The Omen 0: Birthday (Story about Delia Yonce)

Morning came unexpectedly quickly. Delia woke to the faint sunlight filtering through the curtains and stretched, trying to get rid of the heaviness in her eyes. She got out of bed and went to the washbasin. In the mirror she saw her reflection - dark eyes with fatigue, hair slightly tousled from the night.

Suddenly the door of her room suddenly swung open, and a guy with long, disheveled hair and an embarrassed but kind smile appeared in the doorway. He walked a little casually, as if he was a little late, but he didn't care at all.

"Hi, new girl, I'm Jerome! How did you sleep, cutie, were you pining for a man?" he asked in a carefree tone, leaning on the door frame.

The guy's gaze was lively, a little predatory, but with that elusive charm that often comes from people who are used to being the center of attention.

"I slept fine," Delia replied, frowning slightly, "but why does it matter to you? And how dare you ask me about my personal life?"

"Oh, you're a girl with character! I like girls like that!" he said with an unpleasant laugh.

Delia felt hurt and, deciding to put him in his place, she suddenly moved from her place and went up to him. When Jerome turned to her to say something, Delia, unexpectedly for herself, made a sharp movement, as if she was going to grab his hand.

The guy froze instantly, his face turned pale. He took a step back, clenching his fingers as if expecting a blow, and then ran out of the room in obvious panic. The girl thought that an obscene word escaped his lips, but it could have just been his breathing too loudly, which she could have accidentally taken for a phrase.

Delia, having seen the impudent fellow off, returned to the bed to get dressed. Having rummaged through her wardrobe, she chose dark jeans, a blouse and a light jacket. A few minutes later she was ready to go out. Slightly lifting the collar of her jacket, she went out into the hallway and immediately ran into the cellist, who was slowly walking down the hallway, absorbed in his thoughts.

Delia stopped and, adjusting her hair a little nervously, spoke:

"Excuse me, could you tell me where the orchestra building is? I need to see the bandmaster, he needs to see me. I just arrived, and..."

"You're new, aren't you?" the guy interrupted. "I'm Carlton. Our bandmaster's just down the street, then turn left. But... if you're going there, you better not be late."

He spoke with obvious indifference, without looking her in the eye, and did not even try to add anything polite.

"Thank you," Delia replied, confused by his sullen tone.

Carlton, not noticing her tense reaction, continued on his way, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind him. Delia, after stamping her feet, soon left the dorm. She moved carefully down the street, each new face on the street making her a little nervous.

Soon she came to a tall and majestic orchestra building, with massive columns and ornate windows. She climbed the steps and lightly pushed the doors - they immediately opened with a characteristic ringing sound.

It was spacious and slightly dark inside, with only a few dimly lit lamps illuminating the walls, which were decorated with old paintings and concert posters. Delia walked quickly down the long corridor, looking around until she noticed a sign that led to the bandmaster's office. Her heart sank with excitement, but she forced herself to continue walking. The door to the office was open, and Delia quietly entered.

The bandmaster sat behind an old desk. He had grey hair and wore a pince-nez on his nose, which he adjusted from time to time. When Delia entered, he slowly looked up at her.

"Are you new?" His voice was dry, but not harsh. He looked her over carefully, as if he were analyzing her at a molecular level. "Come closer."

She took a few steps forward, feeling her shoulders tense involuntarily.

"So, do you want to join the orchestra?" he asked, without changing his expression.

Delia swallowed, feeling her heart pounding in her chest and fear clenching her stomach. She quickly straightened up to appear more confident and answered decisively,

"Yes. I play the flute and I would like to..."

"We have newcomers coming to us every day," the old man interrupted her with obvious disappointment. "They all want to play flutes and violins, as if they were the only instruments worthy of attention. They all want to be in the spotlight, in the center, in the lead roles. But those who are ready to stand behind the drums, who agree to work with cymbals or triangles, are worth their weight in gold. Of course, I'm not against flutes and violins, but much more valuable would be someone who is ready to take on a role in the ensemble, rather than lay claim to a place on the podium. Do you understand?"

He spread his hands, as if to emphasize that, despite all the external displays of importance, the orchestra needs those who are ready to stand in the shadows, and not just those who strive for fame.

"If all these flutists," he continued, "instead of dreaming about the first desks, would simply take on something less flashy, but no less important... It could change everything. But for now we have to wait for someone to realize that, despite all their ambition, an orchestra is not just a solo. It is a collective."

His gaze slid over Delia again and he exhaled, obviously tired of the endless talk of talent and ambition.

"Okay, enough about that, - he said, turning his attention to the girl. - Let's get down to business. In twelve days we have the premiere of Mahler's sixth symphony. It's a serious event, which we prepared long and carefully. And as luck would have it... our girl who played the cymbals went on maternity leave, she's getting ready to give birth, you see!"

He pressed his lips together, clearly annoyed by this force majeure. Delia felt the tension in the air increase. This was not just a random occurrence - this was a real crisis for the orchestra.

"Now I need to find a replacement quickly," the bandmaster continued, his voice sharpening. "In a situation like this, there's no one to wait for, all the musicians are busy with other instruments. But you, as the new girl, can try. Do you understand? The cymbals aren't that hard to play, especially in a symphony like this. So if you're willing to take the risk…"

He looked at her, and Delia, involuntarily taking a step back in search of confidence, opened her mouth to explain, but she couldn't formulate her words in a way that would sound plausible.

"I... I don't know how to play the cymbals," she said sheepishly, looking into the bandmaster's face, who seemed to be expecting him to continue. "I've never played such an instrument, I've just never had the chance... I, I'm ready to try, of course, but..."

"Look," the old man interrupted her irritably, "this is not a question of readiness or ability. This is a question of necessity. If you want to be part of the orchestra, go ahead and play. And if you are afraid, if you don't need it, then pack your things and leave. We have no time for uncertainty, and we don't keep parasites in our orchestra."

His words struck her like lightning. Delia stood there, her hands clenched into fists, trying to process his words. Her nerves were taut, and something inside her was clenching sharply and painfully. She knew this was her chance, but the thought of just going and playing the cymbals made her doubt her abilities. Still, there was no time to think.

"Okay," she breathed, her voice strained but determined. "I agree."

The bandmaster seemed to have been expecting this answer for a long time, and his face softened slightly. He did not say "thank you," but there was something like satisfaction in his gaze.

"Excellent," he said, exhaling as if a heavy weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. "Now go to the rehearsal room. They'll give you the score and explain what's going on. Don't waste any time."

He pointed at the door again, and Delia, slightly shaken, walked in the direction indicated. The internal conflict still resounded within her-her inability to play the cymbals, her responsibility, her need to prove herself-but she had made her choice.

When she finally entered the rehearsal room, she saw the other musicians already hard at work preparing for rehearsal. The conductor stood in the center of the room, the console behind him, and behind him, in the front line, stood the musicians. A few people were talking among themselves, others were silently tuning their instruments. But as soon as Delia entered, all eyes instantly turned to her, making her feel like her heart was beating in her throat.

"Ah, you're new?" said the conductor, not hiding his appraising glance. "The score is for cymbals, then? I take it you've never played them before?"

"Yes," she said, swallowing. "I've never played the cymbals. But I'm willing to try."

"Okay," the conductor replied, raising his hand and signaling the other musicians to be quiet. "We're starting a rehearsal of Mahler's Sixth Symphony. You'll be sitting here, next to the drums. The cymbal part will be behind you. Just be careful not to fall behind and not lose the rhythm!"

He gestured to a place near the massive percussion instruments, and Delia, slightly nervous, approached it. Several of the musicians looked at her briefly, and someone even nodded as if in greeting, but there was a strange mixture of curiosity and displeasure in their gaze. One thing was clear: no one liked newcomers, and especially those who showed up at the last minute, without preparation.

Delia sat down in the offered seat, her heart pounding like never before. She glanced at the part she had been given - the pages were filled with complicated markings and signs that meant nothing to her. She carefully placed the score on the counter in front of her and looked at its contents carefully. At that moment, the conductor raised his baton again, and everyone instantly fell silent.

"Start!" his voice rang out, and his hand shot up into the air, giving the signal.

Delia immediately felt her body tense, as if it were suddenly on the brink of something impossible. The orchestra filled the room with a powerful, enveloping sound that seemed so gigantic that it engulfed everything around it. The violins began their melodic introduction, and the other instruments joined in, as if striving for a single sound.

When it came time for the cymbals, she held them in her hands, ready to strike, but her whole body was on edge. As soon as the conductor made the signal, she felt her hand swing out at an indefinite moment and touch the cymbals. The sound was not what she expected. It was sharp and deafening, but it was right. The echoes of the sound rolled through the hall, and she immediately felt that she was being noticed.

A few seconds passed, and the conductor raised his baton again, giving the signal. She made another strike, and again the music, but now she felt that it was not a single responsibility on her shoulders, but a common effort of all the instruments, the harmony of their sounds. When the cymbals sounded again at the right moment, her nerves calmed a little, and her actions became more confident. With each strike, with each gesture, she became part of this huge musical machine.

The conductor did not smile, but approval flashed in his eyes. He held his baton in the air, as always, concentrated and precise.

"Good," he said with a note of tired satisfaction, looking around at the musicians. "Don't forget, the big premiere is in twelve days. Thank you all, until tomorrow."

Delia stood up from her seat, still feeling her knees buckling a little. She couldn't help but notice how the musicians were calmly gathering their instruments and leaving the hall, their faces relaxed, but her own body seemed to be shaking from the tension she had experienced.

She grabbed her bag and slipped out into the hall and out the main door. The damp evening air was cool and refreshing, and despite her fatigue, she felt it restoring her thoughts a little. The wind was cool, and the lights of the city twinkled in the distance, creating the illusion of comfort and calm that she sorely missed.

She walked slowly down the street, oblivious to everything around her, focused only on the fact that she had to get to the dorm. Each step felt heavy in her legs, but she did not quicken her pace. Everything seemed so far away-the orchestra, this new world she was only just beginning to understand. And at the same time, her thoughts returned to how she had not been prepared for what this new step would require of her. The cymbals. The orchestra. Confronting herself.

When she finally reached her dorm, her strength had almost completely left her. She stood at the door of the dorm, completely exhausted, her legs felt unbearably heavy, and her head throbbed with fatigue. Every movement was difficult for her, and her soul was empty, like a desert.

Everything around her was the same, the city bustling, the evening air cool, but it didn't matter anymore. She couldn't forget what she had experienced in the last few hours. It seemed like this new world she had stepped into was not what she had imagined. Her dreams of music, of being part of an orchestra, had dissolved, swallowed up by this cruel reality.

Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, a thought flashed through her head:

"I need to do something, I need to talk to someone."

She felt her inner state rapidly deteriorating. The orchestra, the conductor, this crazy responsibility - all this had become a real nightmare. Delia had already tried to pull herself together several times, but it seemed that her thoughts were crawling away, carrying her somewhere into a fog where there was no strength.

She lowered her head and looked at her hands. They were still shaking with tension, and her heart was beating so fast it felt like it was trying to escape her chest. Her dejected gaze slid down the aisle, and suddenly, like a flash of inspiration, a thought occurred to her that might give her back some sense of control.

Psychologist. She needed to talk to someone. To get past this pain, to acknowledge what was happening to her, and to find a way to cope. Suddenly, an image of the local city hospital that was nearby appeared in her mind. She had heard that there was a consultation room there, that she could talk to a professional, and perhaps he could help her understand her condition.

She couldn't sit in this cage of doubt and fear any longer, couldn't hold out any longer while everything inside her was torn apart. The decision was made quickly, and Delia turned onto the street, hoping that the hospital wasn't that far away. And although her mind was still trying to resist - was she doing everything right, was she making a mistake - some kind of weak light was born in her heart. She had to try. She had to at least try, so as not to lose herself completely.

As Delia approached the hospital, her gaze immediately fell upon the crowd of people standing in front of the entrance. Several people were smoking on the steps, others were talking among themselves, and some seemed to be waiting their turn, thoughtfully glancing at their watches. The atmosphere was filled with some kind of anxious tension, but Delia, despite her inner uncertainty, nevertheless resolutely stepped towards the doors.

It was cool inside the hospital, and it smelled of disinfectant and something familiar that reminded me of childhood visits to the doctor.

There was a young woman in a medical uniform standing at the reception desk. She was apparently registering when Delia approached her.

"Hello," Delia said, trying not to show how much her voice was shaking. "I… I need to see a psychologist. Where is his office?"

"The psychologist's office is on the second floor, at the end of the corridor," the girl answered, looking up at Delia. "Just go up the stairs, and there will be a door with a sign. Don't worry, everything is fine there."

Delia nodded, thanked him, and moved toward the stairs. She felt the tension slowly leaving her, although her thoughts were still confused. Eventually, she went up to the second floor and, walking along the corridor, came to the right office. She opened the door a crack and entered.

At the table sat a man with soft features and such a friendly smile that Delia felt a moment of slight relief.

"Good afternoon," he said in a soft voice. "My name is Baselard. How may I help you?"

Delia sat down in the chair opposite the doctor.

"I... I don't understand what's happening to me," she began quietly but firmly. "The orchestra... I wanted to be part of something important, and now I feel like... I just can't handle it. All this pressure, all these new people, these expectations, they're destroying me. I can't just be normal... and I don't know what to do.

Doctor Baselard listened carefully, his gaze never losing its softness, but at some point his face became more focused. He nodded as if understanding, and leaned forward a little.

"It's perfectly natural that you feel this way," he said in a calm, soothing voice. "When a person is faced with such stress, especially in new and unexpected circumstances, it can cause a great deal of emotional overload. There are moments when a person cannot cope with himself, cannot find balance in life. It is not at all strange, Delia.

She nodded slightly, her fingers still clenched in her lap. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, but she felt the psychologist's words beginning to calm her.

"You know," he continued, as if thinking out loud, "there is a way to help you much more quickly and effectively than simply discussing your experiences. There is one method that you may have never heard of. An experiment, let's say, something a little out of the ordinary. It can help you greatly, but it requires your full immersion.

Delia raised her head slightly, her gaze wary. Something in the doctor's voice made her wary, but she couldn't figure out what it was.

"An experiment?" she repeated, trying to hide her confusion. "But... what kind of experiment is this?"

Doctor Baselard smiled, and his eyes sparkled as if he knew in advance that her curiosity would be rewarded.

"Oh, I can't tell you all the details at once," said Doctor Baselard, suppressing a smile. "But you know, I'd be glad if you'd come and see me tomorrow before lunch. It'll be a little experiment, and you'll understand better if you try it yourself."

Delia narrowed her eyes slightly, listening uncertainly. Something in his words sounded too enticing, too invisible, like something hidden behind a veil of ordinary goodwill.

"In the morning?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly. "I'm... not sure I can. Wouldn't that be weird? I'm not sure what you mean by experiment."

Doctor Baselard, without losing his calm expression, nodded.

"I understand that it is difficult for you to imagine, but believe me, this is exactly what you need. It, this method, will help you get back to normal faster. You will feel relief as soon as you start. I assure you."

His voice was soft, but there was a strength in it, a confidence that she could feel on her skin. Something inside her skipped a beat, but the thought that this man could help her cope with her growing worries seemed to calm her mind. She felt her doubts begin to melt away.

"Okay," she said with a slight sigh. "I'll… come tomorrow. Before lunch, right?"

"Yes," he answered, rising from his chair. "I'll be glad to see you. My house is the house next to the park, on Fourth Street. I'll be waiting for you."

Delia stood up, thanked him, and walked out of the office. Doctor Baselard's words kept ringing in her head. Tomorrow, before lunch. It seemed so simple. But something in her gut still clung to her.