber up the stairwell and to his room. She came down almost immediately, in a rush, a bit frazzled. None of the nurses or doctors noticed, and the woman slipped out the front door and disappeared into the cool Rousettean spring. Francis did not exit his room the rest of that day, nor did he come down the next day to join the rest of them in their morning rituals. So, finally, a young nurse went to his room to see what the matter was.

The window was broken; this was the first thing she noticed. How had someone broken it? This was the first thing she asked herself. There was nothing strong enough in this room to break a window so sturdy as this one. Then, she happened to look out of the window and onto the street below. The doctors were called immediately, but, when they pulled themselves from their patients and took him up off the pavement, the old man was dead. They ruled it as a suicide. None of them noticed the woman enter or leave.