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.