The Omen 0: Birthday (Story about Delia Yonce)

The morning was dull and overcast, but Delia felt a sudden sense of determination. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up in bed and looked around, as if trying to make sure that all of this-her life, her room, her tangled thoughts-was real and not some prolonged dream. Another day here, in this tense dorm, seemed unbearable. The pent-up emotions were crushing her, and she knew she couldn't take it anymore.

Fingers ran over the bedspread, and Delia felt a wave of melancholy wash over her. She needed to go somewhere, to change her surroundings, but where? And then a thought flashed through her mind: home. Where she was always welcome, where it was warm, and where her mother was able to listen to her silence or console her with a single glance.

She jumped out of bed and started rummaging around the room, gathering her things. There was an inner voice in her head that she couldn't completely escape the city, because the premiere was right around the corner. But at least a day… she needed one day to come to her senses. Delia nodded to her own thoughts, as if making an unspoken agreement with herself. She quickly threw on jeans and a sweater, checked to see if there was a wallet in her bag, and remembered that she was just a bus ride home. This realization gave her strength: the distance to peace was closer than she thought.

Delia packed her things quickly, as if she were afraid to change her mind. Every movement of her hands was precise but automatic. Into her bag went two clean blouses, a sweater she had brought in case of cold, a couple of books, and a hairbrush. Everything looked ordinary on the outside, but inside she was seething with anxiety. It was as if by leaving she were breaking some invisible contract, even though no one she worked with or lived with in the dorms gave her the slightest bit of support.

After thinking, she stopped, ran her hand over the corner of her bag, and glanced around the room. Her gaze fell on the door.

"If I just disappear, it will raise questions," the thought flashed.

Delia took a pen and a piece of paper from her desk drawer. Her handwriting was uneven, but the words were clear:

"Tell the conductor that I won't come to rehearsal today."

She reread what she had written, but did not add anything. Too much explanation would only make the situation worse. After securing the note with a strip of tape to the outside of the door, Delia paused in the hallway for a moment. It was empty. The echo of her footsteps sounded especially loud, as if the entire building was watching her leave.

As she stepped outside, the fresh air hit her face, clearing away any remaining doubts. The sun was weak and breaking through the low clouds, and the world around her looked washed out, as if everything in it had lost its color. Delia tightened her grip on the handle of her bag, pulled the collar of her coat up, and headed toward the bus stop.

"Just for a day," she convinced herself, "just to rest a little, to come to my senses a little."

She walked quickly, barely noticing the people around her. At the corner, a man called out to her, but she pretended not to hear and continued walking, looking straight ahead. Her thoughts were all about telling her mother that she felt lost, that this city, the orchestra, and the people in the dorm seemed to be sucking the life out of her.

There were several people standing at the bus stop. Some were waiting for the bus, rubbing their hands, others were just silently smoking. Delia took a seat closer to the edge of the sidewalk and began to look into the distance, hoping to see the bus approaching. Her heart was beating a little faster than usual, and a thought flashed through her head:

"I wish I could at least get everything back in order before the premiere."

The bus approached with a distinctive rumble, and Delia felt a strange relief when she saw its faded body, peeling paint and dirty glass. The whole scene seemed somehow unreal, as if she were watching a movie in which the main character finally gets a chance to escape.

When the bus stopped, the doors hissed open and Delia stepped inside, entering a space that smelled of old iron, dust, and burnt fuel. The driver reached for money without looking. She silently pulled folded bills from his pocket and handed them over, waiting for a ticket. The man punched it in so casually that the edge of the paper was slightly torn.

Clutching her ticket in her hand, Delia moved further into the bus. There weren't many people on the bus: an elderly couple were discussing something nearby, a young mother was trying to calm her crying child, and in the far corner a sullen man was curled up like a snail and reading a newspaper. Delia chose a seat by the window, away from everyone, and carefully placed her bag on the seat next to her.

Sitting down, she exhaled tiredly and pressed her shoulder against the cold glass. The bus started moving, and Delia felt herself swaying slightly on the turns. Gray buildings, bare trees, and rare passersby hurrying somewhere flashed past the window. She looked at this joyless landscape, feeling the tension slowly leave her body.

Thoughts of yesterday still tormented her, but the rhythmic clatter of the wheels calmed her a little. She looked at the streets rushing past, trying to concentrate on something simple: the color of the old signs, the shape of the roofs, the figures of the passersby. A strange, quiet promise sounded in her head:

"Everything will be better at home. Mom will understand. Mom will help."

Delia wrapped her arms around herself, as if protecting herself from something invisible, and allowed herself to just sit, silent, and stare out the window. Soon the bus slowed, brakes screeching loudly, and Delia felt a slight jolt forward as it stopped at a familiar stop. She stood up, picked up her bag, and walked to the door. Again, the driver didn't look at her, just pulled the lever, and the doors hissed open. Delia stepped onto the cool asphalt.

She froze for a moment, looking at the quiet street, shrouded in the gold of autumn leaves. The air was clean and fresh, filled with the smells of rotten leaves and slightly damp earth. A smile involuntarily appeared on her lips when she took a deep breath. Native air, as if filled with childhood memories, as if embracing her.

Looking around, Delia allowed herself to enjoy the silence. In the distance, behind the trees, she could see the familiar park that separated the bus stop from her mother's house. She was in no hurry - her legs led her forward on their own. The path leading through the park was strewn with colorful leaves: yellow, orange, scarlet. They rustled pleasantly under her feet when she stepped, and this sound reminded her of past walks.

On either side of the path stood bare trees, stretching their dark branches toward the gloomy sky. On a bench by the path sat an elderly woman, covered with a gray scarf, reading a book. Somewhere in the distance, the cries of children could be heard, playing hide-and-seek among the thick bushes. The park was full of life, but at the same time remained as calm as ever.

The park parted, and ahead, behind the sparse trees, a familiar wooden fence appeared. It seemed a little older than Delia remembered: the paint was peeling in places, and the upper boards were slightly slanted, but its appearance still warmed the soul. Behind the fence towered a two-story house, so familiar, with white shutters on the windows and a roof covered with dark tiles. Next to the house, an apricot tree stood, spreading its gnarled branches. There were no fruits on it anymore, but its crown itself looked cozy, as if the tree was hugging the house, protecting it from the winds.

Delia slowed her steps, as if hesitating to come closer. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the path leading to the gate, where her small feet had once run in rubber boots through rain puddles. She grinned; it seemed like another life.

When she finally reached the gate, her heart began to beat a little faster. Delia reached for the bell, whose familiar appearance brought back so many memories. The bell button was slightly worn, as if it had been pressed too often over the years. Delia paused for a moment, touching it with her finger. She suddenly thought that her mother should run out from the other side of the gate, throwing it open, and joyfully hugging her, like in childhood.

Delia took a deep breath, pressed the doorbell, and a short, sharp sound cut through the silence of the yard. A minute passed, then another, and her fingers involuntarily touched the collar of her coat. She began to shift restlessly from one foot to the other, peering at the familiar house beyond the fence, where the windows seemed to be dark. The thought that her mother might not be home pricked her with alarm, but as Delia raised her hand to press the doorbell again, the gate suddenly creaked, slowly opening.

Her mother stood on the threshold, a woman in her early fifties. Her face, despite being slightly tired, retained a shade of natural softness and beauty. Her hair, pulled back into a low bun, barely gleamed with the silver of gray. Her eyes, deep and always a little thoughtful, now looked with slight surprise, as if not quite believing that it was Delia in front of her.

"Delia?" she breathed, stepping closer.

Her voice sounded like a question, but her hands immediately reached for the gate.

"Mom..." was all Delia managed to say before the gate opened and she found herself inside.

Ivette, mother of Delia, said nothing, merely nodded slightly, pointing toward the house. Delia followed her silently, feeling how her mother's every movement was imbued with a restrained warmth hidden beneath her outward calm.

They crossed the yard. Everything here was so familiar: a crooked well with wooden walls darkened by time, a small flower bed with wilted flowers and a swing that no longer swung. The well seemed to welcome her with its silent presence, reminding her of childhood games and old evening conversations under the starry sky.

As they entered the house, Delia felt a familiar warmth wash over her. This house was her home, everything was in its place: the antique bookcase, the family photos on the walls, even the smell - that indescribable aroma of wood, old pages and dust, curling so comfortably around. The sound of footsteps echoed down the cold hallway. However, as she passed the nightstand by the mirror, Delia's gaze suddenly froze. On the wooden surface lay a Parabellum - her late father's pistol.

It was like a blow to the chest. The gun was lying right next to the mirror, like a forgotten weapon, not hidden in the closet as it had been before. Delia froze, and her heart skipped a couple of beats. She didn't even notice how her feet were back in place, but her eyes remained glued to what was lying on the nightstand. It was exactly as she remembered: black, with a metallic sheen, completely out of place in plain sight, unlike how her mother always hid it.

"Mom," Delia finally exhaled, gulping for air. "Why did you pull out Dad's gun?"

Ivette, without stopping, continued moving forward, as if she had not noticed her daughter's question. She walked around the nightstand and sat down on the old wooden bench near the entrance, taking off her jacket.

"Well, how is it in the orchestra? Do you like it?" she asked, avoiding a direct answer. "Have you gotten used to life in the city? How do you like it there?"

Delia felt irritation rising in her throat. She stood there, trying to collect her thoughts, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The gun on the nightstand, her mother's strange question, her cold demeanor… It wasn't what Delia expected to see when she got home. Her father had been dead for a long time, of course, but her mother had never left a gun out in plain sight. And why had she avoided talking about it?

"Mom, why aren't you answering? Why is the gun there?" she asked again, feeling her voice grow a little sharper. "You always hid it, why is it on the table now?"

Ivette frowned slightly and, without looking up, said quietly:

"You're still a little girl, Delia. These kinds of questions aren't for your age. You don't understand why grown-ups do what they do. They're just things, it doesn't matter where they are." Her voice became quiet, almost a whisper. "None of this is your business."

Delia felt something inside her jump. She stopped, feeling a cold wave of uncertainty wash over her. Her mother, who had always been her rock, who had given her advice, helped her, was now saying something strange, as if she didn't understand her own words. The words seemed foreign, distant, even strange.

Delia stood silently in the hallway. She looked at her mother, trying to figure out what was going on. And then, like a blinding light, it hit her - her mother was not herself. She was... unsteady, her thoughts were confused, and her whole behavior seemed senseless and absurd. Delia felt that her mother had fallen into something akin to insanity. Not in any clear sense, but in the sense that every word she said now had no logic, and her actions were becoming increasingly strange and inconsistent.

"Mom..." Delia said quietly, collecting her thoughts. "Are you sure everything is okay? Why are you saying that? What's going on?"

Ivette didn't answer right away. Instead, she froze in place, as if she remembered something, and her hand unconsciously reached for the shelf next to the door where various things usually stood. There was something strange in her movement, something frozen, as if she was searching for something familiar, something long familiar, even if she didn't realize that it didn't really make any sense.

Delia froze, unable to look away. Her mother reached out again, as if instinctively, searching for the very thing she always kept with her. The very same wooden bolster that, long ago, had served as a punishment for her misbehavior. Delia remembered those moments well: her mother always took it from the shelf and, without thinking, spanked her bottom, giving no mercy. Delia remembered how the object left marks, how the sounds of the blow echoed in her body with pain and bitterness.

But now... Her mother couldn't find what she was looking for. Her hand darted around, but there was nothing. Delia realized that it was just a gesture, a habit, and not a real desire to use force. But one thing was clear from this gesture - her mother seemed not to notice that time had long passed, that she could no longer reproduce these actions, that she was no longer supposed to be like this.

"Mom, what's wrong?" There was alarm in her voice. "What are you doing?"

But Ivette didn't even pay attention to her words, continuing to grope her hands senselessly along the shelf, her movements becoming more and more mechanical, like those of a person who is losing touch with reality. She had such a strange, confused look that Delia couldn't understand. Ivette, not noticing her daughter's presence, whispered under her breath, as if she was talking not to her, but to someone else.

"Little wretch..." she repeated, almost inaudibly. "Always poking your nose into other people's business... You need to be punished... You can't do this... You can't interfere in things that don't concern you..."

Her mother's voice was becoming increasingly hoarse, her words incoherent. Delia stood still, as if in a stupor, unable to believe that her mother, who had always been so stern and level-headed, was now beginning to say things like this, as if she were losing herself. These words, which before might have sounded like empty threats to her, were now spoken with such desperation that Delia felt a chill in her chest. It was as if her mother did not see her, did not understand who she was, or what was happening.

"Mom, stop it!" Delia cried, feeling her voice tremble. "You're saying something wrong! Do you even realize what you're doing right now?!"

Ivette continued to mutter, not paying attention to her words. She stood with her head bowed, as if a whole flood of memories had come crashing down on her, and she herself was powerless to do anything about it. Her hand continued to dart about, as if searching for something that would never be found.

Delia felt her heart tighten and she couldn't hold it in any longer. Anxiety, fear and confusion all rolled into one. She took a step forward, grabbing her mother's shoulder, trying to bring her back to reality.

"Mom! Listen to me! What are you doing? Come to your senses!" she said, trying to awaken at least some response in her mother's eyes.

Ivette raised her head slightly, but there was no recognition or guilt in her gaze. She looked through Delia as if she saw nothing, as if her daughter was just a part of her fantasy. And her words, spoken with such inner tension, came back again.

"We must punish," she repeated in a whisper, "we must... Punish."

Delia could barely contain herself as her mother continued to mutter meaninglessly, as if she had neither seen nor heard her. Her soul sank with despair, and, unable to bear the sight, she stood up abruptly and ran out into the yard. Conflicting feelings rushed through her chest: horror at what was happening to her mother, and despair that she would not find salvation in her own home. Everything here was strange - the yard, the well, even her mother herself, who had once been her support. Now... Now she had become somehow different, unfamiliar.

She walked up to the well and sat on its edge, not caring that the slippery stones would be cold. She looked into the void, into that black depth, trying to find the strength to survive what was happening. But something inside her seemed to break. Mom, who had always been so strong, so self-assured, was now just a pathetic old woman, drowning in her own insanity.

Delia couldn't understand how it had happened. She had gone to the city, forgotten about this house, trying to somehow survive in a world where her life had just begun. And now, when she returned, she saw that everything had changed. Mom was getting weaker with each passing year, and Delia, instead of helping her, at some point became a stranger herself.

She lowered her head and began to sob, not so much from the pain as from the sudden realization that there was no salvation for her in this house. She was not ready to come back here, to face this. Life in the city, in the orchestra, among people, seemed so far away from this senile creature who had once been her mother.

"Will I really not be happy here?" flashed through my head. "How can I live with this? How can I continue when it is not my mother who greets me at home, but her shadow?"

As she cried, Delia felt her soul shrink with despair. The wind rushing through the trees seemed strangely cruel to her, as if every gust were a mockery. She felt the cold seeping into her jacket, but she did not move. She simply stared into the bottomless darkness of the well, peering into its impenetrable depths. Thoughtfully, as if in a delirium, perhaps all those who sought solace in such places were simply waiting for something to emerge from the darkness to free them from their fear. But the well was silent, as her whole life had been silent here - in this house where she had never felt easy.

Tears fell into the water. She could hear them falling there, deep down, but they changed nothing in this dark emptiness. Just like her tears - nothing changed. Her mother, gone into senility, this house with its old, shabby furnishings and with the scraps of memories that Delia could not and did not want to return... All this was too much for her. Her soul demanded an outlet, but there was no salvation here. Here, in this house, she was tormented not only by pain, but also by a sense of loss - the loss of not just her native space, but also the very idea that everything could be fixed. Everything was collapsing, like this old gate that she passed, going out into the yard.

Delia wiped her tears and walked to the gate. She creaked it open and stepped out into the street, leaving behind a house filled with so much worry, pain, and despair. But when Delia was already outside the yard, a sharp, loud shot rang out. Delia froze, as if something in her body responded to the sound, as if all her strength had instantly disappeared.

She couldn't understand why her heart was pounding so much, and in her head there was no logical explanation for what was happening. Her gaze ran around the house, along the dimly visible window shutters, along the fence that seemed so unreliable to her. At that moment, several phrases flashed through her thoughts: what was that? what now? why? But, unlike how before she would have screamed, would have rushed back into the house to find out something, now she simply sighed, realizing that it was none of her business.

Delia took another step forward, trying not to look back at the house or think about what she had left there. The park she was heading for ran alongside the road, strewn with yellowed leaves, and her footsteps sounded hollow and rhythmic among them, like echoes of her own life.

As she passed the old trees that had bloomed so familiarly in the summer and were now losing their last leaves, she felt a strange emptiness. Everything here was so familiar, and yet so alien. She realized more and more clearly that she could find no comfort here.

"Better to go back to the hostel," she thought.

There, in the city, everything was alien and hostile, but at least it was not burdened by the weight of old memories. In the dormitory, she could be free. No one knew her story, her weakness and her fear. It was less painful there than here, in this eerie silence, side by side with her mother, who had long since lost herself to old age.