CHAPTER 3
The Transition
I was about five years old.
I stood in front of a mirror and looked into my own eyes. The room was sunny and quiet. I don’t remember the words I had been taught, but I remember the feeling.
It was clear, as if someone was there with me. Not outside. He was inside me.
I looked at myself and suddenly understood something very simple and something very important.
Then I said it out loud. I didn’t say it loudly, but I said it with certainty:
“I will always choose good. And no matter what happens, God will always be in my heart.”
At that age, I didn’t really know what it meant. But I know it was true.
Years passed. My life moved forward: events, people, mistakes, experience. Many things in my life changed, and many things were forgotten.
But that moment never disappeared. It has always stayed with me.
It remained inside me, like a point I could return to, even when I wasn’t thinking about it.
And then, many years later, came a night after which I could no longer see things the way I had before.
This is the starting point of this book.
That night, the world was different.
I found myself in a space that looked like a cinema. But they weren’t showing films there. They were watching.
There were entities sitting in the hall, and they were not human. They were calm, could, detached, as if they knew more than we did.
They weren’t looking at the screen.
They were looking at us.
I felt hear, and it was sharp, almost physical. But along with in came an understanding that none of this was happening by chance. As if I had come there for a reason.
The hall smelled of depravity – something low and lustful, a smell that satisfied the body and was difficult to say no to. There was a kind of euphoria in it, lust, low vibrations – things from which the human body receives pleasure.
These entities were eating human flesh.
At some point, one of the entities noticed me. I was afraid. Its presence was strong and aggressive.
I ran.
Everything was unfamiliar. The places were empty, and only they were behind me.
At some point, I felt a wall. It wasn’t there in the visual space, but I could feel it with my hand.
There, behind it, behind wall, was another world.
A world of women.
Strong. On guard. A world ready to fight back.
It wasn’t perfect, and I felt that immediately. There was no lightness there. There was no beautiful illusion or calm. But there was something else.
There was strength.
Female strength.
There were female beings there. They were wounded. They had been through something difficult, but they stood together, shoulder to shoulder, ready at any moment to support one another.
They didn’t run away. They didn’t hide.
They protected each other and perhaps they were protecting something greater.
And there was something real in that. Something that could not be faked.
I understood: this world wasn’t perfect, but it was no longer the world I had come from.
Not that cold, detached, observing world where there was no involvement.
Here, there was involvement. Here, there were pain, memory, and choice – to stay and protect.
I saw her as a guide.
She looked at me and asked:
“Are you ready?”
At the moment, I had no doubts.
“Yes”, I said, confidently and calmly, without fear.
As if I had already know the answer.
She reached out her hand to me.
And at that moment, I suddenly remembered the little girl in front of the mirror.
Five years old. Silence. looking into my own eyes.
“I will always choose good.”
Back then, I didn’t know what it meant. But now its meaning returned – not as a thought, but as a state of being.
I reached out my hand, and she pulled me through that boundary.
Not suddenly, not painfully. It was as if I had simply crossed over to where I had belonged for a long time.
And at that moment, I understood:
This wasn’t a new choice.
It was a continuation.
A continuation of something that had begun long ago.
And at some point, another memory came back to me.
I was twelve years old. There were many of us. Children came and went, but the feeling always remained the same.
We were all alike – children with broken lives, orphans, and those who had no one left. In a way, nobody needed us. We belonged only to ourselves.
Adults were around us, but they weren’t inside our lives. Some pretended to care, some genuinely wanted to help, and some simply didn’t care.
But real life wasn’t happening there.
It was happening between us.
Children are not cruel by nature. Their environment, their experiences, and society can make them that way. Especially when they face un unconscious choice: survive or break.
That was when I first began to truly feel this.
I wasn’t a leader. I didn’t try to speak loudly or lead others. But I always understood one thing:
If a situation became tense, if everyone was silent, then I had to speak.
Not because I was strong.
But because I couldn’t do otherwise.
They called me Mother Teresa there.
I never liked that name. Not because of the story behind it, but because it felt like a label placed on me, turning me into something I had never tried be.
I didn’t want to be a symbol.
I simply saw what was happening. And I saw how those who were stronger, consciously or not, began to push down those who were weaker.
And I understood: if no one stopped it now, it would become normal.
The children weren’t officially divided into categories, but among us everything was clear. There were those who attacked. And there were those who allowed themselves to be attacked.
I never accepted that.
I never made a decision one day: “That’s it. I will be the one who stands between them.”
But every time it happened, I already knew what was right and what was wrong.
Because I had made that choice much earlier – in front of the mirror, in the silence, when I was five years old.
And since then, consciously or not, I have always chosen the same side.
The side of good.
DIARY BETWEEN WORLDS 