I looked again at the burning word on the wall. Avlivro is not only my wife's name. It was his message to me. Vitaly used her name to spur me on to search, to think, to uncover this story myself, because he knew I would search someday. He took on the role of a psychologist, manipulating me like a psychologist manipulates a patient.
"He…" I whispered the word out loud.
Vitaly. He created this world around me, around Asia. He controlled everything. And now I was not just part of his plan. I was his next step, his next move in this dark game. I was a pawn who, at some point, had to do what he had planned.
But Asia. Asia wasn't just a woman he was after. She was a symbol. He couldn't control her, just like he couldn't control the world around him. She was something out of his reach, someone who wasn't his. And so he decided to manipulate me - to make me part of his story, part of his crazy world. He created an image, he hid his identity behind a mask, so that I would finally understand that he was the manipulator, the psycho who was in control.
My hands began to shake. I didn't know what to do. In a way, I had become part of this game, part of his mind, his twisted reality. But now that I knew everything, I was unbearably afraid. I realized that I couldn't get out of this labyrinth. Vitaly hadn't just created my life, he had written it like a book. And maybe I wasn't the main character.
I fell to my knees not because of some mystical realization, not because of awe, but because I could no longer fight it. My life, my thoughts, my reality - all of it seemed like a toy in the hands of a psycho. I thought I was the one who decided, but in the end, I realized: I was just a pawn. In his game, in his world that he was creating with every step, with every detail, I was just an element, a part of his great and twisted plan.
"avlivro" burned on the wall, a reminder that I couldn't escape. I couldn't escape because I didn't know what even existed beyond this. My life, my love, Asia - it was all part of a game he had made up, created by his sick mind. He wasn't just manipulating me, he was playing with my soul, he knew how to arrange all the pieces so that I couldn't tell where reality ended and illusion began.
I just sat there, numb, feeling the cold creeping up my spine, the world around me starting to melt and lose its shape. Everything around me seemed shaky, unstable. Vitaly Ivolginsky was like an invisible shadow, traces of which I could see everywhere. And I couldn't get out. He knew me better than I knew myself. And now it was clear to me that I couldn't get out, because this game wasn't about who would win, but about who would survive.
I felt a weight settle on my chest, fear clouding my consciousness. I didn't need to explain anything to myself anymore. Everything that had happened had happened. Everything that could happen had happened. I was just a part of this nightmare, this never-ending game, and there was only one thing left for me to do: surrender.
At that moment, some songs started playing, and I immediately understood: this was the very trace that Vitaly Ivolginsky left behind. The sound, at first barely audible, filled the space, and I realized that it was not just noise, but something much deeper. It was music, like him - crazy, unconnected, unable to find harmony, as if the psycho himself was trying to find some form in this music that would reflect his inner world.
The rhythm was strange, distorted, awkward, like the steps of a heavy man. The sounds shimmered like waves on a dark, murky lake. There were shells in them, unclear and disjointed, and a feeling began to form inside me that something terrible was about to happen. It was music, something between the sounds of emptiness and chaos, and despite its outward simplicity, it was unbearably disturbing.
And then, in the midst of all this, I heard one detail that immediately caught my attention. The number 82. It echoed in the chorus, like part of an unsolved riddle. The number was familiar. I remembered that it was the year my wife, Asia Vieira, was born. Also 1982. Everything was starting to fit together into some kind of terrifying puzzle, where she was the key, her name the intersection of all this madness.
A mysticism I couldn't explain consumed me, and suddenly I understood: these songs were his way of speaking. They were his message. He was trying to convey through sounds and words something greater, something that was connected to her, to Asia, to his obsession, to his insatiable desire. And it all came down to one tragic truth - he wanted her, and through his letters, paintings, and songs he was trying to establish some kind of connection, to capture her, to enslave her attention, to consume her soul.
"82..." the sounds repeated, like an invisible loop that squeezed me, covered me and did not allow me to get out.
And at that moment I realized that I wasn't just listening to this psycho's music. I was becoming a part of it.
When I heard the next song, which had a scallop motif, something inside me twitched. At first I didn't notice, but then I suddenly realized.
"Scallop was not just a word, not a random expression."
It was a sign, a hint. As if this whole world was permeated with some invisible thread leading me to this realization.
My wife. Asia Vieira. I'd never thought about her last name, but now that that song filled the air, I suddenly understood. Vieira is a Portuguese word that means scallop. I couldn't believe it was all connected. It wasn't just a coincidence. It was part of some terrible, vicious cycle in which she was probably nothing more than a pawn.
The dreams of Asia began to form a strange kaleidoscope in my mind. Why had I never wondered where she was from? What was her last name? Why was this connection to the sea world, to something as pure and distant as the ocean, part of this whole nightmare picture? It all fit. Vitaly Ivolginsky knew her last name, as well as her first name. He knew her as I knew her, and she was for him... a desirable object upon which he directed his dark energy.
I heard the song again. In its words I heard a call, a call that grew more insistent, like darkness swallowing the light. I tried to break free, but every note, every sound, every word in the song took me back there, to the scallop, to Asia, and in my mind the thought stretched unbearably:
"He knew. He knew who she was, he knew her last name and everything connected with her life."
It seemed that everything that happened was not just a game, not just a coincidence. It was predestined. Vitaly Ivolginsky tried to connect with her one way or another, through music, through letters, through paintings. He was there, in her past, like a ghost, whose trace, like the sea, still remained, even if it had long since disappeared.
I didn't know what to do with this truth. I sat there listening to the song and thinking that my life, my wife, even her name were like an ancient code that I couldn't figure out. And maybe Vitaly Ivolginsky was the one who could solve this code. But I was part of it now. Everything I had once known seemed like an illusion.
When the song began to ring in my ears again, I knew I couldn't just listen anymore. Every word, every note was piercing me, and I couldn't escape it. There were no symbols or riddles in this song. It was just screams, the desperate cries of a madman consumed by his own obsessive feeling. And even though the music was terrible, I still couldn't turn away from those screams.
"I'm just a little puppy," the words sounded, and there was such a heartbreak in them, such sadness, that I immediately understood that he was 22 years younger than my wife.
A puppy, yes, just a little puppy, trying to be close to something that was out of his reach. I didn't even know how to take it. Vitaly Ivolginsky, that freak, was younger than Asia. That explained a lot, didn't it? His strange, childish obsession, his relentless pursuit of her attention. It was exactly that kind of crazy, unbearable passion that makes people like him.
A puppy. A weak, helpless, stupid puppy. I even cringed with anger, remembering how he wrote those letters, how he made music, how he left his dirty footprints in her life. He was never on her level. He was lower, and despite his obsession, he could never achieve what he wanted. He was just a stupid, desperate teenager, playing with fire, trying to cling to something great and unattainable.
And that was it - he wasn't just trying to get her attention, he was trying to be her. He wanted to enter her world, to become as important as she was, but he could never do it. And in his helplessness, in his pity and anger, that very image of the "puppy" was born, who still tries to catch up with the giant, not realizing that he cannot defeat him.
Now that I realized this, the song seemed to hit me even harder. I heard in each of Ivolginsky's cries his own pain, his inability to be anything other than this pathetic puppy. And although I felt disgust, I also felt something like pity. Somehow I even felt sorry for this man who was trying so desperately to grasp something that was beyond his power.
But right after this pity came anger. Because he left a mark on her life. And I could no longer hold back. The anger that overwhelmed me did not give me peace. I stood up and, clenching my fists, screamed straight into the emptiness that surrounded me. Stupid, cruel anger was tearing me apart inside, and I did not know how to stop.
"You're not a puppy, you freak!" my voice echoed off the wall. "The puppy is cute, but you're disgusting! You're a worm, not a puppy!"
Each word came out of me with such fury that I felt my throat go dry. I could no longer hold back. This freak, Vitaly Ivolginsky, was nothing more than a slimy, vile worm who, crawling through life, tried to become someone great, but remained nothing. He was weak, insignificant, and his pathetic attempt to attract my wife's attention was nothing more than an empty game with fire, in which he inevitably got burned.
I kept screaming, and every time I screamed, I felt relief, but inside, there was still pain. He wasn't a puppy, he wasn't even a human. He was just a soulless shadow that tried to deceive itself.
I felt my words piercing the silence, but nothing changed. It was like fighting an invisible enemy that had no beginning and no end. I no longer knew where reality ended and my nightmare began. But one thing was certain - I could not let this creature affect my life. And so I screamed, unable to stop, my voice already hoarse, and in my chest - a raging storm that knew neither end nor beginning. I screamed like a madman, repeating the same thing, forgetting the meaning of the words, just filling the space with this anger.
"Puppies! Worms! Puppies and worms! Worms and puppies!" I screamed.
Every word burst out of me like an explosion, like a curse, and I didn't know who it was addressed to. This psycho? Myself?
"Vitaly Ivolginsky, you, your scallop, your songs, your delirium - all this is spinning in my head. You are a worm, not a puppy. You are nothing," I repeated to myself.
But was there anyone in that room to hear me? It didn't matter. The walls absorbed my screams, and it was as if I knew no one would hear me. I was alone. Just me and my thoughts. I screamed until my throat hurt, until I felt like everything inside me was compressed into one point.
I stopped, suddenly realizing that I couldn't go on. Silence filled the space. No answers. No responses. Just me and my own words, which were slowly losing their meaning. Breath by breath, I felt my breathing return to normal, but what really struck me was that I suddenly realized that I didn't know what to do anymore.
Puppies and worms… what does that even mean? Why did I keep saying those words as if they changed anything?
But what if it really doesn't matter? What if Vitaly Ivolginsky, all this nonsense, and even me are all just part of some crazy game that I can't win?
I sat up, looking into the dark space of the room again. The songs were still playing, but now that I had calmed down a bit, I noticed the source of the sound. A tape recorder. It stood in the corner, completely ordinary, no different from hundreds of others that could be found in houses, old hotels and forgotten basements.
It wasn't connected to anything obvious, no wires were visible. But the sound kept coming. I turned my head, trying to assess where the electricity was coming from, but there was no outlet or power source in sight. It was some kind of bloody paradox.
The songs… they kept playing, never stopping. I felt goosebumps running down my spine. This wasn't normal. This couldn't be real. How could he control this? And why was this haunting me so much?
I got out of bed and walked towards the tape recorder, despite the slight trembling in my legs. I walked closer and brushed the dust off its surface, feeling that moment of growing fear. I was afraid of what might be inside. Could I turn off the sound? I turned the knob and a cassette jumped out into my hands.
I stood there, holding it in my hands, and felt a wave of rage wash over me. On the label, which I could barely make out in the dim light, was clearly written: "Viera, Vieira 82!" Not just a meaningless word, but my wife's name. In her last name. And the year of her birth, with a mocking emphasis on the last two digits, "82." This was not just writing on a cassette. This was the scream of a madman who believed he could control my life, my memories, even the memories of my wife. This bastard, this Vitaly Ivolginsky, continued to manipulate my reality anyway, even though he was probably far away from me. But it didn't matter. His presence was everywhere.
Anger filled me. He couldn't even spell her last name correctly. "Viera." He wrote it as if he wanted to insult me, as if he was sure I wouldn't be able to see that small mistake. He was playing with me. Playing with my memories. I stared at the tape, clutching it in my hands, and my heart beat faster because he made me feel his presence again.
The forces of anger rose up inside me like a storm, ready to break out. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself, but I couldn't. Everything inside was screaming. Everything was filled with his mockery, his obsession. He was playing with me again.
At that moment I realized that I couldn't stop. I couldn't just stand there and wait for this asshole to interfere with my life again. He kept existing, kept writing his songs, creating his fantasies. And no matter what happened, I couldn't let him win.
I opened the tape recorder door and inserted the tape. My fingers were shaking, but I forced myself not to be afraid. I waited, holding my breath. All I needed to do was hear his voice. His singing. Anything to end this nightmare.
The sound turned on almost immediately. At first it was quiet, as if someone was slowly turning up the volume control. And then, as if someone had grabbed me by the throat, the sound filled the room.
Songs. Songs he wrote, whispering in his ear, smugly rasping his notes. I knew those words. I knew the horror he was trying to turn into music.
And I felt my anger taking over me again. I didn't think I would do it. But the moment the sound began to fill the room, something inside me tightened and I couldn't hold back. My body acted faster than my mind. Without thinking, I began to break the tape. I crushed it with my hands, twisting the plastic with force, trying to get rid of the nightmare it brought.
The plastic snapped, cracking like ice. I felt the tape crumble like sand, and something inside me was released. But even in the madness, I could hear his voice, faint, distant, sliding through the broken tape. Another scream, another song trying to cut through my chaos.
"Fucking psycho," I whispered through my teeth, continuing to break.
I knew it wouldn't stop him, that it was all pointless. But in that moment, I just needed to destroy. I wanted that tape, that music, that part of his terror to disappear.
Every piece of plastic I tore felt like a victory in my head. I thought that this asshole wouldn't be able to manipulate me anymore, wouldn't be able to make me relive that horrible time.
But as I tore the tape apart, I couldn't shake the thought: What if I find myself back in this world? What if it doesn't end, despite everything I've done?
When I finally clutched the last fragments of the tape, I felt an emptiness. It wasn't enough. Still, something inside me was constantly reaching into the past, into those terrible sounds, into that hateful reality that Ivolginsky had created.
I looked at the remains of the tape, which now lay in tatters on the floor. The anger had subsided, but its traces remained. I stood up, standing in the middle of the torn pieces, and felt the world turn on me again.
I stood in the center of my small hospital room, surrounded by the wreckage of things that might once have been important but were now just trash. As I tore apart the tape, I felt all the absurdity, all the rage I'd been building up, dissolving into nothingness. I didn't know what to do next. I felt a sense of hopelessness wash over me, as if I'd been wasting my life on destruction, on fighting something that maybe wasn't worth fighting for.
I turned around, looking at the torn pages of the book, the pieces of plastic from the cassette, the restless shadow that slid along the walls. I was trapped. I had no goals, no meaning. Everything I did was just a reflection of the same mad passion with which that psycho, Ivolginsky, created his dirty masterpieces. Created! Yes, he was crazy, but he was a creator. I was only a destroyer. I broke to stop, to forget, but I couldn't forget.
"How am I better than him?" I thought, feeling the terrible truth sinking in.
I tried to run away from this thought, but it wouldn't let go. He was creating his own crazy reality, and I was trying to destroy his world, as if that could bring me relief.
I may not have been like him, but in a sense I was no different. Ivolginsky created his pain, and I destroyed it, not realizing that all of this was just two sides of the same coin. I was not better, I was in the same abyss, in the same psychosis, only expressed in a different form.
Sit down. Calm down. It was the only way. I took the last piece of the tape in my hands and felt the anger slowly fading. I didn't know what would happen next, but if I didn't stop, I would become part of what I hated.
I glanced at the silent tape recorder, feeling the heavy, oppressive feeling slowly begin to recede. Emotions raged inside me, but I forced myself to stop. It was as if I was not only destroying these things, but destroying myself. I gripped the edge of my bed, feeling my fingers begin to tremble. The urge to continue to break, to destroy, to tear apart this world he had created was like a drug, but I knew that if I gave in to it, I would not be able to go back.
The tape recorder stood before me like a soulless witness. It was not guilty. All it could do was play the sound, record it, capture it in the fragments of this insane reality. But none of that mattered. I could no longer continue.
"Quiet..." I whispered under my breath, closing my eyes.
Maybe it was the only way to survive. To stop. To not be like him. To not be this crazy person who destroys everything he doesn't like.
I picked up the tape recorder, letting it fall back onto the shelf with no strength, and sat down on the edge of the bed. I had that choice before me - stop or continue. I knew that if I chose the path of destruction, I would lose everything that was left inside me. Maybe I had never been so close to destroying myself as I was at that moment.
I took a deep breath, closing my eyes again.
"Enough," I thought.
I didn't know what to do. Everything was as before, only now I carried this weight with me, this knowledge that didn't allow me to breathe easily. Everything I knew about my wife was now poisoned by this man, this psycho. A dirty admirer. Yes, he was dead, but his shadow hung over us with every step, with every breath.
I thought that maybe it was all just a game. A game where every move had been made long ago, and I was just one of its pieces. He was gone, but his fanatical desire to destroy and take over, to replace reality-all that remained. The memory of him remained, and with it-this book, these songs, this horror.