Open Your Heart!

I'd like to say a few words before starting this story - hey you, Vitaly Ivolginsky! Die, you Russian pig! Die for what you did to Damien Thorn's daughter, you stinking freak! You disgraced her in your lousy pamphlet "Always Visible (Another Prayer for The Dying Horror Genre)", scum! How could you even write such a thing, you cretin?! If Damien Thorn really existed, he would have put you in prison for insulting his family members, you freak! And then in the next world he would have made you scrub the sinners' boilers out of turn, got it, alcoholic?! There you go. Now we can get down to business.

So, the large, brightly lit cafeteria of the kindergarten was filled with the joyful hum of children's voices. Children in identical bright suits sat at small tables everywhere. They drank juice from plastic cups, ate neatly folded sandwiches and laughed as if the whole world were their playground.

But in the very corner of the room, at a long wooden table, sat a girl. Her long, unruly black hair fell over her shoulders, and her eyes shone like two sparks of coal. She smiled widely, watching as one of the boys at the next table tried to balance a glass on his head, balancing on a chair.

A boy of about seven came up to her. He stopped for a second, as if gathering his courage, and sat down next to her.

"Hello," he said quietly but firmly, trying to contain his excitement. "You're... you're Delia York, right?"

The girl turned to him, her gaze becoming wary for a moment, but then softening.

"Yes, and who are you?" she asked, frowning slightly.

The boy clasped his hands nervously in his lap, but then smiled.

"I... my name is Peter," he answered, choosing his words carefully. "It's just... I thought you were supposed to be older."

Delia laughed. Her laugh was as clear as the melody of a child's carousel.

"Older? That would be awkward!" she said, waving her hand. "Do you want me to be like those adults?" She nodded toward a group of children who looked far too serious for their age.

They sat there, munching their sandwiches sullenly, looking as if they had already grown up before they had even had time to play. Peter thought for a moment, watching Delia. Then, as if making up his mind, he said:

"You... you know that you will become president one day?" His voice wavered, but his eyes were confident.

Delia raised her eyebrows as if she had heard something completely unbelievable.

"President?" she asked, as if tasting the word. "No, I'm just a little girl. And I don't want to be president. Why can't I be a fun little princess?"

She straightened her shoulders and pretended to adjust an imaginary crown.

Peter didn't know what to say. He looked at her in silence, surprised by her ease and spontaneity. But before he could answer, a man approached the table. Tall, with a kind but tired face, he put his hand on Delia's shoulder.

"Deedle," he said softly, "you still have to have lunch."

"Yes, Dad, I'm almost done," she replied, raising her bright, piercing eyes to him.

The man nodded and left, and Delia turned back to Peter.

"You're not a child anymore, Peter. Don't you understand?"

Her words, spoken with surprising confidence for such a little girl, stuck in his head. He wasn't sure what she meant exactly, but he felt like it was a moment he would remember for a long time.

At this moment a fat, red-haired boy named Jerome was noisily chewing a piece of apple at the table, stealing glances at his watch. It was large, heavy, and undoubtedly expensive, and he adjusted it on his wrist with pride every time, as if it were a crown on the head of a king. Delia, animated by her conversation with Peter, cast a quick glance around the room, and her dark eyes suddenly gleamed like those of a hunter who has spotted his prey. Before anyone could realize what was happening, she snatched the watch from Jerome's hands and, laughing, ran out of the open door.

"Hey! Give it back!" Jerome yelled, jumping up quickly and dropping the apple on the floor.

He rushed after Delia, who was already racing towards the door, her hair flying behind her, and a large watch with a round dial gleaming in her hand.

"Try and catch it!" she cried, her voice ringing with cheerful laughter.

Jerome ran after her, stomping loudly across the cafeteria floor. The other children turned and watched with bated interest. Delia, holding the trophy above her head, ran out into the school yard and stopped at the large steps leading up to the old play pavilion.

She began to climb up, holding onto the railing with one hand and clutching her watch with the other. Jerome caught up with her, but hesitated, looking up.

"Delia, what are you doing?!" he cried, throwing up his hands in exhaustion, and then, breathing heavily, he climbed after her, struggling up the stairs.

The girl, standing in the middle of the stairs, stopped and looked down at him. Her voice suddenly became strangely tense and deep:

"Thunder, rain and lightning, danger, rising water, noise and the wail of sirens."

Jerome was taken aback, but tried to understand her words:

"Is this a bad sign?"

Delia, as if she hadn't heard him, continued, her eyes looking off into the distance:

"Shadows, dark creatures, steel clouds floating in the air, people running for cover."

Jerome frowned, but decided to play along. Maybe that way he could get his watch back.

"What will happen to me?" he asked, trying to sound serious. "Every move I make, every move I make, all the pain is on the line. I see chaos for myself. Who are you? What can you do? You and I are the same in that we have our own styles that we will not change. Yours is full of evil, and mine is not. I cannot lose!"

Delia took another step up, a mysterious smile crossing her face.

"I can't hold on any longer," she said.

Jerome, trying to keep up, began to climb after her.