Stranded

The world was steaming hot, burning, scalding… Frances felt like a roast forgotten in the oven, plunged in a bath too hot on her skin. Moist rolled on her temples, and she flitted in and out of consciousness for a while before she eventually woke up.

The covers were flung away at once, and she took a deep breath. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dim light of her room, the rays of artificial street lamps filtering against her heavy curtains. She couldn’t move, and she was bathing in her own sweat. Ugh ! Disgusting.

Fever.

It was just a fever, but damn, the sheets were too damp to sleep in now. She needed a shower. The young woman tried to fling her legs to the side, and found them strangely unresponsive. So weary, heavier than lead, ensconced in the mattress. She frowned, lifting her head. The movement caused her vision to swim, and a sharp pain to shoot down her spine. Sore muscles were expected with fever but damn, it had been a long time since she’d felt so bad. What the hell had happened to cripple her so efficiently ?

Then she remembered the brutal workout from the past evening. Great. Sore muscles topped by a nasty virus didn’t make a great combination. Grunting, she rolled to the side with a grimace; her whole body protested. At last, her feet reached the ground and she pushed up… only for her calves to refuse to perform their office. Frances slipped and slid down awkwardly. The tiled floor froze her skin, but it felt so good that, for a moment, she just laid on the harsh floor. Her spine was so stiff, any movement sending such waves of pain that the muscles felt crushed. Had she laid on the road, begging for trucks to run over her last night ?

This was bad. How was she going to attend classes in such a state ? Let alone drive if her calves couldn’t function? Any delay in her studies could become really problematic. Better to sit in the amphiteatrum, half dead than miss it altogether. She was already overloaded, she’d never managed to catch up on anything new if she didn’t attend. A wave of panic rose in her throat, her heart beating a staccato.

Frances shook her head to clear her hazy mind.

No, she was strong, nothing yet had vanquished her. If she caved under pressure now, she would never return to school and finish that blasted diploma. Her parents were four hours away, and she wasn’t about to call classmates at this ungodly hour. They needed their sleep just as much as she did. And if she reached the phone anyway, it meant she could stand. Vertical position was autonomy. Who needed help when you could move on your own?

So, refusing to be stranded like an elderly, Frances pushed on her forearms and sat. Her back muscles screamed bloody murder and the young woman bit her cheek. Then, she slowly, but surely crawled to the bath. Warm water would soothe the muscles, and allow them to regain a bit of mobility. The blasted virus would be gone in five to eight days, then things would return to normal. Provided she survived the ordeal. Nice.

Driving was going to be so bloody fantastic.

A shower later, and a crawl on the other side of the bed, Frances was snoring away. Her only adjustment; the alarm clock wasn’t set for 6:30 am this time. Too bad for the first period; she would join the second.

But making it at all was akin to running an assault course. Dressing with cramped muscles, lacing her shoes, descending the stairs were already quite the challenge. Driving, a torture that demanded a few adjustments – namely a slow and steady speed, causing her to change her route several times to adapt - and enough violence for her to pull through. But Frances was no stranger to pushing her body to its very limits.

The look on her comrades' faces was priceless when she popped in the corridor. Especially Thomas, whom was becoming a good friend. The dark-haired boy's eyes widened when he realized she was limping. LIMPING like a grandmother that needed a cane, because her calves were so struck that they didn’t work at all. Now, she knew what it felt like to walk on wooden legs. Had she not been so pathetic, she might have laughed at her own predicament.

— “Frances ! You shouldn’t be here!” Thomas exclaimed.

— “I’ll be careful not to touch anything,” she retorted.

The young man scoffed, his wild curls shaking in the process as he scolded her.

— “That’s not what I’m talking about, you dolt.”

Frances straightened – it wasn’t too difficult, given she couldn’t turn, or lean, or do anything other than stand tall – and glared.

— “I thank you for your compassion.”

— “I’ll get the material for you, go home,” he hissed.

Frances shook her head slightly, closing her eyes to prevent the room from spinning. There, it was stabilised.

— “No, can’t do. I don’t understand ‘material resistance’ if I don’t attend, you know it’s too annoying to study by oneself”

Dark eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead, and for a moment, she caught the gleam of incredulity in Thomas’ eye.

— “You need to sort your priorities, Frances. The flu is about, by the way.”

This time, she scrunched her nose in displeasure.

— “Shit.”

— “My point exactly. You must get to a doctor”

Even feverish, Frances was a mighty opponent when it came to physiology. Thomas came from another section – chemistry and physics – and couldn’t possibly compete with her knowledge of virus and bacteria.

— “Not going to help if it’s the flu,” she deadpanned.

— “What if it’s not ?” he countered.

The retort was as swift as a fencing move.

— “98% chances it is a virus.”

— “What if it’s an infection ? The 2% left ?”

— “I’m not coughing, and paracetamol didn’t help. Virus”

Thomas’s hands danced in defeat.

— “Are you always this stubborn ?”

And despite the redness of her cheeks and shining eyes – screaming “high fever” – Frances laughed.

— “Do I really have to answer ?”

A mighty sigh was her response, and Thomas reached for his beardless chin to gather his thoughts.

— “How high was your fever ?”

The young woman bit her cheek; if she told him she was over 39 this morning, her friend would throw a fit. And, for the moment, the world was pretty hot, but not swimming too badly. Meaning she could stand… stiffly.

— “Repeat previous response”

— “Suit yourself ! But don’t come wailing about when it gets bad.”

It’s already bad enough.

— “The fever is cyclic,” she clipped. “Virus. Now let’s get to class.”

But deep down, as she tried to make sense of those blasted forces and the material compressibility, she wondered if Thomas wasn’t right after all. Not that she would ever admit it… Two hours passed, and when the weight became too much on her shoulders, and the headache so intense that she couldn’t hear anything other than the pounding in her ears, she relented. The fever was so bad she could barely stand, and she folded herself in her car with a sigh. The drive home was a long moment of agony, her thigh and calf cramping every time she had to use the clutch. For once, for fucking once, she envied the Americans and their automatic gear boxes.

Her whole fame was shivering by now, cold seeping in her bones. So intense that she wondered if she would ever be warm again. At last, she found a spot to park her car. But her worries weren’t over; for now, the long marble staircase stood before her. Step after step, hands tightly woven around the railing, she climbed. One, two, three… Pause. Four, five… another break. Sixteen, at last ! She was panting heavily when her shivering body eventually reached the first floor, sweat beading on her temples. Damn, Thomas was right, it was probably the flu. Frances stumbled along the corridor and reached her terrace with a sigh.

Home at last !

Her first thought was to control the fever; the thermometer insulted her, displaying a 39.8.

— “Blast !”

She threw the offending device away, and climbed into bed. And when her eyes closed by themselves and she huddled under the covers, frozen to the core, she couldn’t help but wonder if father Tristan was well… strangely, it was the memory of his voice that allowed her to relax enough to fall in a restful sleep.

Three days later

The music washed over her like a soothing calm, healing her soul to the very core. Too bad the benevolent vibrations couldn’t heal her muscles as well. Frances was still stiff, her calves so tender that she could barely move them around. A different pain now; rather than the cramps, it felt like sore muscles after a vicious workout. So there she was, sitting on a normally comfortable chair, feeling like she’d been run over by a truck. And to think it was the fourth day… Damn. The flu had got her rather viciously this time.

Still, she couldn’t have missed this concert for the world. In the mighty cathedral, the voices rose and fell like an autumn wind, the ballet of intertwined chorists more beautiful than the dancing leaves outside. It only added to the intrinsic beauty of the building, pulling Frances far, far away from her everyday concerns. It could have been angels, singing and laughing over her shoulder; their voices wrapped her in a blanket of benevolence. It didn’t matter that she attended alone – it was but half an hour drive from her place – nor that father Tristan was nowhere in sight. It didn’t matter than she’d been sick as a dog, or that she would have to slave to catch up on the classes she missed. Neither the ugliness of the world, nor its stench of money reached her within the walls of the cathedrals, for Angels were protecting it.

Their plea vibrated in her body; Frances closed her eyes. She felt like she was bathed in light, caressed by higher beings. Hope bloomed in her chest, hope that perhaps, she could find her place in the world. So beautiful, so soft, so caressing. And when the lead soprano performed one last Ave Maria, her tone so pure, tears leaked from Frances’ eyes. She didn’t even try to hide them; she wasn’t the only one moved by the purity of that woman’s voice. A stunned silence followed this last piece before thunderous applause exploded.

Frances followed the sea of people out of the church, her mind still blown away by the beauty of what she had witnessed. So it was without surprise that it took three attempts before she recognised the voice that was calling her name in the background. The young woman started, then frowned as she stiffly turned around. Father Tristan was a few feet away, his gaze boring holes into her. He jogged lightly to greet her, a gentle smile on his face.

— “Hello, Frances. I am glad you could attend, did you enjoy the performance?”

For a moment, the young woman’s brain refused to function and she could only stare as the man’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

— “Frances?”

— “Ah. Yes. Sorry. I’m still a little out of it. It was … magnificent. Thank you for the tip”

The priest considered her strangely, then nodded.

— “Yes. They tend to have this effect.”

— “I wish I could sing like this. This Ave Maria … she gave me goosebumps.”

A faint eyebrow rose upon his forehead, losing itself in the loose strands of his chestnut hair. There was a twinkle in his eyes when he responded.

— “Did you ever try?”

— “Uh?”

She couldn’t possibly respond yes or no, because she thoroughly enjoyed singing in the shower. Or without a shower. Her best vacation time used to be the days when she locked herself in the attic with her younger cousin, singing all the discs of their favourite artists. And truth be told, Frances knew that if she warmed up enough, she could sing rather nicely. But this … this was other worldly. And not only because of the chorist’s technique, which had been flawless. The strength of their message, this hope she had felt could only come from the heart. Such a performance was out of reach… Wasn’t it?

— “Maybe you should.”

Frances swallowed, keeping her doubts in check. Yes, maybe she would give it a try. A large family – with running kids – suddenly popped up out of nowhere, and the young woman forgot her sore muscles, taking a step back to give them more leeway. Her leg muscles protested so much that she stumbled with a wince. Father Tristan’s eyes narrowed instantly.

— “Are you hurt?”

Oops.