Until My Final Breath, Part 1

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
Link to Part 2: https://www.booksie.com/504302-until-my-final-breath-part-2
Francesca's life was never an easy one, but she always had music by her side. Her parents were never idols, so she looked up to the faces of classical music instead. After many years of pursuing her passion, she finally has a chance to let her name shine, but dark dreams threaten to destroy her chance, and her fans' expectations become at stake. Her big chance will not be easy, for all the effort she will put into it will become unhealthy for her body. When all the odds are stacked against her, will she still fight for her dream?
Written by Pink Sky and ThePoeticSinner.

Submitted: May 01, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 01, 2017






 Until My Final Breath 

 Part 1 


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It was midnight, and the lights were dimmed in all of the houses that lined the street. Only one building had a home that refused to succumb to the darkness, and through a narrow window, you could see the inside of a bedroom with grey walls, faintly illuminated by the light of a bedside lantern.

Inside Francesca’s bedroom, the mellifluous, captivating melody of Chopin’s Waltz in A minor pulsed out of the small radio she had set on her bed. Sitting in front of her mirror, she brushed her long, jet black hair, humming along with the symphony. As the brush stroked through her final strands, she gently tossed her hair back, letting it cascade to her seat’s cushion.

Her hazel eyes gazed into her reflection, taking in the tint of her beige skin, the birthmark below her eye, the curve of her lips, down to her exposed collarbones. Her body was still wrapped in a white towel, and was beginning to lose the warmth it had taken from her bath.

She stood up, closed her window’s venetian blinds, and let her towel fall to the ground as she wore her turquoise nightgown. The Waltz had reached its end, and what followed was the sound of the audience’s hearty applauses.

Applauses. Oh, how they gave her a rush. How she loved to hear them when her songs came to an end, and her lungs would be gasping for air. Applauses were the wings that lifted her high in the sky. Nothing was more addictive; no substance, no liquid love, no nightly amours. Nothing.

Fran turned off the radio, and sat in her bed, a rosary from Medugorje in her hands. She prayed the same prayer every night; one for God, ten for the Holy Virgin, in her heart a plea for more time, more days in this world. Due to her ailment, her life was like an hourglass that could not spin. Once the last grain of sand fell, the body of glass would forever freeze in time.

She sunk beneath her blanket, and turned off her lantern, hoping the sandman would visit her soon. She had an exhausting day, due to vocal exercises and preparations for her upcoming performance. That concert was going to be held in one of the biggest arenas in Italy, and she wanted everything to go perfectly well. Her beginnings were quite small; performing on the streets of Rome with her old guitar. Now, she had a chance to prove herself for once and for all.

The pair of hazel eyes finally closed as Francesca fell asleep. Tomorrow will be a brand new day.

It was the afternoon already, and our up and coming soprano was staring at a blank page in a notebook set on her lap. She was sitting on a couch in her living room, and on the coffee table in front of her was an antique clock, whose sound was slowly but certainly driving her insane.


Its annoying, never-ending chorus was echoing inside the empty hallways of her mind, where harmonies and honeyed lyrics once fluttered and buzzed. In fact, if she didn’t have hopes of selling that age-old clock for some good cash, she would not hesitate to throw it out of the damn window.

Fran had promised a new song, a new melody for her concert, and as much as she was a woman of her word, she could not write; her mind refused to cooperate.

Per favore, you need to concentrate,” she spoke to herself, closing her eyes, hoping the words would appear out of the dark like credits at the end of a movie.

Suddenly, she coughed in her hand, and blood spurt from her guts and into her palm. She stared at the red, an omen indicating the beginning of the end.

Panic flooded her mind, and her heart pounded so hard in her chest, she felt like it was going to tear through her skin.

The doctor had warned her; once she began coughing up blood, it meant that her body was forfeiting.

She shook her head in disbelief, her eyes darting at her hands, and ran to her bathroom. She washed the blood away, which briefly tainted the sink red. Her breathing calmed down as she saw it all disappear.

Gone. It was all gone.

She stared at her reflection, and let out a deep sigh, creating fog that masked her image. Once outside the bathroom, she took her brown coat from the coat hanger set by her front door, and wore it as she headed out, hoping a walk in her town would help refresh her mind.

Francesca’s town was not exactly a big one, but for her, it was far too small. Her drive for stardom was something unexpected from “Cita di noia”, as she called it, which meant “boredom town”. Her dream place was where the shimmering stars were never snuffed, because stars are not just the pale prisms in the sky. She would do anything to reach the Land of the Stars. She was not afraid of grey days, nor rowdy crowds, nor unstacked staccatos. She was only afraid of snakes, but how often do you see those, anyways?

Her hands in her coat’s pockets, she walked down the street; by the bakery that smelled ever-so-sweet, below the balcony where an old nonna smoked her cigarette, past the flower shop that was abundant with roses, and toward the gelato shop where she always got her sugary fix.

There, she saw a family walk out of the front door, the father carrying his daughter in his arms. The little girl was ravenously eating her ice-cream, and her mother laughed lightheartedly at the sight of the cream around her mouth.

“If only we were ever like that…” Frannie sulked.

As the fourth out of six children, she often felt invisible growing up. Neglected from the love that little girls require, and from the encouragement that big girls aspire to have. That’s the reason why she started to sing; to get her parents’ attention. She used to sing to the beat of her younger brother’s guitar, back when they were too innocent to understand competition.

The sound of a dog barking from inside the nearby butchery interrupted her trail of thoughts. Fran decided to go on with her walk, until it was sunset when she decided to go back home.

“Good evening, madre. Good evening, padre.”

“Good evening, Frannie,” her parents replied.

“Dinner is ready if you’d like to eat,” her mother said.

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

Francesca walked upstairs to her bedroom, feeling weary from her walk. Because of her illness, she could not exert herself as much as a healthy person. But exercise is what makes you healthier, ironically.

She quickly got ready for bed, eager to rest her worries on her soft, feather pillow. Little did she know how badly her sleep was going to be disturbed.

Francesca will have a dream where she is in a dark alley, where prostitutes are ten pin bowling pins. On her knees crawling, a beetle in the dark. All she can see ahead is the end of the alleyway, she is the derailed track on railway tracks. Crawling until she reaches the end of the alleyway, blocking her way is a man in a scary mask making him the inferior Michael Myers in a Halloween sequel.

Her eyes just see the motionless expression of his mask, surprised that she is not seeing Freddy Kruger in her dream. He doesn't wear knives for fingers or a striped red and green jumper, he is a poor horror villain who doesn't know how to dress up like his idol. He doesn't move, just enjoys seeing Francesca on her knees, a teardrop that cannot shed for help in the dark.

Her first tears began crying, without the effect of herself dying. A tear coming from the haunting stone face of a statue, a miracle when it never rained holy water from skies blue. Extending her hand out to be saved by an anti-hero, the answer she will get is that help always reaches zero.

"Are you here to save me? Are you the Eric Draven that I seek? I don't want to cry anymore....please be here to save me...."

The masked man will grab a person like magic out of thin air, gaining their lungs for a new life from the black market. It is a life size voodoo doll of Francesca praying and crying, don't need glass for a mirror to build a reflection. He will draw tears on the voodoo Francesca, and they will appear on her real face, a flood that will cause a drought.

He will laugh as Francesca will pray like Aeris, hoping she won't be impaled by the Masamune only held by Sephiroth. He will draw more tears on the voodoo doll, and they appear on Francesca's face, a tsunami crying into the ocean. The masked man will then make the voodoo doll Francesca disappear into thin air like magic, and this will end her dream and make her open her eyes, like a strait jacket being escaped from by the great magician Houdini.

Waking up from her dark dream, tears emerge like iceberg drops that will stream. Her dream of death was not the one that she will need, the intoxication of cold blood was just waiting to bleed. Her face will look like a puddle of water wearing mascara that is all black, the brushing of lashes only a ladder that will help snakes and ladders attack.

Her eyes have become frozen and solid when the electricity of her pulse is waning, frozen ice cubes in the warm body of the fridge. Each teardrop the slight rain of death, wishing for it under the rooftop of her umbrella. Turning the light on in the dark to look into the mirror, the reflection from the other side of the glass has also been crying.

Punching the glass to make the mirror break, hoping that her tears have no reflection. Even without the mirror they will drop like glass shards, swallowing one would damage the house known as her heart. Her right hand covered with blood over her knuckles, in a boxing match she has a broken hand punching imaginary brick walls.

Tiny pieces of glass on her floor, sharp shards of tears that broke next to the door. Francesca's blood is dropping like musical notes out of key, knowing pain the only way to set her free. Covering the blood with her other hand, leaving a bloody hand print for evidence in her own land. Her tears a plane landing, a tsunami that leaves her stranding.

“What a fucking mess,” she muttered.

However, Francesca was not shocked from destruction that she unraveled. It was merely the chaos of her mind, escaping from her head and making way to her hands.

The clock by her bedside lantern showed that it was 5:00 AM. Leaving the glass on the floor, she washed her hands, and hesitantly walked back to her bed, knowing she wouldn’t get much more rest at this time.

Francesca’s slumber was also disturbed by a horrifying dream the night that followed.

Sleeping in the same alley, a homeless person that will bathe in the same bin. Her eyes awake as the classical music from her heart is gone, operatic remedy. On her return for her second holiday, nobody is there to save her, her ticket never came with a refund or return flight home. Sitting on the stage ready to give the performance of her life, the notes of the music monsters in her dreams.

A giant king cobra is blocking the end of the alley, not needing the ladder to eat snakes in a friendly game of Snakes and Ladders. Flipping her tongue to scent the hunger of Fran's emotion, she would be able to track it if it was a diving board one hundred miles high. Not the anti-hero Fran was hoping for in her dream, the balloon has popped at her party, the air of death awaits.

Her tears becoming the raindrops of gravity, the smile on her face with a rotting cavity. Black mascara around her face the new ocean, it was now black oil full of emotion. That black mascara smudged all over her face a tainted beach, changing colour when sand became stone and glass with the ocean bleach. With bleach the white sand died, the wind cried, warnings on her make up bottle lied.

"Are you here to save me? Are you the Eric Draven that I seek? I don't want to cry anymore....please be here to save me...."

The cobra will raise her hood, to make herself look larger when threatening; instead of being threatened. Raising her body to almost six feet in the air, the tallest building in the city. The cobra will bite the next person who walks by, instantly killing them when venom becomes the great water we all need to become the sixty percent of water our bodies are made up from.

Fran will begin praying and this will make the cobra approach her with many more smaller venomous snakes, the land of snakes proving on the DNA test that Indiana Jones is not her father. Fran had her eyes closed the moment she prayed, but when she opened them spitting venom for eye drops to cure teary eyes will make her cry blind. Losing her eyesight, losing her religion.

Waking up from a dark dream again, Fran will look into her new mirror to see that blindness in a dream caused her no pain. The other side of the mirror is the dark dream of Fran, obsessed with Eminem in the hit song Stan. Seeing her face without a haunting lullaby, the red heart of a flower with a petal less expression when watering her does cry, and her eyes don't grow a beanstalk for Jack to reach the sky.

Still looking into the mirror, her reflection of a portrait face is crying without any added water colour. Having any form of forecasted illness is cold, but when the pain is mortal all patients blame it on the weatherman. Feeling she cannot find this love, cannot find the logs of wood to keep the fire burning. Pain taking her love, her heart's suicide.

Wiping away the tears from her face, leaving her face as empty as dinner with no plates. Walking over to her collection of classical music albums, she will never have one beside them because their music was accepted at heaven's gate. Still early in the morning as she looked out of a dark lit window, the darkness outside a blood clot to our world.

Placing her face against the glass window, her tears will fall down the glass like the rain that will show. Her hazel eyes the sky inside a home, tears for rain sliding down the wrong side of a window when Edgar Allan Poe wrote his last poem. Her tears will do anything for you, Fran still aiming to find something true, until death is the night through.

“Why do I have to shed so many tears? Even in my sleep… Even in my final days… Why can’t I find peace?”

Her whimpers were the soft pleas of a heart that had endured too much, of a mind unwillingly accustomed to sleepless nights, were she’d let the time pass by singing lullabies to the moon.

The moon… it was outside, in the horizon in front of her eyes. It troubled her as a child, the thought of leaving her friend, the moon, all alone one day. Who would sing him lullabies of tender love? Even the sun would leave for new skies.

But now she realized that she, in fact, was the moon, and the world sang her cradlesongs every night, when the sun that she knew so well left for its own pursuits.

The world… It never gave up on her, even when she felt like giving up on herself. It never left her behind, it never forgot her.

And even now, it will not forget her, either.







© Copyright 2017 Pink Sky. All rights reserved.

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