Vamp Iris Atma Ra
🌙🗡 One night in Colonia Guerrero, the dream becomes a trench. Between twins, knives, and beams, the protagonist decides not to run away. #DreamStory #PsychologicalFiction #Symbiosis
👉 How real is the fear we dream?
Da click aquí para leer la versión en español: Alerta Simbólica y Amorosa Redención
I. Violent Release or Symbolic Alert
It’s nighttime, in the Guerrero neighborhood of Mexico City. I’m asleep, dreaming that I’m dreaming; like a splitting in dreams in which I wake up, I can observe myself resting. I see the green and purple curtains, the room with pink walls, the wine-colored varnished wooden closet, old and battered, wall-to-wall. I see myself sleeping between quilts, on a mattress at floor level. I hear voices coming from the other room.
Fear courses through me, I sense the threat, I dream that I wake up; and I begin to act in the first person. I stealthily peek through the keyhole of the door. They’re there; I didn’t remember they existed; they’re my sisters, the twins. Their appearance reminds me of a lesbian friend; they’re thin and dark-skinned, with layered hair, wearing dark jeans, black urban boots, small T-shirts, and a tight jacket. They have an aggressive quality and angular features.
My room is dark, and they’re in a brightly lit room. My eyes don’t adjust easily to the light, but I can hear them clearly. They know it; my mother will come for me.
I wait until I’m alone again. Only then do I dare cross the door. I’m afraid, and I don’t want to be seen. I walk around the house, analyzing it like a battlefield. The study is filled with papers, boxes, books… harmless. The only furniture is a drawing board, a table, and some chairs. The vanity is in the kitchen, on it lies an impressive collection of knives: butcher knives, camp knives, daggers, Arab scimitars, antique Spanish swords, machetes. They form an aggressively beautiful parade: long, undulating, with spikes on the edge, on the blade, on the tip, with colorful veins, adorned with engravings, inlays. Then I turn to the windows, imagining the broken glass from throwing bottles, leaving them open, and throwing flashing lights into the yard to alert the neighbors. What sound would attract the most attention if I needed to call for help? Although it’s likely that the louder the sound, the more people would lock themselves inside.
I’m scared, on the defensive; I don’t want to die. I must try to protect myself. I can’t get out of here. I’m not going to run away; I must face it because I’m not a coward. Now I feel bad about being alone. I don’t even have help from the neighbors. No one will come out for me; I’ve gone unnoticed. Loneliness has made me fragile.
I think about her arrival, I wait for her. I continue searching the house, looking for empty rooms or for something to appear. I think anyone or anything could come out of the corners, the closet, the bed. The bunk room and the bathroom are empty. Every time I peek behind a door, a curtain, I sense the worst; my heart leaps. When I return to the study, I realize the walls have grown, they’re thicker. A wooden beam has appeared, running through the center of the door like a gigantic bolt. At the bottom, there’s a metal dust cover. The door doesn’t seem to belong to an apartment but to a feudal castle. Locks and padlocks have sprouted. The furniture, books, drawings, and paintings have disappeared. Only three rolled-up rugs arranged in a pyramid inhabit the void.
Right there, on the rugs, with its skull split open, falls my mother’s brain, refusing to die. It tries to escape the fury that possesses me. I don’t know why I took the butcher’s knife. This weapon gives me no aesthetic pleasure, but I do have a certain satisfaction, pleasure, at being the warrior who wins. Nevertheless, the black emptiness envelops me.
The morning star arrives, the sun reclaims the earth. I wake up little by little, the images of the recent dream are like a phosphorescent advertisement in my memory… I yawn and remain innocent.
II. Redemption of Light
A soft rain provides the soundtrack to this night; the darkness feels light. The sound of drops on the windows is pleasant as I type stories on my computer. I finished a short story and feel satisfied with the result. I feel calm, serene. I’ve learned to take my life as it is; I accept what it is with its virtues and flaws. Thus, my space, although the same as before, has a different pulse, a different rhythm. The curtains breathe gently, as if the wind were tenderly caressing them. The walls are peaceful, and the furniture has a comfortable presence. The warm tones of the wood even seem to have a joyful glow.
Before going to sleep, I listen to a violet flame meditation for soul healing. This little ritual helps me have a deeper, more restful sleep. I begin my journey into the arms of Morpheus. I dream that I’m walking toward the living room. I think it’s been a while since I’ve seen the twins. I notice two empty chairs in front of a small table with a steaming cup of coffee and a pecan pie. I sit down, happy to enjoy the snack.
When I carry the dishes into the kitchen, I find two large flowering tropical plants. I like the sight. I could swear I even heard choral music and birdsongs. While I wash the cup, I appreciate the ornamentation on the porcelain. It remind me of some symbols from sacred geometry. This leads me to visualize the many times I’ve used these images as a leitmotif in my work.
A meow makes me search the room for the feline. I find a pair of kittens, one white and one black, on the rugs in the center of the living room. They watch me with their luminous eyes, and we have a brief exchange with “meows.” Then I feel watched, and I turn around curiously. It’s my mother. She looks at me fondly; she’s young and old at the same time, as if all versions of her have merged into one. She’s sitting on a sofa and invites me to join her.
“I dreamed of you armed,” she said, “then I woke up and saw it was nothing more than an illusion.”
“Your war was mine,” I replied. “But I understood I don’t need that inheritance. I chose love, and I’ve learned to cultivate my peace.”
“I see your sword collection isn’t here,” She continued.
“True, now I prefer collecting writing implements. Have you seen my desk? I’m proud of my calligraphy collection.”
She nodded with a brief smile.
“Did you like the coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, the nuts too, thank you very much,” I agreed, understanding that she had left the table set.
“That’s good, I’m glad you like it,” she said, gently placing her hand on mine.
Then, like morning mist, she disappeared. I believe she has returned to that place from which she blesses me, as she navigates the many currents of life: being a granddaughter, daughter, wife, mother, grandmother, and so many other things. I know my mother is so much more than I can name or thank.
I feel that here, my angels, the space, my feline companions, we all breathe, sensitive and somewhat moved. It’s as if the universe, on this occasion, is happy for our existence. Little by little, the light of dawn enters through the windows, like a loving revelation.
The day found me at peace.
I didn’t wake up innocent.
I woke up free.
Comments on the story
It is an intense and emotionally complex piece, powerful, loaded with symbolism, with a dreamlike tone that makes it fascinating. Iris Atma uses psychological suspense with a gentle rhythm. It has an introspective tone reminiscent of the writing of Clarice Lispector or Mariana Enríquez, with a focus on the body, fear, and the domestic as a setting for the sinister.
It presents the exploration of identity and trauma from a symbolic and fragmented universe, where the home ceases to be a refuge and becomes a battlefield. Through a narrator who shifts between sleep and wakefulness, a deep-rooted existential anguish is exposed, with ambiguous female figures (the twins, the mother) oscillating between the familiar and the threatening. The house, with its shifting walls and unfurled knives, becomes an extension of the unconscious: a labyrinth where the repressed takes shape.
The symbolic death of the mother alludes to a violent, almost ritual act of liberation that questions the ties of power, blood, and destiny. The figure of the victorious warrior, though briefly satisfying, offers not redemption but a state of constant alertness. Is the final, “innocent” awakening one of forgetting, denial, or renewal? The story raises questions about psychic resilience, the feminine shadow, and the cycles of inherited violence.
II. The second part of the story is a delicate literary gem with a confessional and dreamlike tone that condenses a profound inner journey. It is a symbolic transfiguration, a narrative alchemy that transforms trauma into wisdom, fear into tenderness, and armor into beauty. The narrator ceases to be the guardian of her inner home, of her psyche, and becomes a conscious inhabitant of her peace. If before the home was a battlefield, now it is a warm nest, a sacred space. The objects, plants, and pets shine brightly because they reflect the restored soul of the one who summons them.
From a Jungian perspective, the text functions as a ritual of individuation: the self has reintegrated its shadows (the twins), deactivated the symbols of struggle (the swords), and now indulges in loving dialogue with the mother. The maternal figure here is not an antagonist, but a luminous ancestor, bearer of tenderness, symbolic legacy, and reconciliation. Her fused youth and old age evoke the archetype of the Great Total Mother, the one who neither wounds nor demands, but accompanies without possessing.
The story sanctifies the everyday through loving prose: the shared coffee, the dialogues with birds and felines, the ornate cup. They are small epiphanies where the divine gently filters through, like a blessing in the details. The sacred geometry of the porcelain connects the domestic with the cosmic. The black and white kittens are a powerful image of the balance between polarities.
With the story’s closing words: “The day found me at peace. I didn’t wake up innocent. I woke up free,” the author condenses a spiritual revelation. She no longer needs innocence as an escape from pain. She has crossed the night of the soul, and from that crossing—not denied, but embraced—authentic freedom emerges.
III. Together, this combination of stories forms a transformative work: a feminine cycle of shadow and light, struggle and sweetness.
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