Well of Sorrow

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.