I stood there, flooded with fear and doubt, not knowing what to do. There was a stinking corpse under the table in my room. The corpse of Vitaly Ivolginsky, or what was left of him. It all became too real, and I realized that I had no explanation for how this could have happened. The question of "what will I tell the orderlies and nurses" became the most important and the most insoluble.
I tried to imagine what it would be like. How would I say that under the table, right in my room, lies the body of some maniac who supposedly died long before I got here. What would the orderly say to me when he came in? How would he react to this? He would probably think I was crazy. And I myself didn't know what to do with all this. For a second, it seemed to me that this whole nightmare was just a figment of my imagination. But how then to explain the smell, the horrific sight that I had just seen?
I exhaled sharply, and my head began to fill with jumbled thoughts. I had to calm down. Think of something to say. But how could I do that? I tried to find even the slightest way out of this situation, but everything I could offer myself was a lie. I could say that it wasn't me, that someone had planted the body. But all that stopped me was one thing: I didn't know how to explain that I was here at all, in this place, with this horror.
I looked at the door opposite, and suddenly an orderly walked into the room. I felt the adrenaline pumping through my veins again. The orderly was big and strong, with muscles that were visible even through his white shirt, the fabric was so thick. I tried not to look under the table, just stood there, keeping my eyes on his face, not knowing what to do.
He sniffed, clearly wary of the strange smell in the air. My head was full of unspeakable thoughts, and I remained silent, but possible scenarios were already forming in my mind. He asked, frowning:
"What stinks so much in here?"
I froze, trying to collect my thoughts. It was impossible to answer truthfully, and not knowing what else to do, I said that I smelled like shit. The words came out as if I had to swallow them, and now they came out painfully. I may not have believed what I said, but it was the only thing that came to mind.
He froze for a moment, looked at me, and then just laughed. A stupid laugh, like I'd just told him a joke. He didn't understand anything, probably thought I was joking or had said something wrong. His face remained calm, and his voice was almost cheerful as he said:
"Ha-ha, are you crazy? Everything is fine here, it probably smells like something ordinary. Well, okay, I'll call the cleaning lady, let her clean up the "shit".
And without waiting for an answer, he turned around and, without looking towards the table, simply left.
I stood there in silence, my ears buzzing, and one thought was ringing in my head:
"He didn't see. He didn't notice anything. It was all just in me."
But the fear still didn't go away. I still couldn't forget that there was something under the table that shouldn't have been there. And now that the orderly was gone, that eerie emptiness around me was becoming more and more threatening.
I didn't know what to do next. The cleaning lady the orderly had mentioned might come running, but what would she say when she saw what was there? When she saw what was left of what I had recently kicked? Would she scream? Or would she simply not understand what it was? And who was to blame for this anyway? Me? That psycho Vitaly Ivolginsky, who had left his death in this place? Or was it me, who had ended up in this hellish place?
In the end, I sat there in silence, and when the cleaning lady entered the room, I only looked up lazily at her. She was young, in a drab uniform, with long blond hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. There was no fear or surprise on her face, just an expression of professional indifference. She looked at me as if nothing strange had happened, and then headed straight for the desk.
My eyes were fixed on her as she began to work. She didn't even look under the table, didn't notice the horrible picture I was trying to hide in my head. And then, without a sound, she carefully bent down and, taking a long broom, began to sweep up the remains of... whatever was lying under the table. I couldn't believe my eyes. She, without surprise, with the precision of a professional, cleaned THIS, knowing exactly what needed to be done. It was as if it was just ordinary garbage that could be easily removed. No emotion on her face, just mechanical work.
She carefully put everything in the bag, didn't say a word, and didn't even look at me. Then, with the same indifferent face, she picked up the bag and walked to the door without any hesitation.
"What the hell is this?" I thought, not believing my eyes.
How could she do that so calmly? She must have seen what was there, and yet she continued as if nothing had happened. And there was no hint of surprise on her face. Was she pretending? I could hardly stop myself from stopping her, asking how she could not see the horror I had seen.
As she left, leaving behind only the fresh smell of disinfectant, I felt another fear start in my chest. Words, thoughts, and memories, filled with madness, began to swirl in my head again. What was that? Why did she act so calmly? Why did all of them, the orderly, the nurses, even the cleaning lady, seem oblivious to what was happening around them?
My heart was beating faster and my thoughts were filled with anxiety and fear, as if I was trapped in some strange world where everything was not as it should be. Where people pretended that nothing was happening and I was the last one who had not yet lost his mind.
I was sitting there, still not believing what was happening, when I heard footsteps. It was the same orderly, a big guy with muscles, who had just entered the ward. I instinctively flinched when he approached me, and only then noticed that all this time I had been holding a book in my hands. Not just any book - the same book about Asia Vieira and Vitaly Ivolginsky, which I had almost torn apart in a fit of rage.
The orderly, looking at me with incomprehension, glanced sideways at the book I was still holding, and said with a grin:
"What do you have?" His voice was calm, almost indifferent.
Without thinking, I answered:
"Toilet paper..."
The words came out of my mouth as if I was trying to convince myself that this was true. But the orderly didn't ask any unnecessary questions. He just laughed a short, nervous laugh that made me shudder even more.
He stepped forward, quickly snatched the book from my hands, and before I could say anything or stop him, he threw it into the trash can. The book made a sound like a heavy object falling to the bottom of an empty container, and immediately disappeared from view. In its place there was only a pile of garbage and emptiness.
I sat there, unsure of how to react. I felt something inside me crumbling, and at the same time I knew that this was just another moment when I had lost control of what was happening around me. As if everything I knew about reality was disappearing under the pressure of his indifference.
"You should rest," the orderly said, as if he hadn't noticed how odd this was. He turned to leave, and only looked at me for a moment, as if he wasn't sure if he should say anything else.
I was left alone. My head was all mixed up - fear, confusion, anger. All this time I was trying to understand what was really happening, but now that the book was gone and I was left empty-handed, understanding only increased my fear. What if this world was no longer what I knew? What if everything around me was just an illusion?
Not knowing what to do, I continued to sit on the bed, trying to comprehend what was happening.
The doctor entered silently, slightly opening the door. His steps were confident, and I felt the tension in the room immediately become noticeable. He looked at me, but did not speak right away, as if considering where to begin.
"What's going on?" I blurted out. My voice was hoarse, almost breaking. I couldn't hold in this fear any longer, this feeling that the world around me was collapsing, that I was being pulled somewhere, into some abyss.
The doctor raised his eyebrows but didn't answer right away. He walked to his desk, opened a folder of papers, and began writing something down, as if I were just another patient he had to do his job with. I noticed that his movements were mechanical, like those of a man who had long ago lost the ability to perceive his surroundings as anything more than part of his routine.
Finally he looked up and looked at me, his eyes expressing nothing but his usual professional politeness.
"What's going on?" I repeated my question, unable to cope with the growing anxiety.
He shrugged and chuckled slightly, but the grin wasn't genuine, but rather a reaction to my nervous question.
"You're in the hospital," he said, as if that was supposed to reassure me. "Everything's fine here. You just need to rest a little, and it'll be fine."
"But... what's going on around here? Why this book? Why am I here? Why do I hear my mind going crazy and everything looks so strange?"
I couldn't calm down. I needed answers, even if they were unpleasant or scary. But the doctor just shook his head again.
"It's not what you think. Your condition is the result of stress and severe nervous exhaustion. Doctors are treating you to help you recover. Everything you're experiencing is the aftermath of the events that happened before you got to the hospital."
I continued to look at him, but there was no compassion or interest in his eyes. Only a detached, professional mask. I felt like his words did not reach me, as if there was an invisible wall between us. Everything he said seemed false, and could not answer my tormenting questions.
"And this book?" I asked, unable to resist.
The doctor shrugged again, not paying much attention to me.
"You've probably become attached to her. Sometimes patients create their own stories and realities to survive. It's quite natural under stress. We'll help you cope with it. It just takes time."
But I couldn't accept his words. I couldn't believe that everything I had experienced was just a figment of my imagination. This book, these pictures, that terrible man, Vitaly Ivolginsky, it was all so real. Could it really be that all this was just a figment of my mind?
I looked at the doctor, trying to find at least a hint of truth in his words, but his gaze remained cold and indifferent.
"It's not true..." I whispered, more to myself than to him. "It can't be true."
But the doctor didn't answer. He just shook his head and turned away, heading for the door. When he left, I was alone again. With the thought that everything around me was like a dream, but I couldn't wake up.
I sat in the hospital bed, looking at my hands, feeling the cold sweat covering my neck. Thoughts swirled in my head like a whirlwind. All these pictures, people, events... It couldn't be true. Or could it?
Had I really just gone mad? Was everything I had experienced - all these letters, books, paintings, Vitaly Ivolginsky, all of them the fruit of my sick imagination? But how could I explain the smells, the sensations, the horror I felt when I saw him sitting under the table? How could I explain that terrible moment when I kicked him, hearing his squeak and smell? It was all too real.
I remembered that picture of a girl with a piece of paper in her hands, with her name and the inscription:
"Asia Vieira, I love you."
I remembered how I felt, how I was burning with rage and fear. And now, sitting in this room, I wondered: was it real or was it some kind of nightmare that would not let go of me?
The nurses and doctors all said the same thing - I was being treated, I needed rest and peace. But deep down I felt like something was wrong. Maybe they had all just locked me in this world where I was alone with myself, with my thoughts, with my fears and memories, and they couldn't let me see the truth. But which truth? Which of these realities was the real one?
I lay in the room, in silence, trying to sort out my head, but my thoughts were jumbled, giving me no peace. The questions did not stop. Asia Vieira. She had always been a mystery to me, but now this mystery was becoming darker. Could she really be connected to this psychopath, this Vitaly Ivolginsky? Could everything I knew about her be a lie?
My wife... She always had this mysterious smile on her face, but I thought it was just her personality, her eccentricity. But now, after everything I'd been through, it seemed like empty excuses. Why didn't she tell me about her past, about what was connected to this madman? Why didn't she warn me that something like this could be hiding behind her back? Why didn't I know anything?
Or maybe I was so blind that I didn't want to see what was obvious? Maybe my whole life with Asia was built on lies and manipulation? But how was that possible? How could she be involved with him and not tell me? If only I knew...
But what if all of this was part of some more complex plan, some nefarious design? Why the book, why these letters and paintings? Why did an anonymous person decide to reveal all of this to me, forcing me to read such horrific things? And who is this anonymous person? What is his goal?
I thought about the book again, about its pages. It was like a curse. Each chapter went deeper, gnawing at me. When I read about Vitaly Ivolginsky, his madness, his letters and paintings, I felt my mind cracking, beginning to disintegrate. But was it true? And if so, what to do with it? If everything I read was real, what did it mean for me, for my life with Asia?
I thought about her again, about her name, about her past life. Maybe all of this had been forgotten by her long ago, hidden so as not to damage our marriage, so as not to ruin my perception of her. But all of this tormented me. How can you live with a person if you don't know their real story? If all of this was part of her life, part of her past, could she really hide it from me?
My head was spinning. Every question I asked myself led to more confusion. Did I really just know nothing about my life? What was I supposed to do with this book? With what I had learned? Could I continue to live as if nothing had happened?
I sat in my room, in silence, slowly coming to my senses after all those crazy events. But when I turned my head to the wall, something unexpected caught my attention. I froze. On the wall, right in front of me, as if burned by fire, the letters " avlivro " were burning.
One word that seemed to pierce my consciousness. The letters were bright, alive, as if they were burning from within the wall. I froze in place, not knowing what to make of it, what it meant. Why did this word appear right here, in this hospital room? What did it mean?
A lightning bolt flashed in my mind. That word. It wasn't just a word. It gave me a strange feeling, as if I knew it, but couldn't remember where from. Everything in my head was mixed up: Vitaly Ivolginsky, Asia Vieira, the book, the anonymous person, psychosis, riddles, secrets... I tried to breathe calmly, but that word, as if it were from another world, was out of all bounds.
I started thinking. " A vlivro." It sounded Spanish or Portuguese… I strained to understand what it could mean. I remembered that "livro" was the word for book in Portuguese. But what did the first part mean? " A v"… It was like solving a puzzle, as if the term itself was part of some nightmare.
There were not enough words to understand what was happening. A question immediately appeared in my head:
"What if this isn't just a coincidence? What if this isn't just a gap between my thoughts, but something that shows me the way? Who wrote this word? Why is it here?"
My heart began to beat faster. I got out of bed, approached the wall, but it was as before - smooth and even, without traces of these letters. As if they were only in my mind. But why were they burning so brightly? What was this sign? And most importantly - who sent it to me?
As soon as I touched the wall, lightning flashed before me. Not physically, but in my mind. Suddenly I understood. This was not just a coincidence. This was a message. Perhaps this was another game of this anonymous person, or maybe some higher plan that I did not yet understand.
Maybe I was too immersed in my thoughts, in my struggle with the unknown, but this inscription, this word, made me ask myself again: what is really happening? Who am I, and why am I here? In search of an answer to this simple word, I continued to delve into the unknown.
And then, at that moment, when I was standing in front of the wall, a splash occurred in my head. Everything I felt, everything that had happened in the last few days, seemed to fall into place in one second.
"Avlivro" is not just a word. It's not just random letters. I realized that the first part, "AV", is Asia Vieira. My wife. This whole crazy nightmare was about her. Why hadn't I figured it out before?
Panic gripped me, but I continued to stare at the word, the flames of which seemed to be burning through my consciousness. "AV" - Asia Vieira. And this "livro"… a book. It was the word for book in Portuguese. I had always known that she was connected to something greater than just my life. But why? Why was her name appearing on the wall now? Why this book?
I understood everything. It was a message. And that meant the book... the very book they gave me in the hospital, could be the key to the solution. This book was not just a collection of pages, but part of something more sinister, something that seemed to have been written especially for me.
I thought again about what was hidden behind these letters. The book and Asia Vieira. Vitaly Ivolginsky, his madness, the letters, the songs, the paintings he left behind. All of this was part of a game that someone was playing, someone was manipulating all of us, and especially me. I was a pawn in this game.
Now it all became clear. Asia was not just my wife. She, I now realized, was the link between this crazy world and mine. She was the point of intersection, the knot that connected the strange events, the painful memories, and those terrible letters. She may not have even realized that her name was at the center of this story.
But who was behind this? Who was the real architect of this game? Who created Vitaly Ivolginsky, his letters and his paintings, to bring me to this moment?
My head was boiling with thoughts. I felt this nightmare expanding, as if I were falling into some abyss where all the questions only gave rise to new ones, and the answers were hidden somewhere in the dark and shaky shadow.
I continued to stare at the burning letters on the wall, but now they didn't seem so ominous to me. I realized that this whole game, all these secrets, all these horrific events - they were created by him. He was not just a patient. He was not just a psycho. He was the author of this whole nightmare. Vitaly Ivolginsky. And now I realized that his madness was not limited to his letters, songs or paintings. He created his own reality, he wrote it, as if manipulating those around him, creating a world in which there was no place for him, but which he tried to fill with his presence.
He was a psychologist… or, more accurately, he was hiding under the guise of a psychologist. All this time I thought that the book was written by an anonymous person - a person who was researching his mental illnesses. But no. He himself was this anonymous person, writing about himself, hiding his face under the mask of an external story, creating another world in which he was not just a victim. He was the author, and everything that happened was his plan, his steps, his decisions.