Asia Vieira, I love you!

I picked up the book again, feeling the cold weight of the metal-the pages saturated with madness-pressing on me. My fingers nervously fingered the pages, and my gaze picked out every letter, every word, like poison slowly penetrating the blood. I returned to that same "fanfreak", rereading those vile lines over and over again. And with every word, the hatred for the author, for that psycho, Vitaly Ivolginsky, grew like a black cloud, ready to swallow me whole.

Yes, yes, yes! I hated him. I hated him through the lines of his madness. Every word, every description, every detail he left seemed to me an attempt to drag me into this hell he had plunged himself into. I felt his presence, his smell, as if he were here, next to me, sitting and laughing. Laughing at me because I had become his prisoner, part of his game, without even knowing it.

I cursed every page, cursed his sick fantasy, his dirty dreams, his immoral thoughts that he tried to convey to me through these absurd words. He made me believe that I knew him, that I myself had become a part of him, that I was not just a witness to his madness, but also its continuation. Every word from his "fanfreak" made me think of how he sat in his dirty room, in his obscurantist world, and believed that his words and thoughts could revive something living, that they could penetrate someone else's soul and tear it apart as if it were his own.

I burned each letter as if it were a living being that I had to destroy. But instead of destroying it, I felt its words taking over me. The hatred I felt for the Vitaly's turned into rage. I couldn't just read anymore-I wanted to destroy everything, rip out each letter and strangle it so that it could no longer threaten me.

I leafed through the book with trembling hands, trying not to look at the pictures. However, something inside me made me continue. I couldn't tear myself away from this strange feeling that I needed to see everything, to the last, despite the horror that grew with each glance. And then I came across the picture again.

She was the same as the previous ones. The same girl in a brown dress, with brown hair, sitting, standing or just standing in some frozen position. It would seem that there was nothing unusual. But what she was holding in her hands made me literally freeze.

She held a small piece of paper in both hands. It wasn't just a piece of paper, it was something I felt with my whole being. I couldn't figure out what was on it, but something in the girl's gaze and her posture made me not dare to look. A sense of danger, as if something... something unimaginably bad was waiting for me if I looked.

I recoiled, throwing the book aside as if it were a snake I had just grabbed by the tail. My heart was pounding, my breath was ragged. I sat there, stunned, unable to move. I didn't even have the strength to stand up and pick up the book. It seemed to me that the room had become darker, the air heavier, and I was alone in some kind of tormented dream that would not end.

I was afraid to look again. Afraid to see what was written on that piece of paper. I didn't know what it could be, but I had one feeling - something I definitely shouldn't know.

Then I stood up, walked to the window and tried to clear my thoughts. My hand was shaking when I touched the glass. I tried to understand what had happened. But something in me was drawn to return to the book, to pick it up again and turn the page. I felt my anxiety growing, somehow pulling me into this world in which I had not been the master of my thoughts for a long time.

I held the book in my hands, feeling a tremor run through my fingers. My gaze clung to the words that Vitaly Ivolginsky had left, and everything inside me shrank with horror. I couldn't believe what I saw. I was afraid to even breathe, afraid that if I made even the slightest movement, this book would somehow suck me in, capture me, and not let go.

On the piece of paper the girl in the picture was holding was a huge, ugly, screaming message. The words weren't just text. They were like a knife stabbing into me.

"ASIA VIEIRA, I LOVE YOU!" these words were written with such terrible persistence, with such manic desire, that I felt a cold wave of fear roll over me.

I froze, unsure what to do. Every word on that page seemed to be burned into my brain. I could tell this was crazy, that this was a psychopath I shouldn't argue with, but… but this text was personal. It was something that didn't belong to me, that shouldn't be in my life. And it spoke directly to my wife.

I closed my eyes, trying to exhale, but everything inside me was seething. I imagined Vitaly Ivolginsky, that freak, standing there writing these lines, and my heart sank with rage. If he were nearby, I wouldn't be able to hold back. I would kill him.

I turned the page and found that the book continued. But I didn't want to read. Everything I saw was about this mania, this monstrous distortion of feelings for my wife. I put the book down, deciding that I couldn't look at it anymore. But that didn't mean I forgot what I had just seen.

The feeling filled me, took over completely. I felt my thoughts starting to get confused, and fear was taking over me again. I couldn't trust my eyes anymore. Everything I knew up until that moment was now in question. And I no longer knew what would happen next.

I sat there, holding the book in my hands, trying to comprehend what was happening. My thoughts were all jumbled up in my head, and with every glance at the pages I felt an unimaginable anger and anxiety overflowing within me. I literally felt like every word on those pages was burning out of my mind, leaving only emptiness, hatred, and fear. At that moment, I felt like I would tear the book apart. I wanted to just destroy it, throw it away, and forget that I ever picked it up.

I could hardly contain myself. Because part of me understood: the book was not written by Vitaly Ivolginsky. It was not him. It was an anonymous psychologist. A psychologist who, despite all his efforts, could not pull his patient out of the abyss of madness, could not give him freedom. This "anonymous" was not to blame for Ivolginsky's abominations, was not responsible for his mental state. But… how then could I come to terms with the fact that I had to read these lines, descriptions that turned my understanding of everything that was happening upside down?