The Virtues Of Literature

Part 12

Chapter 12

Francis stares out of the taxi window, staring into space as countless nondescript vehicles drive past and buildings whizz by. They pass by the student's union and the building catches his eye. It is severely charred in many patches, some walls caved in and some floors collapsed. The firefighters had managed to put out the blaze before it had been reduced to complete rubble, but not before some serious damage had been done. He hopes there weren't many other people in there at the time.

Francis takes his view from outside the window to look at himself in the car mirror.

He looks dead.

Not literally dead. Just kind of a bit dead. He had showered before he had left the hospital, thank god, so he is a bit cleaner, but large patches of his hair ends are singed white and crispy, some patches blackened. He has a couple of dressings on his face, and he can feel the numerous bandages wrapping other parts of his body. Tired eyes stare back to him, and he looks back out of the window while maintaining his impassive expression. He's too tired to waste energy on face muscles at this moment.

Francis had spent two nights in the hospital in the end, not too long really which was lucky for him, and by now he wants the familiarity of home back, not to mention wanting to see Arthur. He had left as soon as he was dismissed earlier this morning, and only phoned Arthur and the twins when he was already on the way back so that they wouldn't insist on any unnecessary journeys to go and pick him up. The taxi pulls up outside his apartment building and Francis fishes some cash out of his wallet, handing it over to the driver. He hauls himself out of the car, gritting his teeth at pain from his injuries.

He isn't hurt too badly, really. Just a pretty nasty burn on his abdomen and his fingertips have turned a mixture of red and black, which ache and sting really badly. But other than that, the remainder of his pains are numerous but minor. Simply mild aches and pains from this and that.

But then there's his lungs.

Two journeys up and down the building to through billowing smoke probably wasn't the best idea, and he really had accidentally forgotten about being careful with the smoke during the climax of their escape. The doctors had described the possibility of long term damage, but Francis isn't as bothered as he could be. He doesn't regret what he did, and no one should criticise him for it because it was his conscious decision.

But now there's a constant feeling at the back of his throat, starting as an itchy tingle that catches his voice, that grows into an uncomfortable stinging and then a unignorable pain. Francis is constantly coughing, temporarily easing the pain in his throat but making the ache of his lungs far more striking.

He walks stiffly up to a, thankfully, working lift and rides it up to his floor. Francis only realises just as he gets to the front door that he has no idea where his keys are. They must have been lost somewhere in the havoc.

He smiles vaguely knowing Arthur should be behind this door, and lifts up to hand to knock after clearing his ragged throat.

Arthur is the one to open it, perhaps unfortunately, and Francis braces himself for the desperately relieved hug that predictably comes. It is a little painful, but compared to being able to hold Arthur it is negligible. Arthur was only able to visit him once, and Francis still needs the assurance that he is okay.

They go inside, and Francis leaves Arthur to pop into his bedroom to do something or other, intending for it to be only a moment, but he finds Arthur wandering in after him. He shuts the door to the twins still stationed in the living room, and sits with Francis on his bed.

"I'm sorry Francis. You shouldn't have been hurt. You shouldn't have had anything to do with it. I don't know why I phoned you."

Francis feels mild anger blossom, that he had made Arthur feel this way, like he was responsible.