The moment I began to realize that Vitaly Ivolginsky's songs were not just an expression of a desire to be with her, but a real cry from his soul, I realized how tragic his situation was. He did not just dream about her, he suffered from the fact that he could not understand why she was the way she was.
He didn't shout:
"I WANT TO BE WITH YOU!"
No! What the hell! He asked:
"WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!"
This was his despair. He was trying to find an answer to why she didn't fit his idealized image. Why couldn't she be the angel he'd imagined her to be? Why was she part of a dirty, real world that didn't match his idea of what she should be? Why didn't her real life match up with the one he'd imagined?
And then it became clear to me: he wasn't interested in the simple fact of being with her. He didn't want just love, he wanted answers to these questions that were tormenting him inside. He was trying to extract some meaning from her that would justify his obsession, his passion, his pain. But there was none. Reality was cruel, and it swallowed him.
He couldn't just love her like normal people would. He was looking for something more. He wanted her to live up to his ideals, to live up to his fantasies. He wanted her to be who he had seen her in his sick dreams, not who she really was.
I realized that this was his tragedy. It wasn't just a desire. It was a cry of pain, misunderstanding, despair. And the more he tried to force her into his fantasies, the more she slipped away. And instead of simply accepting her, he sank deeper into madness, losing himself.
And then it dawned on me: he was Russian. His world, his upbringing, his experiences were coloured by what I could call "the legacy of the Soviet system". That he was part of this world, where emotions were repressed and values often turned into hypocrisy, was now obvious to me.
A Russian, born and raised in a society where there was no place for true feelings, where sex was a taboo subject and spirituality was almost obscurantism, where everyone was assigned duties and a form of behavior that had to be observed for the sake of the "collective good." Vitaly would have been part of this. Maybe he himself did not understand it, but his entire psyche, his internal conflict with Asia, its image, its life - all this broke out of the gloomy and harsh reality in which he grew up.
The Soviet model of society not only did not teach how to express emotions, it suppressed them, turning them into hidden and terrible forms. Emotions became essentially mute, replacing them with artificial standards in which there was no room for genuine sensuality. Vitaly was the heir to this world, and his feeling of love for Asia was not simple romanticism, but rather some kind of painful, blind attachment arising from his unfulfilled needs, an invisible longing for life, squeezed within the framework of what he was allowed to feel. And instead of being a healthy person, open to the world, he became the personification of the contradictions of his era.
He could not perceive a woman as a real person, with her desires, mistakes, freedom. He saw in her only his ideal, created in the emptiness of his consciousness. And in this ideal there was no place for her real life. But this emptiness, this inability to live her life as a normal person, the desire to push her into reality, where sex was a taboo topic, and everything real was forbidden, turned into a burning and painful desire to destroy her ideal, which did not coincide with what he had drawn for himself.
And that's when I realized - Asia didn't need anything from him. She was a real woman, living her life, making her own choices. And he was trapped in the world he had created for himself, a world where his feelings had no right to exist. The same world that had given birth to this sick, blind attachment to a woman, not understanding her as a living person, but only as a reflection of his own idealized dream.
Yes, I thought, in his mind, Asia Vieira had become more than just a woman. She had become a symbol, an object of faith. It was not just a crush or even a love affair - it was a religious veneration. For him, she represented something sacred, something unattainable, and therefore it was impossible to perceive her as an ordinary person with her weaknesses and desires.
He was an atheist, like most people brought up in the Soviet system, where faith in God was replaced by the dogmas of materialism and socialist ideas. Anything that did not defy logic and rationality was considered an illusion, a fiction, a lie. In this cold, impartial world, there was no room for religious experiences, for faith in something greater than what could be touched or seen. However, when Ivolginsky encountered Asia, when he saw her and felt this attachment, something inside him collapsed. And he, unable to understand his feelings, began to look not for a logical explanation, but for a spiritual one.
For him, Asia was not a woman, but an image. This image was not just the appearance of an actress, but something that could fill the void, something that could become the meaning of his life. Probably, at the moment when Ivolginsky fell in love with her image, he no longer looked for rational explanations. He believed in her. Believed as in a religion. He could be an atheist, but in this case, faith in her became the only possible replacement for the lost faith in something greater. Faith in Asia Vieira was a way to escape the inner emptiness, like faith in God for people in crisis.
And his affection began to turn into a morbid cult. He could not understand that she was just a woman, with her own interests, desires, mistakes and fears. She was a divine, holy figure for him. And, of course, all this divinity was destroyed when reality came into conflict with his dreams. When she became just an actress starring in cheap films, when her naked scenes and recent elections became part of a world that Ivolginsky could not accept.
It was a tragedy. She was certainly not to blame for what was happening to him, but for him her existence was a catastrophe. He had created an ideal for himself that did not exist in real life, and the destruction of this ideal was the cause of his madness. It was not just fanaticism, it was an attempt to recreate a faith in which, in the end, he himself was lost.
Now, understanding this, I felt that I understood Ivolginsky without justifying him. But at the same time, I could not shake the feeling that his tragedy was not unique. His faith was distorted, and his love was not love, but illness.
Yes, there was another side to Ivolginsky's tragedy. In his world, sex did not exist. He grew up in a system where sex was looked upon with disdain, as something base, forbidden, even sinful. In the Soviet Union, especially among men raised in an atmosphere of asceticism, sex was not part of normal life. It was hidden, taboo, and any manifestation of sexuality was perceived as something shameful, unworthy. For Ivolginsky, it was not just the absence of sex, but the absence of the very idea of sexuality as part of human nature.
When he was confronted with the reality that Asia Vieira, his ideal, the figure he had seen as divine, could be erotic, sexual, his world came crashing down. He was dumbfounded. Everything he had believed in, all his fantasies and image, was crumbling before him. As someone who had never had access to these simple human feelings, he was unprepared to face it.
His perception of her as a holy, pure figure could not cope with the reality that she was a sexy woman. It was a shock to him. He did not understand how it was possible to be both sacred and sexy. Everything he had created in his head, the whole image he had built, came crashing down. That moment, the moment he saw her naked, was the collapse of the ideal for him.
This was his first, violent conflict with reality. His ideal was so incompatible with this new knowledge that he simply could not comprehend it. She was not just an object of love and veneration. She had become a real person. This was not a disease of sexual desire. This was the destruction of his worldview, his religion, his faith. Sex was not just a prohibition for him, but an absolute taboo, part of a system that did not allow desire. And now, faced with this, he could not forgive her for not being an angel, but an ordinary woman with flesh, who had the right to her sexuality.
And this conflict within him - between purity and flesh, between holiness and ordinariness - was what drove him to madness. For him, it was not just horror. It was as if all his faith in her holiness had been shattered by one look at her body, at her humanity.
And this process of perception, of realizing the destroyed ideal, was his torture. The torture that led to his madness. He could not reconcile himself to this break, to the fact that his divine Asia Vieira was only a woman.
I also realized that rock and roll was also something unacceptable, alien, even dangerous for Ivolginsky. After all, in the Soviet Union, rock music was associated with counterculture, with protest, with the "rot" of the West, which was destroying traditional values, the way of life and order of Russians. For most people in the USSR, rock was not just music - it was something forbidden, something dangerous, which challenged everything they had been taught since childhood. It was a protest, an expression of freedom that did not obey strict rules. For Ivolginsky, who grew up in such a system, rock became something painful, but inevitable.
When he started listening to these songs, he had a hard time understanding what it was: music, the embodiment of destruction, or exactly what he needed to express his pain, his hatred for the world and for himself. He had been brought up on strict moral codes, on a system that condemned everything that went beyond the permissible. And now, when his own perception of the world had collapsed, he succumbed to rock music, not knowing how to cope with it.
The songs became an expression of his inner conflict, a reaction to what was happening. They contained his entire protest - against her sexuality, against a world he could not understand. His neurosis and madness merged with music, which became like a drug for him - too sweet, too dangerous and at the same time too strong to give up. Rock and roll was not just entertainment for him - it was a protest statement. With it, he tried to perceive reality anew. As if this genre of music itself could explain everything that was happening in his head.
Every song was a scream. A scream of his pain and his rage. Not just outrage. It was a reaction to everything that was destroying his worldview. Rock was the link between his idealized image of Asia Vieira and the reality he couldn't fit into. No matter how much he tried to rise in his thoughts, these songs dragged him back to the darkest side, to what he couldn't accept.
He didn't understand why he was so attached to this style, why he was drawn to this "rotten" music. But perhaps this was his inner conflict, his attempt to awaken something alive in himself, as if destroying the last wall separating him from the real world. And the songs he wrote were his last cry, the last reminder of how much he wanted to be near her, how much he wanted to destroy this idealized image and still be with her in reality.
In the Soviet Union, censorship was ubiquitous, and it affected not only state propaganda, but everything that was published, be it books, articles, or even music. Anything that contradicted the official line was strictly forbidden. Any form of expression that went beyond the established ideology was subject to strict control.
And this "fanfreak" about a girl Delia and a man Jordan Thurlow, which at first glance seemed absurd and meaningless, was part of the hidden message that Ivolginsky was trying to convey. Censorship did not allow him to express his thoughts directly, and he was forced to resort to symbols, metaphors and even fictional characters to hide his real emotions and motives. The girl Delia and Jordan Thurlow were not just random characters - they reflected his internal conflict, his idea of love, passion and destruction.
Delia was probably an allegory for the idealized image of a woman he carried in his heart. She was "pure," innocent, almost saintly. In his eyes, she was the angel he was trying to find in the real world but could not reach. Jordan Thurlow was probably a projection of the man who could not be with her because he was the one who gave in to his weaknesses and failed to preserve the ideal that Ivolginsky had created in his head.
These symbols and characters were not just a product of his imagination. They were a way to hide his pain and disappointment that the real world did not match his idealized expectations. In the USSR, where reality was so limited and tightly controlled, Ivolginsky could not express his true feelings directly. He was forced to resort to hidden codes, metaphors and symbols to express his mental pain, his misunderstanding of what was happening, his desire to destroy the idealized image and regain at least a piece of reality.
But there was an irony in this, as in everything else. The system that was supposed to limit creativity actually created space for him to think much deeper and darker thoughts that might normally have remained hidden. And this "fanfreak," seemingly meaningless and far from reality, was part of his attempt to break free from the limitations and express everything that was really going on in his mind.
I sat in the room, trying to process everything that had happened. My brain was boiling with thoughts, but at some point they all froze. Who showed me the film? It wasn't just a film - it was a scene with Asia Vieira, her acting, her body, her presence on the screen. But there was no projector, no TV. Everything was so strange and absurd. It was as if the film itself had been implanted in my mind.
I felt like I should have been looking for a rational explanation, but instead I was overcome with a dull terror. Had I gone crazy again? It was so real, yet so impossible. I remembered not seeing a screen, not hearing sounds, not feeling the images moving in the room. But the film itself was inside me, as if it were projected directly into my eyes.
I stood up and went to the window, trying to come to my senses a little. The outside world was quiet and calm, as if nothing was happening. But in my head there were voices, fragments of songs, memories. Songs by Vitaly Ivolginsky. How strange. After all, he was already dead. Or at least in another world.
Where am I? Why am I here? And who are all these people? Why does every step, every glance into this room lead me to new, crazy conclusions? Suddenly a thought occurred to me: maybe this wasn't a movie? Maybe this was a memory pulled from the depths of my memory, from a time when I was still in real life, in the ordinary world, before I came here?
I turned sharply toward my bed and saw the book I had once torn out lying on the table. Now it lay quietly, as if nothing had happened. I opened it to the very page where the fanfreak with the girl and Jordan Thurlow had been, and again I felt my heart squeeze. It was all connected. It was all connected. This movie, these songs, these pictures, it was all intertwined.
But why? Why show me a film about my wife? Why did this monster, Vitaly Ivolginsky, interfere in my life so cruelly? And why did it all continue now, as if his madness had not left me even in this place?
My gaze slid over the wall, and I saw again that word I couldn't forget: "avlivro." The answer was there, right in front of me, but I didn't know what to do with it. Why was it so attention-grabbing? What did it mean? At that moment, I felt like I was on the brink of some kind of realization, that this riddle, like everything else in my life, was not accidental.
I looked up and realized with surprise that this word wasn't just smoldering on the wall - it was somehow connected to those strange events that had happened in my life. All this time, I didn't know what was really going on. The cassette with the songs, this book, even Vitaly Ivolginsky himself - all of this was part of something bigger, not just an accident, but someone's terrible game.
As I reread the word in my head, a thought struck me. " a vlivro"... It was a way of writing the name of my wife, Asia Vieira, through a mysterious word that appeared only now, in front of me. And then I understood: this whole story, this whole game with psychopaths, with songs, pictures and "fanfreak" - all this was connected with her past, with what she did not tell me. This sick Russian maniac, this Vitaly Ivolginsky - he knew what was hidden in her life.
But who supported him in this? Who wrote this whole book? Who was the anonymous person hiding his identity? Perhaps Ivolginsky himself created this whole nightmare, but now another thought appeared in my mind - maybe it was someone else, hiding behind this name, who created him, who made him become what he was?
The word "avlivro" turned out to be just a small key that opened another door to this world for me. A world where real feelings are intertwined with manipulations, and people are puppets in a game they cannot understand.
I sat on my bed in the ward and couldn't get rid of the thoughts about that strange word on the wall - "avlivro". It haunted me, and the more I thought about its meaning, the more important it became. I decided that the mystery of this word was gnawing at me, and I turned to what had long been my only ally - Holy Google.
As soon as I opened the browser on my phone, my fingers began typing a search query. The word "avlivro" seemed so simple and mysterious at the same time. I typed it into the search bar, feeling the tension growing inside me. I hoped that now I would reveal the hidden secret that tormented my soul.
The search results were like a murky mirror. In most cases, Google couldn't find exact matches, and that only added to the mystique. I scrolled through the pages, but only meaningless matches and some strange, unknown links flashed across the screens. But I didn't give up. After all, this was Google! It could reveal everything.
Then I tried to modify the query a little, adding the words "Asia Vieira", "Viera" and something else that could hint why this particular word was associated with her name. Suddenly, something strange appeared - several links to forums where some unidentified texts related to actors were discussed. But this was not what I expected.
With each new click I felt something unknown happening. These Internet pages, like labyrinths, led me further and further, but without a clear exit. I was sure that "avlivro" was the key, but I could not understand which door it led to.
And finally, after a long and persistent search, I finally found something. It wasn't just some random blog - it was a whole website connected to that same psycho, that Vitaly Ivolginsky. But what's even stranger is that he created it on a GitHub subdomain. This is strange, because to host a full-fledged website, you usually need money for a domain and hosting. But this psycho was apparently so destitute and desperate that he used free services to develop and host his obscurantist content.
I was stunned. This site is like some kind of final reflection of his madness. He used these platforms to transmit his songs, drawings and texts until the very end. Even without the ability to pay for a normal domain, this psycho continued to create. Everything is at the same level as before: primitive, but painfully sincere.
The subdomain I encountered hosted files and notes that Vitaly apparently considered his legacy. It was his work, his final cry into the void, left online so that even after his death it could be found and perhaps understood.
I was scrolling through the site, and with every click my hatred and disgust only grew. He posted absolutely everything: every picture, every song, every recording, every text. But what really shocked me was that one of his posts was an article about my wife, Asia Vieira. Oh, God! As soon as I realized it was her, her first name, last name, the details he knew... I wanted to scream with rage. This freak not only drew and sang, but also took over her life, as if he could fill her reality.
Almost every word of the article was laced with his obsession, and I felt my heart clench with the knowledge that he knew so much more than I could ever have imagined. He had been watching her like a maniac all this time, infiltrating every aspect of her life. And now, here it was, his monstrous legacy on the internet, where I walked, unsure of what I would find with each click.
I tried to find the "complain" button, but I couldn't find it. Maybe I was looking in the wrong place - and, frankly, I didn't care. I couldn't think logically anymore, I was in some kind of abyss of rage and horror, confusion. This site was a part of him, Vitaly Ivolginsky. It still existed, despite his death, it continued its game, despite all my attempts to destroy it.
The knowledge that this site would not only remain, but would continue to be accessible to others, tormented me. I didn't know what to do with this information, this terrible truth.
I kept scrolling through the site, but every time I looked at the pictures it was like a blow. This girl, she was everywhere. In a dress, with brown hair, as always. She was not a specific image, but rather the embodiment of something. Perhaps childish innocence, or perhaps something much darker. I could not understand what it was about this girl that attracted Vitaly Ivolginsky so much, but I felt that it was something that defied explanation.
With each image I felt more and more that this girl was not just an imaginary image, but real to him. And that was the tragedy, as if she were the embodiment of his pain, his impossible love.
Pictures, lines, songs, all of it merged into something eerie, and now that I saw it, I couldn't shake the feeling that I, too, had become part of this story, some invisible, terrible game that he had started even before his death.