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Pieces of my memory are shattered and scattered through the universe. I don’t have a clear line, I don’t have a story told start to finish. I have huge gaps. Entire parts of life that are fog, silence, blank space. And sometimes, with no warning, a fragment shows up. A flash. A smell. An image. A feeling. A tiny piece of life that comes back from a place I didn’t even know I still had.

Many times I sit and wonder if this happens because of trauma or simply because our memory has limited space. Like old DVRs. Like those tapes we recorded over again and again because we didn’t have enough storage. And I think maybe that’s exactly what happened to me. Too many events. Too much in too short a time. Too much life compressed into too few years.

Maybe memories of people who lived a relatively linear, predictable life, without terror, without survival mode, without violent crashes, work differently. Maybe they can easily remember what happened because they never had to defend themselves from their own memories. Because their life flowed, it didn’t explode.

Mine didn’t flow. It came in brutal waves. So my memory didn’t have time to place things nicely, chronologically, coherently. It wasn’t about “remembering,” it was about “surviving.” About staying alive. My brain didn’t write a story. It threw fragments into an emergency drawer, paused them, ripped them into pieces small enough not to destroy me.

So I don’t think I forgot. I think many things were never connected at all. They remained suspended. Without a beginning or an end. Without narrative.

And maybe that’s why they come back now. Not all, not all at once, but one at a time, when they can. When I’m whole enough to hold them. Not when I was in danger, not when I was in the abyss, but now, when there’s a bit of peace, when there’s no need to survive every second.

My memory isn’t broken, it’s just shaped by what it had to carry. It’s not overfull, it was forced to be selective, to protect me. To let me move forward.And maybe what I’m doing now isn’t “getting my past back,” but gathering it, piece by piece, without rushing, without the obligation to know everything. Just to sit with whatever shows up. To put it into a form that doesn’t cut me anymore.

Maybe that’s what my memories are. Not a continuous story, but a reconstruction from shards that, placed together, start to look like a truth long buried.

Chapter 1.

I wake up in the barracks of a gendarmerie somewhere in Turkey. I don’t know exactly where I am, in what city, what month it is… I just know it’s cold and a few girls are sitting around a tiny stove, warming our hands.

I’m still glad I’m here, even if the Turkish gendarmes watching us seem to be laughing at us. I don’t understand what they’re saying, but I don’t care anymore, at least I escaped…

I’ve got a suede coat on, too thin for the bone-deep cold I feel. My thoughts are far away… thinking about how I ended up here like this. Why the hell do I always end up in such dangerous situations?

I rewind in my head the last chunk of life, not even sure how long that piece lasted, feels like a lifetime… most likely 2–3 months… maybe a little more…

I wake up scared. I had dozed off on the chair and one of the coat’s corners touched the stove and caught fire, smelled like burnt leather and choking smoke.

Great! Now I’ve got a burn hole in this useless trench on top of everything else. I look toward the gendarmes still laughing at whatever we do.

Next day we were supposed to be transferred to the Istanbul prison, where supposedly we would be sent back to our home country. Only I didn’t know how long I’d stay there and how I’d be treated, I, a victim of human trafficking, who had fought like hell to reach them.I literally fought for my life. I don’t even know how I got lucky enough to be found by the gendarmes in that nowhere-land, after struggling so damn much to get to the authorities this whole time… nothing seemed to work.It all started in a bar near the town where I was born. I was friends with the bartender and I’d gone there for some chit-chat.

I had just turned 18.

I’d been running away from home since I was a kid, but now I could finally leave for good. I could finally run from that place that had strangled me my whole life, from the people who hurt me, and start fresh, somewhere far away. That was the only thing on my mind.

Two men and a girl walk into the bar. They sat at a table, ordered expensive drinks, and asked me and the bartender what we wanted, “it’s on us.”

What?! Who would say no?! What hungry kids in ’96 said no to free alcohol? I was about to learn a lesson in the most brutal way.

Every time they ordered for themselves, they told us to get something too, and slowly they invited me to their table, we talked, I found out they were from Buzău. They said they take workforce to Turkey, have a ton of connections in all kinds of fields and the money is great.

Even the girl with them was leaving to work there. I was more and more intrigued and the idea sprouted in my mind that this was my ticket out.

Talking more in detail, I realized I didn’t have a passport. I never needed one, never thought that far. For a second I panicked, thinking my dream escaped straight to hell.

They calmed me down and told me what documents I needed to grab from home, assured me they’ve got connections everywhere, even in passport offices across the country.

My eyes lit up! God Himself had put His hand on my head, as they say. We agreed to meet next day with my papers and go get the passport.

Who would’ve thought it could be so simple? That I could escape so easily? That I’d start a life far from hell and stop being a slave to a life that already felt like 100 years?…

With these thoughts I left home the next day without telling anyone. We met, we went to the passport office, filed the documents and in a few hours I could pick it up.

Done! I had a passport! A huge joy washed over me and I already felt that nothing would ever be the same.

I remember just one of the two guys’ names — actually his nickname — probably because he was the most important and it stuck in my DNA. His nickname was Turkish and super obvious, translated it meant “The Bearded One.”

After picking up the passport, Bearded One suggested we head to Buzău, where we’d stay a few days to prepare the departure. Lots of details to arrange and we all needed to be there.

On the road we made plans, told me I would stay at his place until they set everything up.

Two hours later we reached Buzău. We walked into an apartment he shared with his wife, and there were two girls there too — the one from the bar and another one, very young, long blond hair, blue sad eyes.

They asked if I was hungry, showed me the bed where I’d sleep, in the same room as the blond girl. I was happy, everything felt like an adventure and these people seemed exactly what I needed.

Bearded One’s wife seemed nice, started cooking right away. Atmosphere was cheerful, except for the blond girl, who killed the vibe with her sad stare — I didn’t get why she wasn’t happy, she was coming with us too.

Night came and they suggested I join them in a club to celebrate the new life I was about to start, and I happily agreed. My life already looked better.

With the bar girl tagging along, we reached a club in Buzău, which seemed like it belonged to them — everybody knew them and they acted like they owned the place. We drank a lot. I danced. I was free. I finally felt like life was on my side, not punishing me.

At the end of the night, we all climbed in the car, laughing. This time the road felt longer than when we came, but I didn’t care, I felt safe.

Looking out the window I saw we passed the “Buzău” sign. Realized we were leaving town and asked where we were going. They laughed and said we were going to test what services I could offer when I leave for Turkey, because they always test the goods first.

I laughed too, not getting the joke, and then my brain clicked. A huge metal ball dropped from my throat into my stomach and paralyzed me. I began to understand. Slowly, puzzle pieces aligned. I replayed those sad blue eyes of the blond girl. Now I knew she already knew.

We reached a motel between Buzău and Rm. Sărat, in the middle of nowhere along the road, and they assured me everything would be fine if I listened and didn’t worry.

I remember in flashes opening the car door and trying to run into the dark snowy fields in slow motion… Getting caught, thrown into a room they locked, being beaten. Screaming until the walls vibrated but it felt like nobody heard.

I remember both of them naked, Bearded One’s yellow rabid eyes, the muffled howls in my head breaking into emptiness, and repeated rape until dawn.

Morning came, and I already knew my fate. I knew my dream was actually the worst nightmare.I realize I often describe periods of my life totally detached, running the narrative like I’m reading a news article, without feeling what I lived.

I completely blocked the pain to survive, not to feel “broken.”

And even though I understand circumstances and context led me where I ended up, I still sometimes — more rarely now — but still, even 30 years later — feel a hint of guilt.

“How would it have been if… if I had chosen differently, if I were ‘normal,’ if…”

I write my memories and try to figure out what I want to say. Does my tiny life seem so important that I need to write about it?

Even though I’m in my 40s, I feel like I’m 200 years old. I lived too many lives in one and if all these years I wanted to write a book, now that I finally started here, I understand why I never did before.

It’s too much. Too much pain, too much shame, too much guilt.

Back at the apartment where we stayed a few days, things became clearer, as much as I could understand at that age.

Sent to “my” room, where blondie lay in a corner of the bed, we finally started talking.

She told me what she had found out, that we were going to Turkey to “work,” and that Bearded One and the other were pimps. I asked why she hadn’t tried to run, because my plan was to escape when no one watched.

She told me with terror that we had zero chance, that everyone knew them, and whoever found us would bring us right back — she tried that already.

The next days, full of tension, they prepared the departure. We left just with the two guys and the bar girl by car — blondie stayed a few more days, “not feeling well.”

The trip was endless, especially since the guys were now showing who they really were, now that the act was over.

The weird part was that the girl from the bar seemed totally fine with it. No fear, no desire to run, nothing… I just couldn’t get it…

Eventually we reached Turkey. The whole way they greeted and knew people everywhere, which deepened my terror — that I’d never escape.

Paradoxically, the place we arrived was a slice of paradise. An older Turkish family with a beautiful house, huge yard with olive and mandarin trees, who treated the two men with respect and warmth — especially Bearded One. Like he was their own child.

The moment we got there they set a big table, great food, Turkish music, laughter. They only spoke Turkish. I tried English but nothing. I realized I could not tell anyone what was happening unless I learned Turkish — basically never?!

And why the hell did these people treat them so well??? Who did they think these animals were to deserve respect?

From time to time I picked up Romanian from phone calls, piecing things together. Someone (didn’t know who yet) found a rental house somewhere, there were issues with police at the previous house, some raids because of a girl, but they escaped and moved.

That’s where we were going next.

Later, another phone call hit like a bomb — something bad had happened. I asked the bar girl, who was visibly shaken. She told me blondie was dead — she jumped out a window from Bearded One’s apartment. 7th floor.

That news froze me. It was obvious she had weighed all options and decided that was the only exit. I had to be strong and find another way.

I slipped out of the house and ran into town. Ran down the tiny streets yelling “help”! Stopped in front of what looked like a newspaper office and tried to explain in English to people drinking tea what happened to me. No one seemed to understand…

I felt desperate and exhausted. Then out of nowhere, the two appeared and told me calmly to get in the car unless I wanted it to end badly. I froze.

They shook hands, greeted locals respectfully and we headed to the car, and I heard them saying we’d leave right then.

Then Bearded One gave me a threatening speech, telling me to get my head straight and stop such stunts unless I wanted to die. That everyone was his people and I had nowhere to run.

I swallowed hard — I had just lived what blondie warned me…

By evening we reached the villa where we would live. There were 2–3 other girls plus their trusted “madame,” their liaison.

I was put under constant supervision and madame was told I was “the problematic girl,” to hand me only to trusted clients and watch me 24/7.

I realized my tactic so far failed and wouldn’t work again. Actually, it never worked. They already knew what to expect — I had tried to escape or attract attention too many times.

So I decided to fake being resigned, to look like I wanted to be there, and slowly find another way out. Day after day I was nicer, started chatting with the girls, paid attention to conversations, asked for Turkish words, memorized everything.

I think about a week passed with nothing major happening. The other girls had loyal clients, safe guys, and went out at night. I still wasn’t trusted, but I was building it quietly and intentionally.

I made it my mission to learn at least a few Turkish words and, with my first client, explain what was going on.

After a few more days, when my “relationships” had warmed up, I was told I seemed ready for my first client. They briefed me: be nice, take the money first and most importantly — don’t try shit. One girl knew who the client was and told me not to worry, he’s “one of ours.”

Not reassuring for me. How the hell would I make a move if he was their man? How would I pull my plan off? That was the moment I understood I’d endure a long haul if everyone was “theirs”… nobody would ever help me.It was the middle of the night. We got ready, set the meeting point and left. My heart beat like a tiny bird crushed in a fist.

We drove maybe 15–20 minutes when I heard: “there he is,” and madame pointed at a car parked on the roadside. We pulled behind and as we stepped out, police lights flashed and a squad car skidded next to us.I froze, then seconds later panic turned into wild hope and euphoria.

This is my escape! I made it! I started screaming again: “HELP! HELP!” They cuffed us and took us in.

A warm happiness filled me with every minute. Madame whispered to keep my mouth shut, that Bearded One would fix it fast and we’d be out that night. And she wasn’t lying. Not even two hours later, we were released.

For me, it was a nightmare stuck on repeat. And all the theater I played to gain trust was now compromised…The decision was instant — we were moving again the next day. Too many eyes on them, people reacting, the town buzzing. They decided to let things cool and take a break.

Next day they loaded two cars with bags and we all left for another city. Or so I thought.

By evening we reached the middle of nowhere, at what looked like a luxury hotel.

It was the only building for miles yet seemed full. Didn’t take long to realize it was a hotel strictly for this business.

Inside were only prostitutes and clients. We were shown our rooms and the strict rules. I was going to be there for a while — no idea how long. I only hoped to find a solution fast. The big problem was that not everyone had cell phones yet, so finding a client with one was the challenge.

My memories from that chunk — a few weeks maybe — are scrambled. Some parts are blank voids, some drunk blur, some sober panic, trapped between numbness and despair trying to escape.

One night I finally got lucky. One client had a phone.

I had to play this carefully. They knew the rules and wouldn’t let me use it. I had to pretend I liked it there and wanted to be there, even though my stomach twisted at the idea.

And I couldn’t drink too much, needed a clear head and to knock him out drunk. The phone was my only goal, i had to call my mom.

Hours dragged on, he got drunker and drunker. When he finally passed out, I grabbed the phone, hid in the bathroom and called home.

My sweet mom answered with a faint voice, shocked and panicking as she realized it was me and I was in danger. She didn’t know what to do, and her despair hit me hard — I realized no one could save me.

I was too far. Too far from everyone I knew. No one could come for me. I didn’t even know where I was. In the middle of nowhere.

For a second, I stopped breathing. I understood I was alone and that I had to figure it out myself. I left her in her panic and returned to mine. Just me, by myself.

As I write this, my body remembers and starts acting the same. Internal agitation kicks in, outer numbness, my hands freeze.

This too shall pass…

Days passed with me trying to spot cracks in their network, these sewer-rats, these scum of society. I had my mother’s voice in my head and her desperation, not knowing if I would ever call again or make it out alive. I felt sorry for her. She never had an easy life next to my father. We were beaten — sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes the both uf us. Abuse was our baseline.

I remembered her pretty face, periodically covered in bruises she tried to hide. The fear, the terror we lived with.

The hallway lamp, with a glass globe and metal fringes, and him — a tall man, the only one tall enough to hit the lamp when he walked in. Every time I heard that metal ping against glass, my stomach dropped to my feet and I froze.

My brain went blank and my body iced over. I knew I’d get beaten even if I did nothing wrong. He’d find a reason. All that rage inside him poured out on me and I couldn’t stop it. I became a stone punching bag. His giant hands never stopped even when I begged and promised I’d behave.

Day by day, year by year, life grew heavier and uglier. I wished only to die, to disappear, to melt away.

Back to the horror hotel — the “film” cuts out for a period I can’t measure. Scraps show up like a broken filmstrip — heavy drinking, some beatings, numb sex, lots of disgust.

Then a flash — I’m escaping again, running, not sure what, where, how. Caught again, and sent with two of Bearded One’s main girls to a motel with cabin rooms in the middle of nowhere, locked in. Empty place, no one around. Just us three.

We were waiting for him to arrive. I think he had gone to Romania. I knew if he reached that place, he’d probably kill me. They couldn’t use me. I’d always run, always cause trouble. I was a liability, not profit.

When I heard them talking on the phone with him, realized we were waiting for him, I knew I had to act now. No time left. I walked out screaming into the void, praying someone would hear.

They ran after me. One super tall and heavy — a mountain — the other around 35–40, a seasoned dangerous whore. Me — tiny and skinny, but with the advantage of being a tomboy who fought boys since I was little.

I fought them both like in those dreams where you run but barely move, slow motion. I felt like I was dying with every hit. Could barely breathe but kept punching left and right, biting, pulling hair, screaming.

At one point adrenaline kicked in, I broke free and ran toward the road. The motel seemed lost in what looked like a huge orchard, though I can’t swear. Trees all looked the same in the cold. The run felt endless.

I didn’t believe I’d make it, but I hoped with what was left of my shattered soul. On the road I managed to stop a car, use the few Turkish words I learned to explain what happened, and I was understood by pure luck.

That’s how I reached the gendarmerie I mentioned at the beginning.

I don’t remember how many girls were around the stove or how long I stayed — one day, two? I just know we were soon transferred to the big prison in Istanbul, to large rooms with long benches, full of girls waiting to be sent back to Romania.

The rooms were right next to the guards’ offices, and the bathroom — the only one — was on the opposite wall. We were allowed inside at fixed times. We washed in a tiny sink, but only after being lined up and beaten on the hands with a baton. Every morning. A sort of breakfast.

My skin felt like it would split, my hands swollen. And if in the beginning I was happy I finally escaped and was there — where I’d fought so hard to get — now another fear hit. How long would I rot in that prison? And why was I being punished???

I found out that the girls with documents were sent straight with special buses home. Girls like me, who didn’t have them (my passport was seized day one, I didn’t even remember what it looked like), waited for an appointment at the Istanbul consulate to get a travel paper. And it took a while.

When the day came, when they told me I’d go to the embassy, I felt a joy I hadn’t felt in so long. Finally I could talk to Romanian authorities, tell them what happened, someone would understand and protect me and I would finally be free.

I looked awful. I didn’t remember the last real bath I took, and I’d worn the same clothes for days. Still wearing the burnt coat. It was cold, I couldn’t throw it away, but I didn’t care. Soon I’d be at the embassy.I walked in relieved, free, not caring I looked like a hobo.

I was met with disgust, with looks full of contempt and zero empathy. Everything I hoped shattered in seconds. I waited, insult after insult, got my travel paper, and we were taken back to jail for two more days.

The day I got on the bus back to Romania with dozens of other girls, my soul was numb and nothing brought joy, nothing gave hope. I felt permanently broken, used like a rag and thrown away like trash.

In Giurgiu they dropped us somewhere near the train station. I had no money, so I got on the train toward home hoping I could hide from the conductor. Obviously, no chance.

I tried to explain where I was coming from, what I had been through, that I just wanted to get home and I had no money.

He suggested we could have sex for the ticket, “since it wouldn’t be a problem for me anyway.”

For the first time I understood how life experience upgrades your survival skills. I told him it made sense he’d ask, just that after all I’d been through I didn’t trust people anymore and was scared he’d kick me off the train if we did it right then. I preferred to do it one or two stations before the destination to make sure I’d get home. And he agreed.

I think I even fell asleep at some point. I was exhausted… tried not to think about the grotesque soul of some “humans,” but scenes from the last months flashed through my head — including this one. How cruel could you be???

One stop before, I woke up with him beside me motioning to follow him. I got up, walked into the corridor and said:

— I want to tell you something, because you seem like a decent man with a family. Do you realize where I’m coming from?? Do you realize how many diseases might be crawling in me right now? You’d risk everything for this? Is it really worth it? I’m not even a pretty one…

And it worked!

He hesitated, thought, looked me over and said out of the corner of his mouth:

— Go. Get out of here. Don’t let me see you again.

Without showing emotion, I lowered my head and walked to the next wagon. Through the dirty windows I watched myself get closer and closer to my hometown.

Half an hour later I stepped off at the station I had dreamed about for hours… I was home… and yet I felt nothing. No joy, like I thought I would.

I made the short walk from the station home in a few minutes, looking awful. It was a grey afternoon, fitting my state.

I reached the block where I lived all my childhood, climbed the stairs and knocked. My mother opened the door and stared at me blankly for a whole minute or more. She didn’t know if she was looking at me in flesh and bone or a ghost.

She stared through me, because all that was left of me was a shell with empty eyes. I felt nothing, reacted to nothing, didn’t cry, didn’t smile. The last months drained anything human out of me.

I was just a ghost.