The Omen 0: Birthday (Story about Delia Yonce)

The next morning, Delia woke up with a heavy head. She went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, feeling the chill on her face cool her fevered thoughts a little. A glance in the mirror revealed the same tiredness that was in her head, but she tried to ignore it. Forcing herself to move on, she changed into a simple dark dress and a denim jacket, then left her room, trying to ignore the strange feeling that was gripping her.

The hallway was quiet, except for snatches of conversation from the kitchen and the sounds of people preparing breakfast. Delia headed toward the dining room, meeting no one on her way. In the hallway, filled with the smells of the kitchen, she suddenly felt a slight uneasiness - there was so much uncertainty in her life, and she needed at least a little normality.

She opened the door and walked into the dining room. The room was filled with the usual morning noise: plates and cups clinking, conversations, laughter and vague talk filling the air. When she entered, Jerome, noticing her, took the opportunity to make a joke.

"Well, look who we see here," he said with a grin, winking. "How are you, beauty, since last night? Still haven't found anyone from the orchestra? Or have you had no time for that, with your new repertoire on the cymbals?"

His voice was loud, and everyone at the table turned their attention to her for a few moments. Delia felt her face flush slightly, but she tried not to show it and sat down at the table without a word.

However, as soon as she picked up the spoon, Emily, her neighbor, suddenly pushed her plate away with a loud snort. She had an expression on her face as if she had encountered something extremely unpleasant.

"I don't want to sit next to her!" she blurted out, and all eyes in the dining room turned to Delia. "Why did you even sit so close? I won't sit next to that... her!"

Without hiding her displeasure, Emily demonstratively placed her bowl of soup on the table at the other end, literally turning her back to her. Everything in her behavior indicated that she was ready to argue about this topic to the last. The faces around her instantly froze, and Jerome, sitting opposite, watched what was happening with surprise and a slight grin.

"Look, she looks like she just crawled out of the coffin," he suddenly said so that everyone could hear. "Like a living corpse, to be honest. You don't know how to talk to her - it's like she's straight out of the grave."

Carlton, sitting next to him, chuckled slightly and added:

"Well, that's normal. All newbies are like that, at first. But that doesn't mean they always stay that way. Don't worry, cutie, you'll get used to it."

His tone was supposedly sympathetic, but his eyes sparkled with the same playful mockery as Jerome's. All this caused a strange emptiness inside Delia. She tried to remain calm, not to respond to their provocations, but she felt irritation rising.

"She's probably just an introvert," one of the girls sitting next to them commented. "Look at her - she's always buried in herself. Even when people talk to her, it's like she lives in her own head, like she's on some other planet."

"Oh, so we have a grump here too!" Jerome laughed. "Listen, don't worry, girl! We'll all accept you, just don't be like... well, like now. Everything will be fine when you get used to our cheerful companies."

Everyone except the silent Jo joined in this stream of words. Even Carlton joked further, winking at Delia:

"Are you really coming with us? Or are you going to disappear for dinner like some kind of ghost?"

Delia lowered her head, trying to avoid their gaze, and suddenly the dining room went silent as a large young man who had been sitting by the window rose from his seat. He walked toward Delia with an impassive expression, and the air was filled with tension, as if something was about to happen.

"Oh, Ryan, you're right on point!" Jerome's mocking voice rang out. "Hey, we were all wondering if she was a ghost, so maybe you should check? It seems kind of... well, weird. Maybe we're all living in some kind of parallel world here?"

The others giggled and nodded as Ryan slowly approached Delia and, without saying a word, leaned over and casually pinched her chubby cheek. Delia jerked back, feeling a sharp sense of hurt, and everyone in the dining room burst into loud laughter.

"Aha!" Jerome shouted, looking at Ryan with admiration. "She moved! That means she's alive! And we thought she was just walking around here like a ghost, paranormal phenomen!"

"Come on, Ryan, let's face it, she's definitely not a ghost!" Carlton added, laughing. "If she were, she wouldn't have flinched, right?"

Laughter echoed throughout the room, and Delia felt her face flush with shame again. At this point, Emily, who seemed to have been waiting for a convenient moment for a long time, stood up and looked at Delia with a sly smile.

"So, how are you, 'ghost,'" she said with a venomous mockery in her voice. "Do you think everything will be fine if you sit in the corner and keep quiet, like some sullen shadow? Maybe you are that shadow, who is incapable of human communication, and anyway, you are not real, are you? Just a fake.

Delia's breath caught for a moment when she heard this, but suddenly, flutist Jo stood up abruptly, wiping his hands on a napkin, and walked toward the table where Emily and her supporters were sitting. There was a sharp, tense expression on his face.

"Emily, stop it," he said, his voice firm and his eyes flashing with displeasure. "Are you crazy? Who are you poisoning? This is just not fair."

Emily paused for a moment, looking at him in surprise, but Jo didn't give her time to respond. He continued, not hiding his anger:

"If you don't have enough brains to understand that Delia is just different and has her own reasons for keeping quiet, then that's your problem, not hers! No one is obliged to be the way you want them to be. I can't believe you can even act like little children. Let's all be adults and at least respect each other, and not pull these stupid stunts!"

The young man stood in front of the table, but before his words had time to die down, someone suddenly exclaimed loudly:

"Hey, stop! What is this?"

All eyes turned back to Jerome, who apparently couldn't stay away from the situation. He crossed his legs, stood up, and smirked, looking straight at Delia, his gaze full of self-confidence.

"So, that's it," Jerome continued, not hiding his smugness. "I see that goldfinch is protecting our new girl, but I've decided that she belongs to me. I've got my eye on her, so if anyone should be worried about her, it's me."

Jerome's words struck the atmosphere like a bolt of lightning. The room went silent, everyone froze, stunned by his audacity. Jo, who had been ready to defend himself a second ago, suddenly froze in his tracks. His face went pale and his eyes widened in surprise. And Jerome continued with a grin, almost enjoying the moment:

"I'm in charge here, okay?" His voice was a statement. "So you, Jo, stop defending her. She's mine."

Jo stood there, stunned, unsure of how to react. He hadn't expected Jerome to take such a brazen and direct approach. But it was all too much for Delia.

Her heart was pounding in her chest and her head was completely empty. It was as if all her strength had suddenly left her body. She stood up abruptly, without saying a word, and hurriedly walked to the door.

"Delia!" Jo shouted, his voice tense.

He wanted to come up to her, to grab her hand, but he didn't have time. Delia was already running, not looking back. Jo stood there, confused, not knowing what to do. He understood that she was losing herself, but he didn't know how to stop her, how to convince her that everything was not as it seemed.

Delia, feeling her legs buckle with fear, ran out into the street. The cold air hit her like a blow, but she kept running. Not looking back, not thinking about where she was going. She only felt her heart beating faster with each step, and how her mind was finally finding clarity in this chaos.

Jo, standing at the door, tried to catch up with her, but Delia was too fast, too consumed with panic, to listen or pay attention. And so, when she disappeared around the corner, Jo stopped again, staring into space, not knowing what to do next.

Delia ran out of the dorm, her mind racing with the promise she had made to doctor Baselard to come to his house before lunch. She remembered him talking about a "medical experiment", but she didn't know what to expect. Her steps quickened as she headed toward Fourth Street, where Baselard lived. All her energy was focused on fulfilling that promise, and the thought of running into this strange doctor again haunted her.

As she approached the old apartment building, a sense of unease washed over her. The building was peeling and had not been updated in a long time, but Delia didn't hesitate. She walked up the steps and, as if without realizing it, found herself at the door of Baselard's apartment. With a sinking heart, she raised her hand to knock, feeling her nerves stretching taut like a string.

Delia went to the intercom, her fingers shaking slightly as she dialed Baselard's apartment. After a few short rings, his voice came through, even and calm.

"Yes, who is it?"

"I'm Delia, remember we agreed to meet today?" she answered, trying to sound as confident as possible.

"Yes, yes, of course," Baselard replied and hung up.

A moment later, the front door opened with a soft click, and Delia stepped inside, slightly nervous, feeling her breathing quicken. When she reached the fourth floor, she immediately saw Baselard standing at the door of his apartment. Smiling, he nodded politely.

"Oh, how glad I am to see you!" he said, with obvious satisfaction in his voice. "Come in, don't be shy. I was just about to introduce you to my guests."

Delia looked at him confused, not expecting her visit to be so unusual. She shook her head slightly, but stepped forward as he opened the door, letting her in.

"Guests?" Delia asked carefully, trying to understand what he meant.

Baselard smiled and, as if not noticing her confusion, replied:

"Yes, it's an experiment for the public. After all, someone has to watch the "miracle of resurrection", right?" he said playfully.

Delia didn't know what to think. She simply followed Baselard into the apartment. There, she was immediately struck by a strange smell, reminiscent of a hospital. Baselard led her into a spacious living room, and her gaze was immediately drawn to a group of people sitting around a sofa. They were dressed in white coats, reminiscent of doctors, but their faces were serious, and their eyes were cold, almost emotionless. In the center of the room stood strange devices with many wires and sensors, as if they were ready for an experiment.

"Here is our experimental rabbit," Baselard said, directing the group's attention to Delia. "Prepare the serum," he ordered immediately.

A couple of people sitting next to the device, not paying attention to the girl's bewilderment and confusion, stood up and approached her and, without giving her time to resist, sat her down on the sofa and began attaching small sensors to her body. At this time, Doctor Baselard, having taken a syringe with a clear liquid from the hands of one of his assistants, addressed everyone gathered:

"Now you will all see the effect of my drug," his voice was even and confident, as if he was not talking about life and death, but about something quite ordinary. "This drug turns off the heart, but does not kill. Do not worry, this is just a temporary pause. In ten minutes, as we all expect, the girl will "resurrect."

He paused, as if waiting for a reaction, and, ignoring Delia's alarm, leaned over and carefully injected her arm. The next moment, sleep engulfed her like a cold fog, instantly sapping her strength.

When Delia woke up, her first sensation was strange. She felt her jeans pinching her, as if they were too small. Her hand instinctively reached out to adjust her clothes, and she sat up on the couch, swaying slightly. Her headache was almost unbearable, and her body felt strangely heavy, as if she had just woken up from a long sleep.

She looked around the room - the device that stood next to the couch was gone. All the equipment, sensors, wires that she remembered were gone. The people who were here before were gone too. The room was silent, almost dead silent. The only person who remained was Doctor Baselard.

He sat opposite her in a chair, his face red, as if he had just had a heated conversation or experience. His trousers were badly wrinkled, and he looked rather unkempt. His gaze was intense, but despite this, he continued to sit silently, watching her.

Delia, rising from the couch, noticed an open gum package and two wet wipes on the floor, both covered in something white and sticky. Questions swirled in her head, and anxiety crept back into her consciousness. What was going on here? Before she could finish her thought, Baselard's voice broke the silence.

"We were unlucky," he said, holding back his irritation. "My colleagues didn't believe it was real. They thought I was just staging it all. That I had rigged the equipment, arranged for you to pretend to be dead." He literally exhaled, looking around the room as if all his work had been reduced to nothing. "They said I was a charlatan, and you were my accomplice.

Delia ignored his words and raised her hand to look at her watch. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw that the time on the dial was twenty minutes later than it had been when she had first arrived. She paused, unable to believe what she had seen. Baselard had said that her "death" would last no more than ten minutes, but now she could have sworn that she had spent much longer in this strange half-sleep.

Delia turned her gaze back to Baselard, who, breathing strangely as if he had just run a race, began to speak with obvious effort:

"Well... you're free," he said, avoiding her gaze. His voice was somehow nervous, as if he couldn't get enough air, and he didn't dare look her in the eyes. "You can go if you want. It went... Well, it went."

Her gaze fell again on the two wet wipes lying on the floor by the couch. The white slime that stained them seemed strange and suspicious. What was that? Why were they so sticky? Delia couldn't help but think that this was somehow connected to her. She glanced from the wipes to Baselard, but he had already disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of running water could be heard through the closed door, and there was a sense of haste in his actions, as if he were trying to hide something.

What happened to her when her body, in Baselard's words, "died"? That moment, the time she spent unconscious, seemed hazy and empty to her. As if she were in some in-between reality where there was no pain, no fear, only complete silence. She had no memory of what had happened, other than Doctor Baselard giving her the injection. But there was no sense of death, just a disappearance, as if her consciousness had momentarily lost contact with her body.

Questions plagued her, and she couldn't find an answer. Had her heart actually stopped, or had her sense of her body and time simply momentarily vanished? Her thoughts were jumbled, and the sensation pressed inexorably on her. Fear was seizing her again, and the memory of what had happened in the apartment was beginning to torment her mind. She tried to figure out what was real and what was a product of her imagination.

But the worst thing was something else. The slime. That white, sticky mass that covered two napkins lying on the floor. Something about it didn't add up. Could it really be a byproduct of such a simple experiment as injecting serum into an arm? Disturbing thoughts that she hadn't wanted to acknowledge until now began to gather in her head. She remembered how Baselard had been pulling up his trousers strangely, as if they were about to fall down, and trying to look casual, even as she watched him in bewilderment. His behavior had been strange, too nervous. God, could this kind doctor really...

Unable to stay in this strange apartment any longer, Delia took a step towards the door and walked out into the hallway. As soon as she was in the entryway, she was overcome by a strange emptiness. The silence that immediately surrounded her seemed unnatural. Her footsteps echoed in the empty hallways, as if her footsteps were the only sound in this house. Everything around her seemed to freeze, and this feeling was unbearable. But Delia did not pay attention to it. She just wanted to get out into the street as quickly as possible, to get rid of everything that was happening here.

As Delia stepped outside, her steps slowed and she began to realize what had happened. Thoughts, like fog, slowly began to gather in her head. She remembered the strange devices, the napkins with white liquid, and everything that had happened in Baselard's apartment. But with each step, it became clear that she could not explain to anyone what she was feeling or thinking. No one would believe that she had experienced something as absurd and strange as this. She knew that her guesses about Baselard, his experiments and strange actions would not be understood.

Realizing that all her worries and strange guesses would find no response in the world, Delia felt something inside her begin to take shape. It was not relief, but rather calm, as if she had decided for herself: talking would not bring relief. Even if she tried to talk about what she had experienced, who would believe her? How could she explain something that she herself could barely understand?

Her decision was firm. She could no longer be tormented by thoughts about what was happening, she could no longer sit and think about what could have been and what would have happened if she had acted differently. She simply decided to move on, silently. Let what will be, will be, but there was no point in wasting time. Her path lay in the direction of the orchestra, because the premiere of Mahler's sixth symphony was already so close. Only eleven days. There was no room for doubt in her head anymore. These two words - "premiere" and "cymbals" - occupied all the space in her thoughts, and everything else disappeared.

Delia walked down the street, her thoughts slowly fading. She realized that nothing was more important to her now than preparing for the premiere. Everything that had happened that morning in the dorm, everything that had happened to her in doctor Baselard's apartment - these strange events now seemed almost insignificant. Questions still swirled in her head, but the answers to them did not matter. She could not understand what exactly had happened in that apartment, why Baselard had behaved so strangely, and what those strange devices and his experiment even meant. These questions hung in the air, but Delia could not afford to waste any more time on them.

She closed her eyes to all of this. There was no point in filling her head with unsolved puzzles over which she had no control. The difficulties of the orchestra, her role on the cymbals, the demands of the performance-that was what demanded her attention now. To focus on what she could do, what she could do. Only preparation, only scores and rehearsals. She knew she had to be ready, because the premiere of Mahler's sixth symphony was in eleven days, and she could not afford to perform poorly. There was no room for doubt or mistakes on stage. This was her chance to show that she was truly a professional. And now, despite all the chaos in her head, Delia decided to dedicate herself only to this.