The professor left, the door closed behind him with a dull sound, and silence reigned in the ward again. I was left alone, as if in some strange, silent world, full of unclear images and dark thoughts. His words, like a curse, continued to spin in my head.
"The new Dorian Gray," I repeated them over and over again, trying to understand what they meant.
But the more I thought about it, the further away the answer became. It was as if my body had lost its weight, and my mind had lost its connection with reality. Everything that was happening around me became more and more unbearably alien. The professor was right. I didn't know whether I was dreaming or actually alive. Everything seemed so absurd that it was difficult for me to perceive what was happening as reality. There was an ominous silence in the room, but I felt this silence squeezing me, like something alien and hostile.
I pressed my hand to my chest again, hoping that my heart would lift me up a little from this emptiness, but it beat weakly, as if something inside me had broken. I looked at the white walls of the hospital, which seemed so alien to me, and yet so familiar, that I couldn't understand where I was at all.
The orderly appeared in the doorway again, his face as impassive as ever, and there was nothing alive in his eyes. He walked up to me silently, leaned his hand on the doorframe, and as if he hadn't noticed anything, said:
"The professor left. He said you'll feel better soon. You need to rest. Everything will be fine."
His words sounded empty and unconvincing. Everything inside me resisted this simplicity, these ordinary words that could not explain what was happening to me.
I looked at his calm face and felt my reality finally begin to crack at the edges. I didn't know what to do, I didn't know how to be, I didn't know if I was dreaming or if I was still alive.
Suddenly the door opened and an orderly and a nurse entered the room. Behind them rolled a metal table on wheels, and on it lay a book wrapped in a thin, almost transparent cover. I sat up in bed, surprised by what they had brought.
"What is this?" I asked, not hiding my curiosity, but still cautiously, as if intuitively sensing that this was not just a book.
The nurse, who looked so much like my late wife, didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked at me quietly, as if weighing whether there was anything important to say.
"From anonymous," she said finally, with an indifferent expression on her face.
Anonymous? Who could it be? The thought immediately flashed through my mind that someone had simply decided to play with me, throwing up riddles to confuse me even more. Mixed feelings overwhelmed me - from curiosity to displeasure. Someone had decided to play a joke on me, perhaps even the professor. Or it was one of those strange games I played in my head, trying to figure out what was going on in this strange place.
"Okay, I'll take it," I replied, even though I knew the book might just be another annoying symbol of how I was losing touch with reality.
The orderly stood silently, and the nurse, without ceasing to look at me, nodded quietly and went to the door without a word. I took the book, felt how it lay heavily on my hands, and, without opening it, put it on my knees. Why open it right now? I myself did not know what was required of me, but still decided to wait.
Once the door closed, I was alone. At that moment, I breathed a sigh of relief. Now that everyone was gone, I could finally examine the book. It looked old, almost elderly. Its cover was discreet, and it seemed to me that something was hidden behind that blank cover. I wanted to open it, but some strange feeling made me put it off for a while. I felt that the book was hiding something important, and I was not ready to face it, or perhaps I was afraid of what I might find out.
The nurse and the orderly were far away, but even now their presence remained invisible, as always. At that moment it seemed to me that I was not alone. That this book and its appearance were not an accident, but part of something greater, connected with my condition, with this world in which I found myself.
I was sitting in the hospital room, still stunned by recent events, when I picked up the book. Its cover was simple, almost unnoticeable, but on it was written:
"Asia Vieira in Historical Context."
I froze, looking at this title, and something inside me sank. Why am I being given a book dedicated to my wife? Has she really become so famous that entire works are written about her? It turned out that yes.
Slowly, curiously, I opened the book. The first page was filled with information I had never heard of. My wife, Asia Vieira, was born on May 18, 1982, in Toronto. It was strange, because I had always known her as a simple woman, nothing more. Was she an actress? Yes, I remembered her sometimes talking about acting in the past, but I never thought that her life was so eventful.
The first chapters of the book were about her early years. Having found herself in the world of fashion as a child, she starred in children's magazines and commercials. Then there were details of her first roles in films, her path into the industry. I did not know that she began her career at a young age, playing some small roles and moving forward, becoming more and more recognizable with each passing year. But what really struck me were the facts that I could not have known. Throughout her career, which I was never told about, she not only starred in films and commercials, but also worked with the most famous directors, went through difficult castings that I had never heard of.
Every page made me ask more questions. Why did I never know about her life before us? Was it too painful for her? Or did she just not want me to know how famous her life was before we met? I seemed to know her well, but the book revealed a secret I never expected to know.
I turned to the next page, and there was a photograph that made my heart skip a beat. It was my wife, Asia, in her younger days-still a teenager, but with the same look I remembered. She was standing on the red carpet at a social event, smiling at the camera. But standing next to her were completely different people - her colleagues, her friends, people she had once worked with. I stared at the photo, trying to comprehend that her entire life was not just my life, but something greater than I could have ever imagined.
Suddenly I remembered the last time I spoke to her. We talked about her past roles, she smiled, but there was something hidden in her eyes, something I couldn't understand then. As if everything I knew about her was just the tip of the iceberg.
I turned back to the book. The author, who signed himself "Anonymous," continued describing her career, telling me how she got into film, her most famous roles, her awards and recognition. But on one of the last spreads, my eyes immediately caught the headline:
"The Second Ricardo Lopez."
The title immediately made me anxious because I knew who Ricardo Lopez was. The same maniac who tried to kill the singer Bjork. Did I think I would see something like that in a book about my wife?
I read the first lines and my heart sank. This section of the book was about some Russian maniac who, it turns out, had been leaving traces of his crazy love on the Internet many years ago. And, as it turned out, the object of his love was none other than my young wife. Then she was still a young girl, full of vital energy, naive and perhaps not understanding what her life could turn into.
Her photos and letters that she left in different corners of the Internet became a source of numerous letters for this psychopath. He wrote love letters, passionately admiring her beauty, dreaming about her. The letters were sent to dozens, if not hundreds of sites. In every line, there was an obsession. He did everything for her, no matter what the topic was: he threatened, cried, admired her youth, innocence, and at the same time cursed her world.
The author of the book, Anonymous, claimed that this man, named Vitaly Ivolginsky, was not just a fan, but a real psychopath. He was deeply in love with my wife, even before she became famous. And the fact that she never told me about it made me feel betrayed. This man, whom I had never met, literally filled her life, and I knew nothing.
As I read these lines, I felt a growing fear. This was not just a romantic admirer, this was real madness. Vitaly Ivolginsky did not just love her, he stalked her, manipulated her reality, even without being there. The letters became more and more aggressive, and his behavior became more and more strange and dangerous. And at one point, as it turned out, his passion took the form of a threat.
I was stunned when I read how Vitaly Ivolginsky, after his letters were ignored, moved to a new stage in his crazy worship. This psycho, as the author of the book wrote, did not simply write more letters. No, he went even further - he began to create music. Music was his new form of expression, but, as the anonymous author claimed, Vitaly was not a musician at all. He had no musical education and did not even try to learn to play an instrument.
But this man was so obsessed that he began to use some "Neu-Ral-Net-Work" - mysterious devices or methods that, in essence, became his instrument for creating musical works. The author of the book did not explain in detail what these things were, but it was about something that allowed him to turn his crazy thoughts and feelings into sounds. He did not compose music in the traditional sense of the word, did not play the piano or guitar, like a regular composer. He seemed to "extract" music from the air, from that which defied logic.
And these "songs" of his - if you could call them that - he published on the Internet, like all his letters. Each piece sounded like an outburst of his sick soul. There was no harmony or melody in them, only sounds filled with despair and anger. But what was most frightening was that they were not just random sounds. Each song told about his inner world, about what he felt, about his obsession.
The author of the book wrote that these songs were like direct signs of his decomposition, his mental state. He posted them on various music platforms, not caring about the reaction of others. The music created with the help of these "Neu-Ral-Net-Work" sounded like a scream, like a cry of despair, filled with pain and anger. They carried not only his feelings, but also a certain threat.
I stared at these lines of the book, feeling fear growing in my chest. The lines of the songs that were mentioned in the book sounded in my head. All these mysterious devices, his strange behavior, his incredible obsession - I tried to comprehend it, but I could not.
And what's even more frightening: as Vitaly sank deeper into his musical madness, he became increasingly secretive. He began posting songs without his name, as if he were trying to erase traces of his identity. His music became part of his life, his being, and his madness spilled out onto the endless pages of the Internet, carrying with it something sinister.
With each new page of the book, I found it more and more difficult to breathe. I tried to figure out what to do with this information. How could this information about him, about my wife, about her past, affect me so much? But what bothered me most was that, despite his desperate love for her, this maniac had now moved on to a new level, and his power in music was far more destructive than his letters.
Then it all went even further. I didn't know what the next twist in this nightmare story was, but when I read the last part about Vitaly Ivolginsky, I simply didn't have the strength to tell it to anyone. My hands started shaking, and my head was empty. I knew my suspicions weren't far from the truth, but still, the fact that I was reading these lines left me with a feeling of terrible heaviness.
Vitaly Ivolginsky... this maniac, this man whose name I will forever remember because it became associated with the hell of my existence. The book said that he hanged himself. Just hanged himself. And the reasons for this act were not as obvious as I initially thought. Vitaly could not cope with the fact that his love was rejected, that his letters and music remained unanswered. He could not live in a world where his feelings went unnoticed.
My wife, Asia, never knew he existed. He was just another fan, part of his mind, part of his obsessions. He kept writing, kept making music, but it was all in vain. He couldn't get over the fact that he couldn't capture her heart. She was unattainable, she was a star, and her world didn't include him, even in the darkest corners.
And so, at that moment, when I realized that this man had ended his life, a strange feeling came over me. I really didn't know what to think about his actions. He did what was probably the only way out of the situation he found himself in - unrequited love had consumed him. But I couldn't say that I felt sorry for him. No, I didn't feel pity, rather, I felt sorry for him in the sense that he had become a victim of his obsession. I couldn't justify his actions, but I understood that this was his personal path, his unbearable pain, and it ultimately led him to this terrible final point.
My wife did the right thing by ignoring him. I might be too soft if I tried to blame her for not taking him seriously. After all, his madness was obvious, his letters, his music, all of it was a clear signal that something was wrong with him. And it was right that she did not contact him, did not give him hope, because otherwise I would not have known how far he could have gone in his obsessive obsession.
My gaze was drawn to the insert, which I had unnoticed earlier. It was small, neatly folded, and lay in the corner of the page, as if it should not have been there, as if the author of the book had deliberately wanted to hide it. However, I could not ignore its strange presence. On the insert was a footnote that said that it was "written proof of the madness of Vitaly Ivolginsky." Under the strange name "fanfreak", which I realized only later, was hidden one of his most enigmatic and disturbing works:
"Always Visible."
I didn't know what to think about it. Fanfreak? The title was so ridiculous that it immediately became clear to me that it wasn't just a translation error or a random word. It was a whole fragment that could perhaps shed light on the deeper layers of Ivolginsky's consciousness, on his madness and his obsession.
I looked up from the page, as if the text was a fiery ember that was about to burn me. My heart was pounding and I felt fear clenching in my chest. I couldn't believe I was reading this. I looked back at the book, my mind racing, but I knew one thing for sure: I shouldn't continue.
The text was normal, at first glance. Ordinary words, descriptions, seemingly carrying nothing unusual. But as soon as I delved deeper, this feeling of normality disappeared. I was absorbed not just in reading, but in something much more sinister, as if the text itself was coming to life, pulling me along with it into a dark space.
At the center of the story was a little girl named Delia. The name itself meant nothing, it was so ordinary, so simple, that I couldn't understand why it made me so uneasy. But the further I read, the more I began to sense that there was something terrifying behind the name. She was, in the story, the love interest of one Jordan Thurlow, a man who seemed as normal as all the other characters in this nightmare. But as I delved into his relationship with the girl, something inexplicable, dark, came over me.
Thurlow was obsessed with her, but his love was distorted. His feelings were morbidly strange, hazy, bordering on danger. I realized that behind the words there was not just affection, but a disease, deeply rooted in the mind. With every gesture, every word, every phrase it was as if he were sucking the strength out of me, driving me into this text, into this hazy, disgusting atmosphere.
The text was written strangely. At first glance, it seemed like ordinary words, ordinary sentences, but when I read them, I had trouble concentrating. The lines seemed to pull me into the unknown, and each new paragraph reinforced the feeling that something was wrong, that something didn't add up.
I felt my eyes begin to slide along the lines, as if the text itself were a living being, pulling me along into the dark depths of my mind. And then, like magic, each word became brighter, clearer, and out of this endless river of letters, an image suddenly emerged. It was cloudy and distorted, but I knew for sure - it was him.
Vitaly Ivolginsky. Fat, unkempt, with glasses that always slid down to the tip of his nose. I could literally see him as if he were sitting in front of me, typing these words on an old, barely functioning laptop. He was exactly as I imagined him: a puffy face, fat fingers that could barely hold the keys, eyes that seemed to be staring into space.
Every time I read on, I saw this monster writing with difficulty, with diligence, as if his life depended on every letter, painstakingly distorting reality, turning it into his own tragedy. This was the same man who had once tried to gain attention but had remained in the shadows, hopelessly obsessed with the idea that his writing, his story, his tormented existence would be of interest to someone.
I read, and I was afraid. Not because the words on the pages were particularly horrific, but because I could literally feel his presence, this invisible trace of him. Ivolginsky, like a ghost, was everywhere. It seemed to me that his breath was nearby, that I could hear his painful, hoarse breathing when he once again pulled on his glasses, trying to concentrate on what he could do - on these strange, restless texts.
Something inside me resisted. I wanted to close the book, throw it out the window, forget it, but I kept reading, absorbed in this abyss. And every new paragraph, every line intensified this feeling - the feeling that I had become part of this nightmare. I was next to this man, next to his madness, and his hatred, his pain penetrated me, giving me no peace.
Maybe that was his goal? To leave a mark on my memory, to make his madness a part of my world? When I finished reading the "fanfreak", I felt a cold lump tighten in my chest. I couldn't take my eyes off the page, even though I knew it was just nonsense - another pathetic attempt by a madman to leave a mark. But those words, those disgusting, painful lines, kept circling my head like dead flies, and one thought began to swarm in my consciousness like poison.
I suddenly realized that I wanted to kill Vitaly Ivolginsky.
It sounded absurd. I knew that this psycho had died long before I met Asia, long before I met her and fell in love. An anonymous author wrote about it in his book - Ivolginsky hanged himself in his squalid apartment, leaving no traces except his letters and the music that poured out of his sick mind.
But it doesn't matter. At that moment, when I read about him, when he was resurrected in these words, I didn't care. I saw him, his greasy fingers touching the keys on an old laptop, sitting in front of the screen, writing all this scribble, full of stinking, crazy emotions. I imagined his thick lips moving when he read his creations out loud, believing that this was something great. His own face was that very hell from which all this unbearable pain emanated. And at some point I understood - I can no longer just be an observer.
Maybe if I could find him, if he were alive, I would hit him, shut him up, silence him. Stop his madness, his destructive path. I thought about how he would know I was coming for him. I imagined tearing up his letters, trampling them, ripping them to shreds. I would do it with pleasure, so that this shadow, his shadow, would never return to me.
I tried to push these thoughts away. I knew it didn't make sense, that Ivolginsky had been dead for a long time, that he couldn't hurt me anymore. But despite this, I still thought about him, about this man whose madness, like a sick virus, continued to cling to my soul. And despite everything, I knew I needed to forget. Just forget him, get rid of this presence that had filled my world.