What had changed, really? Perhaps nothing. I was still alone, consumed by this obsession that there was no room in my life for the world as it was. Asia Vieira. She was a star in history, and for this psycho, she was more than just a woman. She was a target, an ideal, a victim. And I was her husband, her protector, or someone who just happened to be in the way of this evil game.
But now I had a hard time finding a place for it in this reality, where all that remained were memories and pictures drawn by someone's sick hands. Why was I so weak that I let this touch me at all? Why did I let this be reborn in my life?
I sat there, trying to comprehend it all. And at some point I realized that the songs, the letters, this "fanfreak" - all of this was like an unbearable poison that was eating away at my consciousness. I sat there, digesting these absurd lines, the terrible images and sounds that continued to resound in my head. It was like an endless spiral in which I wandered, having no way back. Everything that was happening seemed like part of some kind of nightmare from which I could not wake up.
What should I do with this knowledge? With this horror that Vitaly Ivolginsky was somehow connected to my wife, and that he continued to haunt us, even after his death? I could not forget those lines, those strange songs, those pictures of a girl with brown hair holding a piece of paper with her name in her hands. I was connected to it, as if I had become part of his crazy game.
I tried to calm down. I got out of bed and went to the window. Cars were driving down below, people were walking along the streets, an ordinary day. But how could I return to this ordinary world if I had this damn "fanfreak" in my head, the songs, his letters and thoughts that now did not leave me? My life turned into a strange kaleidoscope, where reality merged with madness, and I could not understand where one ended and the other began.
I decided I needed to get rid of all of this. Leave the book, the tapes, the recordings, all this evidence that this psycho was with us even when he wasn't. But where could I put them? Burn them? But would that destroy their influence? Or would they haunt me like a shadow for a long time?
Maybe I should just forget, try to start over? But how can I forget when my life turns into a theater of the absurd, where all my memories of my wife, of the past, are tainted by this nightmare?
I wondered again what kind of man he was. Why had he lost touch with reality, why had he written about my wife, then an actress? What kind of face did this psychopath look at the world with, and what made him twist love, or what he called love, into such dark and twisted forms?
Bits and pieces of what I had read kept spinning around in my head - his letters, his lyrics, his pictures. He wasn't just a fan, he was obsessed. Maybe I was just a character in his personal drama, and Asia Vieira was some kind of bright symbol he was striving for, even if that striving led him to the edge of the abyss.
I tried to imagine his life. He was younger than my wife, as I understood from his songs. Perhaps he was one of those people who lived their youth on the edge of reality, trying to find meaning in their painful feelings. Maybe his childhood was as confused and unhappy as his soul. No wonder he went down this path. But why couldn't he stop? Why didn't he seek help when he had long since lost his mind?
I tried to imagine what could have happened to him if someone had stopped him earlier, if someone had shown him that his desires were not love, but an illness. But now, looking at all this, I understood - it was too late. His fantasies, his monologues, his cruel songs - all this was too far from the normal world. It seemed like he was just another lost person, but his interference in my life, in the life of my wife, destroyed everything.
And then I thought about how if this had continued… If he had continued to live among us, I might never have known the whole horrible truth. It would have just been a series of strange events that I couldn't explain. But now that I knew this psycho had left his mark on our lives, it felt like I couldn't escape his shadow.
Why? Why did he choose my wife? Why did she become the object of his obsession? Why did his love for her lead him to this terrible path? After all, she was just a girl, an actress, with her dreams and ambitions. She did not deserve any of this.
I wondered again. Maybe he saw something in her that I didn't? Maybe she was something he couldn't achieve on his own, or something he wanted to make his own, to feel powerful, to feel important?
There were no answers, and I felt more and more that with every step, with every mental leap into the past, I was plunging deeper into his world - a world where there are no norms, no boundaries between reality and madness.
I remembered that he was Russian, according to the book. That explained a lot. He had never been anywhere but Russia, and in my wife he saw the foreign land he could only dream of. Asia Vieira, an actress who had become famous beyond her country's borders, with her bright, expressive appearance, with her life full of opportunities and successes. For him, that was something unattainable. She was a symbol of something else, something better, something he would never get. She was what he wanted, what he dreamed of, but which remained unattainable for him.
I could understand why he had become obsessed with her. I could understand how his limited world in Russia could fill with fantasies about a man who was far away, a girl he had only seen on TV and in newspapers. For him, Asia Vieira, with her eyes, her charisma, her success, could be the embodiment of everything he wanted to have but could not. She became some kind of ideal for him, an unattainable peak to which he aspired despite his desperate helplessness.
But what could have made him cross the line? What could have pushed him down this path? One thought, one obsession, that he could be with her - he, so small, unknown, weak, dirty. And how this poor psycho had tried to make her a part of his life, in reality only by absorbing her image. He did not understand that the love he felt was not love, but a sick obsession.
His view of the world was distorted, his ideas about how he could be with her were as absurd as his letters, his music, his paintings. He didn't want to just love her - he wanted her to be his, whatever the cost. And when she rejected him, he couldn't understand how that was possible. He was, to himself, the most important person in the world, and all he could do was twist his feelings into something twisted, painful.
It became clear to me that he was alone. So alone that he had allowed his fantasy to consume his mind. And now that I stood before it all, trying to understand this man's motives, I suddenly felt ashamed. So much rage, so much hatred for what he had done. But was I better than him? I had destroyed his images, his works, torn them up, broken them. But that wasn't a real fight either. It was my own attempt to get rid of what I thought could destroy me.
I looked around. This was all so far from normal life that I didn't know how to live in this world anymore. Where was my wife? What was wrong with her? Why was I here? All I knew was that something terrible connected her to this psycho, and that something was becoming a part of me, a part of my perception of the world. But what if this whole story was just a twisted game that was going on in my head?
I began to realize that all this time I had been looking at the situation incorrectly. This man, Vitaly Ivolginsky, was nothing more than a victim, a pathetic and sick man who, like so many others, was consumed by his pain and insane attachment. But there was nothing surprising about it. It was not his fault that he had become like this. It was the fault of the circumstances in which he found himself. It was his dreams, his illusions about life that could never become reality. He had become a victim of his own fantasies and unfulfillable desires. But the main thing I realized was that Asia Vieira, my wife, was actually the strong side in this struggle.
I had long tried to imagine what was really going on. How could she have influenced him? Why had this man become obsessed with her, why could he not let go of her image, and why was her relentless rejection not strong enough to stop him? And now I realized that she was the one who was really driving this story, at least subconsciously.
Asia Vieira. She wasn't just an actress. She was a woman who could manipulate people, their feelings. She was so strong, so bright, that even in the most simple encounters she left a deep mark on people. She could be the one who paints this crazy picture, making the man who loved her crumble. She was the one who opened the door to his world without saying a word, without knowing that she would destroy him. She was like a fire that sparkles, but gives no heat.
Vitaly wasn't her partner. He was just a reflection of her power. He was in her world, full of hopes and desires, and she let him believe that everything was possible. But in reality, she was never interested in him. She didn't know he existed. And he, poor psycho, built a whole reality around her that had nothing to do with what was really there.
And now that I realized that she was the one who pushed him into this abyss, it made me feel bitter. Because Asia was the one who didn't let him go. She was the one who pushed him into this madness, who knows what, leaving him to his own demons. There was more destruction in her silence than in his words.
I realized that she was not just a victim, as I had tried to imagine before. She was the one who made him go crazy. Everything that happened to him was a consequence of her indifference. She could have stopped him. But she didn't. And that was her real road to hell.
I sat in the room, still stunned by what had happened. Suddenly, as if in response to my thoughts, the wall in front of me began to flicker dimly. And then, as if by itself, a screen appeared on it. Dim, but clear enough. At first I thought it was another hallucination, like everything else I had experienced in recent days. But the more I looked, the clearer it became that this was a real movie.
She appeared on the screen - Asia Vieira. I recognized her immediately. But this was not the image I was used to seeing. Not the bright, self-assured woman I admired. This was a young Asia, still at the very beginning of her career. She sat in the frame, playing a secondary role, the one that leaves no trace in the minds of viewers. Her image was barely noticeable, and her gaze was empty and indifferent, as if she was not really there.
The film was old, obviously shot many years ago, but every moment of it seemed too alive, too real, as if what was happening on the screen was happening here and now. I tried to understand what kind of film it was and why it was appearing on the wall. But I couldn't. The plot was vague, and my attention was always drawn to her figure, to the way she moved across the frame like a shadow. Nothing else mattered.
I tried to keep myself from getting confused about what was happening. I tried so hard not to get absorbed in this strange reality, but I still felt the screen pulling me in tighter and tighter. I couldn't look away. She was so real, so close, and yet so far away.
On screen, she moved from scene to scene like a ghost, as if she had no place in this world. And the more I watched, the more I felt a strange feeling growing inside me: Asia was not just an actress. She was part of something bigger than I could understand. And this film, this piece of her past, was like a key that would unlock the door to her secrets.
A mystery I couldn't solve.
Why was this movie playing in front of me now? Why was it playing at this moment, at this moment when I was on the brink of despair and didn't know what to do next? These thoughts were swirling around in my head, but instead of finding answers, I felt fear and curiosity overwhelm me. Something had to happen. I didn't know what it would be, but I was sure that this movie wasn't a coincidence.
I kept watching, despite the fact that the film was complete nonsense. A youth drama, soulless and primitive, with those eternal stories about love, about finding yourself and your ideals, which all modern films are full of. Asia Vieira as a student with naive eyes and a smile that could melt your heart, if not for this disgusting context. But it was her image in this film, this empty, memorized role, that for some reason did not give me peace. Why is she here? Why am I seeing her on the screen at this particular moment?
Her on-screen boyfriend was a cliche, polished, glamorous, with a perfect haircut and a typical teenage smirk. He wasn't real, he was like a cutout from a cardboard world where everything is rigged, where emotions are superficial and feelings are as fake as his snow-white shirt. And this emptiness - he, she, the two of them, like some kind of ghost, like a symbol of that very teenage love that is no different from any other. I felt this movie pissing me off, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.
As soon as I tried to look away, the film seemed to lift me up again, forcing me to follow what was happening on the screen. In this world, everything seemed alien, not real. And most importantly - Asia. She was here, but not here. Her character, like herself in this film, was not real, created by someone else's will, in order to meet some expectations.
Maybe that's what was bothering me. I couldn't figure out what to do with this feeling. The feeling that I wasn't a viewer of this film, but a part of it, absorbed by its emptiness. Why wasn't she here? Why couldn't I recognize her real role in this? And why did I need to see her here, in this stupid movie?
I couldn't take my eyes off her. On the screen, in the most stupid and unremarkable scene, Asia Vieira was naked. It wasn't erotic or beautiful, more like a poor attempt at intimacy in a film that wasn't worth watching. But the moment pierced me like a knife. It wasn't her on the screen, not the woman I knew, but an alien version that someone had made for this world-a world I didn't understand and didn't like.
The scene was clumsily staged, with unnatural camera glances, picking out excess flesh, and there was nothing alive, nothing real in her eyes. She seemed distant, empty. But her body... It was exactly what I saw on the screen, somehow alien and painful. From this scene I understood - it was as if she belonged in this film, and this role, her image, had no relation to the real Asia.
I felt something inside me start to break. My brain was trying to figure out what was happening, why was I seeing her again in this movie, why her? And what the hell were these scenes? This wasn't my Asia, not the woman I knew. She wasn't in this movie, in this shot. I couldn't understand why she was even in this, why was this done? Maybe she didn't even know what she was getting herself into? Why on earth did she have to be a part of this nonsense?
I gritted my teeth and watched the scene unfold, but the longer I watched, the more I felt. All I felt was frustration and anger. Why couldn't I bring her back? Why did I have to look at this fake picture where she wasn't there?
And then a wave of rage washed over me. It was so ordinary, so banal. I realized that all this time I had believed in something bigger than reality. I believed that Asia was not just an actress who acted for money, but that her actions and choices made sense, that she was not like all those people obsessed with fame and money. But now that I saw her in this film, in this empty, false image, I realized: she is just like everyone else.
Acting in stupid movies, doing sex scenes for money - it was her decision, her choice. I always thought that she was above it, that she was not needed in this world. But it turned out that she was just part of the system, like everyone else. Why did she do it? Why did she allow herself to be a part of it? The questions never stopped tormenting me, but I already knew the answer. It was just her way of surviving, making money, nothing more.
My disappointment was overwhelming. Everything I knew about her was destroyed by one frame of this film. It seemed like a small thing, a scene in a cheap drama, but for me it was a turning point. All this idealization I had built around her collapsed in an instant. She was like everyone else, no better and no worse. Why had I deceived myself into thinking she was an exception?
It wasn't love, it wasn't some sacred union. It was just life. Pure, unglamorous, unromantic reality.
At that moment, when this realization hit me, everything around me seemed to freeze. Vitaly Ivolginsky had clearly seen this film. He probably sat, as I am now, in front of the screen and watched his ideal, his angel, turn into something else. It was not just a scene with a naked Asia Vieira - it was the moment when all his idealization collapsed. And at that moment, something inside this man broke. He saw what she really was. She was not an angel, but an actress who starred in cheap films, making money with this image. And for him, it was a disaster.
My heart sank. Vitaly was a psycho, but before he saw her in those scenes, maybe he was just a man who dreamed of the impossible. Who dreamed of her being perfect, unattainable, pure. But that movie, that scene, they destroyed his dreams. And instead of just accepting reality, he went down a path from which there was no return. He became a fanatic, he became a monster, because he could not bear the fact that his dream was not real.
He saw her for who she was, and it killed everything he had put into her. He couldn't allow himself to accept her humanity, her vulnerability. And perhaps in his sick mind, it felt like a betrayal. A betrayal not just for him, but for her too. He thought she was an angel, and she was just a woman living her life.
And I realized that, in essence, I was the same. I idealized her, just like he did. I thought she was above all these base things, that she was not like the others. But now I realized that all this was an illusion. She was simply part of the world into which I had drawn her. Just as Vitaly Ivolginsky was drawn into his mad obsession.
I realized that I was no better than him. We both lived in a world created by our fantasies, our expectations, and when reality destroyed this world, we could not accept it. We tried to fight it, but only created more pain and fear.
Vitaly Ivolginsky became who he became because he could not accept her human side. And me? I was ready to break under the weight of this reality. We were all prisoners of our expectations and fantasies. And no matter how I tried to justify it, no matter how I tried to justify myself, reality was inevitable.
The moment I began to understand the meaning of the songs and the pictures, everything became crystal clear. The girl in the pictures was not just a figure, it was how Vitaly Ivolginsky saw her. An angel. A pure, innocent creature that he, in his sick head, put on a pedestal, distancing herself from reality. It was his idealization, his idea of what she should be like. She was not just a woman. She was the embodiment of everything good, bright and unblemished in this world.
Songs that had tormented notes of despair, bitterness and pain, they were the expression of what he felt when reality caught up with his ideal. He tried to find her angelic essence even in all these base moments that he saw. He filled them with music, and this music became not just a cry for help, but his last attempt to save the image. But it did not help. He could no longer see her as before. He saw her in a real light, and it destroyed him.
The paintings, these strange images of a girl in a brown dress holding a piece of paper, were his way of freezing her in this idealized image. It was an attempt to keep her on the pedestal he had placed her on. But try as he might, she could not remain an angel. She was a real woman with a real life, and that reality, like his own warped notions, would sooner or later come into conflict.
I was guilty of this too. I, too, once saw her as something unattainable. She was something much more idealized for me than she actually was. But unlike Ivolginsky, I was able to accept her reality. I was ready to see her not as an angel, but as a human being.
And that was the horror. Ivolginsky, unable to accept her humanity, lost himself. He turned into a monster, trying to return her to the ideal image that she had never been. And I, standing at the other end of this story, realized that I could not justify his actions, but I myself was not free of the same illusions.