The Omen 0: Birthday (Story about Delia Yonce)

Day of D is arrived. Delia woke up to the soft touch of Jo, who quietly approached her bed and gently touched her shoulder. He looked serious and a little tense, but there was a fire in his eyes, as if this day was something more than just a premiere.

"Get up," he said quietly but firmly. "We need to get ready. You remember that we need to look like we're at a wedding?"

Delia opened her eyes and immediately felt her heart beat faster. This was the moment when her life changed, when everything became truly important. She rose from the bed, her thoughts still not fully formed in her head, but she felt that this day would be decisive.

Jo, meanwhile, was already standing at the mirror and began to pull on his black coat, carefully buttoning it. He looked stunning - strict, elegant, but still with that easy and confident look that Delia knew so well. He glanced at her and, smiling, said:

"You remember how we do all this, right? After the premiere, as soon as everything is over, we immediately leave and get married. This will be our day. Today we will finally become each other."

Delia nodded, but her heart sank. Excitement filled her. Everything was happening so fast. At first she had only dreamed of staying with him, and now it was becoming a reality. She took her beautiful dress, which she had chosen especially for this day, and headed to the bathroom.

When she returned, Jo was almost ready. He helped her button her dress and fix her hair, and then looked at her again with that same look of determination and confidence.

"It'll be okay," he said softly. "We'll do it. We'll play, and then we'll live the life we've always dreamed of," and with that he beckoned her into the kitchen for breakfast.

Breakfast passed in an unusual silence. Jo spoke enthusiastically of the future, setting Delia in a positive mood, but his words seemed distant to her, as if she were hearing them through a glass. He smiled as he told her how they would go on their honeymoon, and how he already had a clear plan.

"I think we'll go to Toronto first, and then to Vancouver," he said with bright enthusiasm. "It'll be the perfect start to our new life. Toronto is an incredible city, and Vancouver... well, Vancouver is a fairy tale, you've never been there, have you?"

Delia ate her breakfast in silence, though she barely even noticed the taste. Jo's words echoed in her head, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he was just trying to make her feel better. She didn't believe any of it was real. A honeymoon in Canada, Toronto, Vancouver... It sounded like he was describing a perfect plan that was too good to be true. Maybe he was just saying it to distract her from the worries and fears she couldn't voice.

"Do you have any idea how great it's going to be?" Jo continued, putting his spoon in his coffee cup and looking up to meet her eyes. "We'll be there alone, without all this worry. Just you and me. I'm so glad we'll have time for ourselves."

Delia looked into his eyes and nodded, unable to respond to his enthusiasm. After breakfast, they left the apartment without saying a word. Jo, as always, looked confident and enthusiastic, while Delia walked beside him, absorbed in her own thoughts, as if the whole world was somewhere far beyond the apartment.

As soon as they got outside and approached the playground, their eyes were drawn to Mollie, sitting in the sandbox and playing with toys. When she saw them, the girl suddenly stopped, her eyes wide, and jumped to her feet.

"Oh, wow! You're already a bride, Delia?" she exclaimed in surprise, as if she had just discovered something incredible.

Delia paused for a moment, smiling a little confusedly, and then looked at Jo. He laughed immediately, and his laugh was light and warm, as if he had no worries about anything.

"Of course, Mollie!" he replied with a smile. "But don't worry, when you grow up, you'll marry someone too, and it'll be just as fun!"

Mollie even seemed to think for a moment, then grabbed her toy again and became immersed in the game, but her face was still full of curiosity.

Delia chuckled softly and walked with Jo toward the opulent Philharmonic Hall, where Mahler's Sixth Symphony was to be premiered. Unlike the orchestra building where they rehearsed, this place had a special atmosphere, with elaborate decorations, golden columns, and glittering chandeliers. There were many more people here, and many of them were spectators who had come early to take their seats and feel the excitement that always precedes such important events.

As soon as they entered the building, Delia felt a slight hesitation. The walls of the Philharmonic, decorated with paintings and sculptures, created a sense of grandeur, and even the air here was special - saturated with anticipation and the importance of the moment. Spectators had already begun to gather in the foyer, whispering and glancing at the expensive tickets.

As Jo and Delia approached the stage where the rest of the band was gathering, Delia felt her heart skip a beat. She saw familiar faces that didn't make her feel any better. The bandmates who had been taunting her with sneers were now standing around the other band members, discussing the final preparations. Emily, Carlton, and Ryan were all there, in the same room, and Delia couldn't help but feel the tension in her chest tighten.

Emily caught her eye for a moment, and gave her a small, mocking smirk. Carlton stood next to her, trying to hide his dislike despite his cruel gaze. Ryan, watching her silently, crossed his arms over his chest, and his gaze was full of the same disdain she had seen during rehearsals. They had seemed to be holding back their anger all this time, but now that they were together again, Delia realized that it was looming over her.

Every look these people gave her, every movement, every phrase, seemed to be aimed at breaking her, at humiliating her again. Delia felt her hands begin to tremble slightly, and her face became more and more tense. These people, who once seemed like colleagues to her, now looked like enemies, ready to tear her apart again, even if it was just with a look.

She tried not to look at them and pretend that everything was under control, but every time they were in her field of vision she felt terrified. It was as if the whole atmosphere of the Philharmonic-solemn and majestic-was suddenly becoming less significant, as if it were one of those false notes that she was so afraid to play.

When the opening night began, the room was plunged into a tense silence. The walls of the Portland Philharmonic were, as always, full of people - spectators who had come to appreciate the art and musicians who were ready to give their mastery. The entire orchestra was already in place, and the last rustling died down as the emcee, standing at the microphone, began his introduction.

"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening! We are delighted to welcome you to today's premiere of Gustav Mahler's famous sixth symphony. This work is one of the most powerful and emotional in musical history, and we are delighted to present it to you in the performance of our orchestra, under the direction of maestro Alan Wilde."

The hall filled with applause, and maestro Alan Wilde, known for his precision and passion for music, walked onto the stage in his formal black tuxedo. He nodded to the audience, bowed modestly and, raising his hands, asked for silence. His gaze was focused, and his gestures confident.

Delia, sitting in the orchestra pit, clutched her cymbal sticks. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and excitement was building with every glance at those around her-colleagues who were now perhaps watching her, as she was watching them. All her thoughts were jumbled in her head, and when maestro Wilde raised his baton and gestured to the orchestra, the room went completely silent.

As the baton rose into the air and the first chord of the symphony filled the hall, Delia felt the music engulf her. Each sound seemed to envelop her, plunging her into the depths of fear and anxiety. But suddenly, her thoughts began to falter. Something strange swayed in her mind, like darkness that was growing faster and faster. It felt as if time had slowed down and everything around her was growing dim. The music continued to sound, but now it seemed far away, as if she was hearing it through glass that was gradually fogging up.

Suddenly, Delia's gaze fell on Jo. He was sitting in his place, playing his flute part as usual. But there was something... strange in his eyes that she hadn't noticed before. His breathing began to quicken, and he stopped abruptly, and for a moment his gaze froze, as if he couldn't collect his thoughts. Delia felt her heart tighten with anxiety.

And then - in the blink of an eye - Jo suddenly fell right onto the stage. His flute fell from his hands and hit the floor with a loud sound. The hall exploded with panic. Those sitting in the front rows jumped up from their seats, frozen in horror, and the audience began to scream and run towards the exit. The conductor stood there in complete confusion, and the orchestra continued to play in a panic, but the sounds began to distort, becoming more and more tense and wild.

"Jo!" Delia could barely breathe out when she saw her fiance lying motionless on the stage.

She jumped up from her seat, but before she reached it, she heard the screams of her colleagues. They jumped up from their seats, and their voices became loud, hysterical:

"It's her! It's her fault!"

"The witch! She cursed us all!"

Carlton, Emily, and Ryan were standing in the front row, their faces twisted in rage and their eyes burning with hatred. Suddenly, they all stood up and started pointing at Delia, shouting,

"Witch! You killed him! We all saw it!"

Delia froze, not believing her eyes. The entire orchestra was now looking at her with horror, and the audience in the hall was already raising a wave of panic. People were screaming, running away, and everything was turning into chaos.

Her body seemed to freeze. She couldn't believe what was happening. Everything she saw in front of her seemed so unreal that the world around her was shrinking into a single point. Her colleagues were screaming, and she was overcome with horror. And even Jo, who should have been next to her, was now an irretrievable victim...

With horror in her eyes, she saw her colleagues, Carlton, Emily, and Ryan, all moving towards her with angry expressions on their faces. For a moment, she froze, unsure of what to do. But her instincts kicked in immediately. Her heart was pounding and her thoughts were racing in panic. She knew she had to run.

"This is all your fault!" Carlton shouted, his hands reaching out to her.

Delia jerked away, unable to bear the gaze of the people who were now turning their fury on her. The musicians in the audience began jumping up and down, screaming loudly and pointing at her. Their eyes were filled with hatred, as if she was to blame for what had happened to Jo. It was monstrous, it was impossible-but it was a fact.

Through the echoing screams and sounds of panic, Delia burst across the stage, running headlong into the audience. Past the seated audience, with their stunned faces and fearful looks, she dashed for the exit. But her colleagues were not about to let her go. They were close, getting closer, their curses echoing in her ears.

"You cursed us! You did it!" Emily's voice rang out, and for a second Delia saw her breaking through the ranks, keeping up.

Delia didn't turn around, but kept running, her steps fast, desperate. Panic gripped her chest, the air felt like heat, but she couldn't stop. Her feet carried her toward the exit, toward salvation. She rushed past the columns, turned sharply toward the doors.

"Catch the witch!" Ryan shouted, his voice sounding like a sentence.

Delia paused, breathing hard, as her fingers touched the cold door handle. The world around her was noisy, but in her head there was absolute silence. She took the last step, running out into the street, and immediately felt her body freezing from the cold, as a heavy cloud of despair covered her again.

All was lost. Jo... he was gone. He lay dead on the stage, and now her colleagues seemed to have turned against her completely. In their eyes, she was guilty, and that look, that vicious hatred, haunted her, poisoning her every step.

She looked around, trying to find some kind of shelter, somewhere to hide, but the street was empty, and the emptiness in her soul was getting tighter and tighter. Far behind, in the building of the Philharmonic, where she had once been greeted with delight, now there was only a deaf emptiness.

She had nowhere to go.

Only one thought pierced her consciousness, like a ray of light in this endless darkness. She remembered Doctor Baselard. He was the last person she could contact. He was the only one who knew about her problems and worries. He was the only one who could help, because his serum gave calm, gave the illusion of peace, albeit for a short time.

Heart pounding, Delia headed toward Fourth Street without thinking. Her angry colleagues were getting closer and closer, shouting curses and accusations. Her mind was in chaos, but one thing was clear: she needed to get to doctor Baselard. He was the only person who could help her, the only one who didn't judge her, didn't think she was a witch.

She caught her breath when she finally reached the right house. Tripping over the steps of the porch, she rushed desperately to the intercom and pressed the button. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was about to burst out of her chest.

"Who is it?" a cold voice came from the speaker.

Delia couldn't speak calmly, she just screamed, her words muffled:

"Oh, God, they're killing me! Let me go, please!" Her voice was full of horror, despair and hopelessness.

Doctor Baselard didn't hesitate. Hearing her, he opened the door immediately, without asking any unnecessary questions. Delia grabbed the door handle, almost falling, and flew into the entrance, feeling how her colleagues, who had not fallen behind, were rushing after her. But they could not catch up with her.

Ignoring the noise outside, she literally jumped up the stairs, running up the stairs without feeling tired. The fourth floor was already close. There was only one thought in her head:

"Just don't stop, just don't look back."

When Delia knocked on the door of Baselard's apartment, the world around her seemed to freeze for a moment. The noise of her pursuers behind her disappeared, and in that moment, standing on the threshold, she felt a strange silence, as if the universe itself had momentarily fallen silent, giving her a chance to escape.

When the door swung open, doctor Baselard stood before her. His face, usually so calm and confident, was now filled with sadness, as if he had not expected to see her here in this state.

"I never thought you'd come to me for help," he said, his voice low and a little tired, but still filled with genuine concern.

Delia couldn't answer. Her eyes were empty, she couldn't find the words. All she could do was step inside, where, just for a moment, she could forget about the nightmares that had haunted her for the past few days.

"I can't do this anymore, Doctor. I can't..." Her voice broke mid-sentence, and she unleashed her stress, her fatigue, her panicked anxiety on him. She fell silent, as if she couldn't believe she had decided to come here.

Baselard looked at her, sighing softly, and unlike her colleagues who might have judged her or accused her, he didn't ask any unnecessary questions. He simply took her by the shoulder and gently led her to a chair.

"Do you want me to give you an injection?" he asked, his voice low, as if he was trying to weigh each word, deciding what to do next.

Delia didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked at him, and you could see in her eyes how the very thought of asking him to do this hurt her, but she still spoke the words.

"Yes, doctor. I want to. Give me an injection. I want to switch off, forget... I want to feel, at least for a minute, that I am no longer there, that I do not feel.2

Doctor Baselard paused, and doubt flickered in his eyes. He went to the cabinet and took out an ampoule of colorless liquid, but his hands slowed. He looked at it carefully, and his face took on an expression of concern.

"Do you understand what you're asking for?" he said, putting the ampoule aside. "This isn't just a way to get rid of the pain, Delia. This isn't a joke. This is serious. You want your heart to stop beating for a while. You want to come back to this world, like you're resurrected. But there's not always a guarantee that you'll come back. Are you sure about that?"

Delia looked at him, her eyes filled with determination, but also with a strange and unsettling awareness that she might not return.

"I don't know what to do next. I don't know how to live, doctor. I can't stand it anymore," she said quietly, her voice barely audible, as if she were talking to herself.

Baselard looked at her again, and a shadow of pity appeared in his eyes. He sighed and finally made a decision.

"Okay," he said, his voice soft but with a hint of inevitability. "I'll do it, but remember: it's your choice. You're responsible for what happens. You have to be prepared for the consequences."

Delia didn't answer, she just nodded, and the doctor, with sadness in his eyes, quietly approached her and, without saying another word, indicated that she should lie down on the sofa. He knew that she was no longer able to resist, that her consciousness was on the edge, and in her eyes there was only one desire - to get rid of the pain.

She settled obediently on the soft upholstery, her body tense as a string. There was no strength or will to fight in her arms, and it seemed as if the whole world had disappeared in that moment. She closed her eyes, and her breathing became deep and even, but a storm raged in her head.

Doctor Baselard took the ampoule, carefully inserted the needle into the cap, and his hands slowed again. He couldn't help but think that what he was about to do was not just a doctor's act. This was much more than a medical procedure. This was an intervention in a person's life.

"Are you ready?" he asked, looking at her with slight doubt.

She didn't answer, but her eyes were full of despair, as if she no longer believed that there could be any other exits. He took a step forward, knelt down next to the sofa, and gently placed her hand on the back of the sofa to make it easier for him to get in.

With a small sigh, as if bracing himself for what he was about to do, Baselard slowly inserted the needle. The fluid began to flow into her bloodstream, and she felt her body slowly relax, as if her life, all the tension, all the painful feelings that had been building up, were simply disappearing.

The doctor looked at her, his face was worried, but he did not take his eyes off her pale face. After a few seconds, her body became motionless, her eyes closed with some peaceful expression, as if she was falling asleep, and the air in the room became quieter.

"Okay," the doctor said quietly, looking into her face. "Everything will be okay... Everything will be..."

Doctor Baselard moved quickly, but there was obvious tension in his hands. He prepared the injection, pausing slightly before inserting the needle into her vein. As he carefully inserted the needle, the liquid began to slowly flow into her body. She felt a slight tingling sensation, then a wave of calm wash over her from within. Her body began to lose tension, her muscles relaxed, and her consciousness seemed to grow more and more hazy with each passing moment.

Her eyes closed and she tried to take a deep breath, but instead of air she felt only cold and silence. As if everything that had been before had disappeared. There was emptiness in her head, and around her it was as if the walls, time and space were dissolving.

And at that moment, when the world around her became foggy, it seemed to her that someone touched her lips. As if someone gave her a light, almost weightless kiss. This feeling was brief, but so real that for a second Delia felt something like warmth and tenderness. But the next second her consciousness was swallowed by darkness, and Delia plunged into absolute void.