Squirming Energy of the Phantasmagorical

When Delia woke up the next day, she was still in bed, burrowing under the covers. Her mind was still filled with memories of the previous day, and they were almost making her sick to her stomach. The rehearsal had gone well, she thought. She had been careful not to be the center of attention, but also not to make too many mistakes that would go unnoticed. The cymbals seemed to be no problem, as she played without making any mistakes, following the conductor's instructions. Everything seemed to be in order, but after the rehearsal, when she was about to leave, the bandmaster approached her.

He was in his usual, slightly arrogant mood, and his words fell on her like ice rain. He explained that her place in the orchestra was a temporary measure, just until the girl who played the cymbals and went on maternity leave returned. After that, there would essentially be no place for her in the orchestra, because there was always a waiting list for the other instruments. And, although she was doing a good job, there would always be more experienced musicians to take her place.

"You're not the best, Delia," he told her then, almost with pity. "We support you, of course, but you understand that here everything is really decided first and foremost by skill."

The words echoed in her head like thunder. She tried to keep her face straight, to not let her emotions take over, but her heart seemed to have shrunk to shreds. She realized that for the orchestra she was just a temporary face, nothing more. And all she had to do was wait for the end of her term, when she would be replaced. She felt a heaviness settle in her chest, as if she had become part of something alien and unnecessary.

Delia rolled over, closing her eyes, but the memories kept coming back to her. After her conversation with the bandmaster, she returned to the dorm, hoping that dinner would at least allow her to relax a little. But everything went wrong from the start. As soon as she entered the dining hall, as soon as she took her seat, her neighbors began whispering and throwing sideways glances at her.

Jerome, as usual, began to make crude jokes, this time hinting that she was "too skinny" to work in the orchestra, since to play the cymbals you have to at least look impressive. Carlton mockingly added that perhaps she should try playing the triangle, since it certainly didn't require any effort. The others either laughed or silently approved of what was happening. Even Emily, who usually limited herself to disdainful looks, could not resist making a sarcastic remark that, they say, "there is no musician in the house now, but some guest from another world."

With each new comment, Delia felt her nerves tightening like strings. She tried to ignore them, looking at her plate, trying to focus on her food, but at some point the taunts became too loud. It was as if her neighbors had conspired to taunt her with such passion that she could hardly breathe. Anxiety grew in her chest, and her hands shook as she desperately tried not to show how much pain she was in.

Unable to bear it any longer, Delia stood up abruptly, leaving her half-eaten dinner behind. There was a silence in the dining room, and then one of the boys, Jerome, snorted as if he was pleased with his "victory." She left the dining room, knowing that she couldn't go back, and walked along the street until she found a small cafe. There she got herself a cup of soup and a piece of toast, trying to calm her breathing and get her thoughts in order. But even in the warmth and comfort of the cafe, she couldn't completely escape from her worries. She was haunted by a feeling of alienation, as if she were all alone in this big, strange city where no one wanted to accept her.

Delia smiled bitterly, looking up at the ceiling. She reached for the blanket, but her arms felt numb from the weight of her thoughts. This was not how she had imagined life in the city. It seemed like everything should be different: a cozy dorm room, friendly colleagues, rehearsals full of inspiration. She dreamed that her life in Portland would be the beginning of a new chapter, full of creativity, music, and new acquaintances.

But instead, every day was a struggle. She didn't feel like she belonged in the orchestra, she was always kept at a distance, like she didn't belong. Even her roommates, the ones who should have been some kind of support, seemed almost hostile. It all felt so wrong, so far from what she had dreamed of when she walked out of her suburban home with her suitcase in hand.

Delia struggled out of bed, feeling weak and strangely heavy all over. Her head was spinning slightly, and for a moment she even had to grab the back of a chair to stay on her feet. She took a few steps, swaying as if her legs refused to obey, but eventually she reached the washbasin by the wall.

Turning on the water, she splashed her face, feeling the cold drops trickle down her skin, chasing away the remnants of sleep. The water was invigorating, but this time it did not bring the usual relief. Delia looked up at the mirror. At first glance, there was nothing unusual in the reflection. The same tired girl with a pale face and disheveled black hair. She blinked, but the strange feeling of anxiety did not go away.

Still looking at herself, Delia began to wash herself again mechanically, more thoroughly, as if she hoped to wash away not only the dirt but also the heavy thoughts that were bothering her. She took a towel and slowly dried her face, looking away. But when she looked up at the mirror again, everything inside her froze.

Something is wrong.

Her gaze was fixed on her own eyes. Delia froze, as if struck by electricity. The irises of her eyes... were bigger. They were climbing up the whites, as if widening, as if her eyes had become... different. Empty. Alien. She stepped back from the mirror abruptly, and the towel fell from her hands.

"What the...," she whispered, unable to believe what she saw.

She moved closer again, trying to convince herself that she was just imagining things. Maybe it was the poor lighting? Or lack of sleep? But the more she looked, the more obvious the change became. The iris had almost filled the visible eye. Only a shadow remained of her usual gaze.

Delia grabbed the edge of the sink, feeling panic rising in her.

"It's impossible... it's not me," flashed through my head.

She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, everything would return to normal. But no. When she looked in the mirror again, her gaze met someone else's eyes. The irises, filling almost the entire eye, seemed unreal to her, frightening. The room became chilly, goosebumps ran down her spine, causing her to shudder involuntarily.

She took a step back, trying to hold on to something that would give her a sense of stability, but her hand trembled instead, hitting the edge of the cabinet. Her gaze fell on it, on its dark wooden surface, and then images of yesterday flashed before her mind's eye.

Baselard's apartment. A sudden speech about the miracle of resurrection. The cold of metal from sensors on the skin. A syringe with a mysterious serum, the disappearance of consciousness...

Delia sucked in a breath.

"This... can't be related to this... or can it?" flashed through her mind.

She clutched the cabinet, as if trying to stay afloat in the swirling stream of thoughts. The injection. The dreams. Her "death." Something had changed then, but what exactly? She closed her eyes to calm herself, but the memory of Baselard's face, his strange smile and his ridiculous excuse after the experiment, did not go away.

"What have you done to me..." Delia whispered, unable to take her hands off the closet.

She felt panic rising in a new wave, as if the air in the room had grown thick and heavy. Delia took a deep breath, but it was not enough-her chest was constricted, her breath came in short, wheezing gasps, as if she were drowning. Step by step, almost mechanically, she moved away from the closet and toward the window. Her hands shook as she grasped the frame, pushing it sharply outward. The cold morning air rushed into her face, bracing and merciless.

She leaned over, sticking her head out, looking down with unseeing eyes. The gray asphalt at her feet, bathed in the soft light of the morning sun, seemed infinitely distant. People were hurrying about their business, cars were noisily driving past, and she stood above this bustle, feeling like a stranger in all this life.

Delia sucked in a breath, a cold blast cutting through her lungs, forcing her to move away from the window a little. But the panic didn't go away.

"Why is this happening? Why am I like this?" thoughts were running in circles, not allowing me to find support.

Her gaze slid downwards, but she couldn't focus on what was happening around her. She felt like the ground was slipping away from under her feet, and with it, everything she considered herself.

For a moment she wanted to just close her eyes, feel the wind ruffling her hair, and lose herself in this state. But something inside, the remnant of her will, did not allow her to give in so easily.

Delia shivered as another cold wind slid across her skin. But suddenly it wasn't the cold that was chilling her. She felt it-as if someone was looking at her, burning into her. Slowly waking from her thoughts, she raised her head and looked around. Down on the sidewalk, a man stood motionless. His gaze was fixed on her, and his eyes were wide and terrified, as if he were seeing something he shouldn't.

Delia blinked, feeling her heart begin to beat faster again. What was wrong with him? Why was he looking at her like that? His stillness seemed abnormal, almost frightening. She tried to focus on his face, trying to figure out who he was, but she had never seen this man before. A strange, almost unprovoked thought flashed through her mind that she didn't like his face. Why did she think that?

She couldn't explain it-it was more than a thought, more of a sudden, cold response, coming from deep within her mind. The man's face, lined with lines, with sharp cheekbones and a heavy, unmoving gaze, seemed wrong to her. As if it shouldn't be there, on the street, beneath her window.

Delia frowned, still looking at him. Her gaze was frozen, and she herself did not notice how something changed inside her. Something heavy and dark was turning in her soul, like a sunken ship rising to the surface. At that moment, something invisible, but unimaginably powerful connected her to the man - a strange, icy thread emanating from her eyes.

He jerked. His head snapped to the right, as if someone had hit him in the back of the head, even though no one was standing there. Delia froze, watching as his shoulders began to tremble slightly, as if his body was struggling against something invisible. Her own breathing became ragged, as if his weight had been transferred to her.

And suddenly the man collapsed. His legs gave way, and like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut, he fell to the cold pavement. The impact with the ground was loud, dull, almost painful to the ear. People around him gasped, passersby began to stop, someone leaned over him, trying to understand what had happened.

Delia stood frozen at the window, unable to tear her eyes away from what was happening. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was going to burst out.

"Is it me? Did I do this?" the thought pierced her consciousness.

Her fingers trembled as she gripped the windowsill, and her gaze was fixed on the prone body. The man did not move. The air seemed to thicken around her, becoming heavy and suffocating. Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes, but she did not allow them to spill. Her hands slowly left the window, and she took a step back.

Choking on her own anxiety, Delia clutched her chest. As if waking from a nightmare, she looked down again. The man lay motionless. Several people surrounded him. One of them was waving his hand at someone, obviously calling for help. But something else caught her attention: he was completely unconscious, but none of the passersby looked up, no one noticed her standing on the fourth floor, as if she were invisible to the world.

She took another step back, breathing heavily. The shadows on the floor of the room seemed thicker than before.

"What's happening to me?" came a whisper from her dry lips.

Before she could take a step back, a strange sound suddenly appeared in the air, almost from her head itself. It was a high-pitched, sharp ringing, unlike anything she had ever heard. It sounded like glass bells, or as if several small metal objects were colliding with each other, creating this unbearably piercing sound. It seemed deep and sharp at the same time, as if it was coming not from the air, but directly from her head.

The sound grew louder, growing louder, losing its clarity and becoming more and more gloomy and intrusive. Delia felt it was becoming difficult to breathe. Her head began to split, and her eyes began to water involuntarily. The sound did not give her peace, as if it was penetrating her brain, pumping out the last of her sanity. Unable to bear it, she screamed, but the sound continued to ring in her ears, even louder, almost a physical sensation.

Without thinking, she lunged for the bed, burying her face in the pillow. Expecting it to ease the torturous ringing a little, but it did nothing. The pillow was damp with tears, and the sound seemed to penetrate the fabric, leaving her no place to hide. Her brain was ringing like a thousand little bells, and she couldn't figure out what was happening.

She grabbed the pillow with both hands, hugged it tighter, trying to drown out the unbearable cacophony, but it only intensified the feeling that the sound was inside her body, tearing her apart from the inside. With each moment of doing this, the sounds became more distinct and restless. At some point, she felt her fingers find a strange vibration under the pillow, as if the fabric itself began to pulsate. The sound was inside her.

Panic gripped her and she threw the pillow off her head, trying to find her breath again, but the ringing wouldn't go away. Now it was mixed with the heavy pounding of her heart, as if her body was connected to the sound. Delia jumped out of bed, looking at the walls, the window, everything around her, as if waiting for someone, anyone, to explain what was happening to her head.

At that moment, when Delia could barely discern reality, when her consciousness merged with this monstrous ringing, the door of her room suddenly opened. In blind panic, with a vague hope of salvation, she raised her head. A man stood in the doorway, and his silhouette blurred in her painful perception. But when she finally focused her gaze, she recognized him.

It was Jo, the flute player who had stood up for her in the dining room when everyone else had bullied her. His face was tense, as if he didn't know what exactly was going on in this room. He came toward her quickly but not hurriedly, his steps confident, though something in his expression told her he wasn't quite ready for what was coming.

"Delia..." His voice was quiet, but there was genuine concern in it. "Are you okay?"

He walked up to her and slowed down a bit when he saw her condition. There was a distinct trace of confusion and worry in Jo's eyes. Delia felt her heart beat faster and the noise in her ears began to fade, but there was still a grinding sound, as if her thoughts were trying to escape.

Delia, feeling a heaviness in her chest and dizziness, could not answer, only a slight movement of her head to show that she heard. Her thoughts were confused, and her body refused to obey, as if breaking away from reality and plunging into the abyss. There was something soft in Jo's eyes, but also decisive. He seemed to know exactly how to help her, as if he had been thinking about it for a long time.

"You know, I can see how everyone bullies you here," he began, his voice soft but insistent. "It's hard for you to live in this dorm, right? I can see it too. So, look, I was thinking… we could get an apartment together. Not far from the orchestra, it would be easier. You and I, just neighbors, nothing more."

He spoke confidently, as if he had known in advance that this would be her decision. But something about his words didn't add up. Even though she couldn't think clearly, Delia sensed that there was more to it than that. The phrase "just neighbors" had a strange undertone, as if that wasn't quite what he had in mind. His gaze was averted, and the movements of his hands were slightly tense, as if he were hiding something important that he didn't want to reveal.

Delia listened in silence, feeling doubt begin to grow inside her. She felt her fingers curl into fists in her lap, and she couldn't figure out what it was that was bothering her. Was it too fast after all? Or was there something about his offer that didn't seem entirely fair?

She looked up at Jo, trying to see something in his face, but there was nothing there that would help her make sense of this uneasy feeling. He looked at her with an expectant expression, but there was no light in his eyes that usually comes from someone offering help.

"Are you sure you don't need a little time to think?" she finally asked, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice.

Jo answered quickly, his confidence in his words becoming slightly more noticeable.

"I understand that it's not easy for you now. But think about it, living next to each other is much easier than suffering in a dorm. You can forget about all these problems, just relax. You won't be alone, I promise."

After Jo finished speaking, Delia slowly rose from the bed, although her body felt heavy. She felt her breathing become difficult, and her thoughts began to tie themselves into knots. Everything he said sounded logical and caring at first glance. But the more she thought about it, the more she felt anxiety growing in her chest.

"I'll think about it," she finally squeezed out, barely managing to control the trembling in her voice. "I need time."

Jo paused a moment, looking at her with an expression as if he were ready to dissuade her right then and there. He looked at her with a slight wariness, but seeing her tired eyes, he shrugged, as if realizing that this time it was not worth insisting. He smiled encouragingly, though not without a little anxiety, and went to the door.

"Okay, think about it," he said. "I'll be there if you need anything."

With that, he quietly left, leaving her in the room. Delia stood still, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. She was alone, but her head was filled with noise-thoughts, worries, and, unexpectedly, relief. Her gaze slid around the room, and she felt everything begin to blur again.

Noticing that she wanted to close herself off from the world again, Delia hugged the pillow, clutching it in her hands like a comfort. She collapsed back onto the bed and began to rock from side to side, feeling her body trying to return to a state of rest, while her thoughts tore her apart from the inside. Sadness, fear, and a strange emptiness squeezed her heart, but she couldn't stop - the rocking helped calm her nerves a little.

Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling, but she saw nothing, she only heard the sound of her own breathing and the barely noticeable rustle of her hands moving over the fabric. With each swing, the images in her head became clearer, memories of the events of the last few days, of these strange sentences and sensations that seemed to carry her into some other reality.