What is "avlivro"?

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.