In the dream, my mother’s womb was very warm.
I placidly floated inside of her, just like I did years before, in those few months where I went from not existing to barely being. Permeated by something which, in life, I’d go on to name “happiness”.
In the dream, the radiance I’d meet in birth already reached my gestating eyes, and my rudimentary ears listened to mom’s lullabies as they reverberated through the amniotic fluid. I would also hear the excitement in all of her loved ones’ voices, promising me their love for the simple reason that I was her daughter.
“Touch it. She just kicked,” my mother would say, and the shadow of a friendly hand, backlight against that awesome glare, would lean against her belly. And instead of a kick, it’d be my tiny hands that would touch the inside of my parent, trying to reach those affectionate shapes.
And suddenly, just as I knew I was about to be born, those shadows enveloped everything, and my heart became submerged in deep despair. I felt trapped, and aware that I would soon die if I stayed any longer inside that darkness.
I would then wake up. That experience never felt like a dream, but rather the most vivid of memories. As soon as it was over I’d get out of bed, look for my mom and surprise her with a tight hug.
In that embrace I would always return, even if for a moment, to the gentle and pure joy of that warmth inside her womb. That which always preceded that terrifying gloom.
Even at 11 years old, I was never puzzled by the recurrence of this event. I was fascinated and curious about my mother’s profession: nursing in a maternity hospital. Ever since I could remember, I’ve always admired that mom helps bring life into the world.
But more importantly: Mom is my best friend, and we’ve always been incredibly close. Our arguments always ended in laughter, and I’ve told her secrets that I hesitated to admit to myself.
I want to make that clear before continuing with this story.
That there is no doubt of the love I have for her. She’s never harmed me, and I’ve never felt angry or resentful towards her.
It’s just that I’ve learned that we are all born with something terrible and unknown inside of us. A bewildering baggage of human nature, unique to each person, but that must never be disturbed.
I’m afraid that I invoked it on the last night in which I had the nightmare. That’s the only explanation that I have for everything that unfolded.
I could always sense the dream coming, right as I went to bed. My mind would not stop thinking about it. Tired of succumbing to fear, I firmly decided that I would no longer give myself up to the stomach’s blackness, and to the feeling of dying right before my birth.
“This time” I promised myself, “I’m going to be born.”
And with that conviction, I fell asleep as I waited for my return to the amniotic sac.
But this time I wasn’t transported to my mother’s belly.
As my eyelids opened, they unveiled that I was still in my dark bedroom, asphyxiated by a scolding humidity. The mattress was soaked by the sweat from my back.
And then, without permission, my body began to move on its own. My torso stood up, and my legs dragged me out of bed. I exited the room to wander around by darkened home, unknowing of where I was headed. As if I witnessed myself sleepwalking from behind a glass.
I mostly remember the thickness of that hot air. Walking through felt like dragging myself through a pool of lukewarm oil, darkened by grime. I also remember the awful sensation of not being able to escape from that inexplicable trance, and regain control of my body.
The only light in the house came from the kitchen, where I could hear chatter from Carola, my older sister, and Mom. I approached the open door, and stood besides for many minutes, spying on them. Mom was advising my sister on when to quit her job.
Suddenly, my body walked away quietly and approached a cabinet in the dining room, where we used to store our fancy silverware and dishes. My hands, with complete independence, began rummaging through each and every one of its drawers.
On top of the cabinet hung a mirror, where I was able to examine my reflection. Besides my sweaty forehead, nothing stood out about my appearance or my expression.
Until I pulled out a carving knife.
I hid it in one of my pockets, and underneath my shirt, before heading back to the kitchen. My mind rebelled in a panic, in the same way it would fight to release me from a night terror, and my soul shuddered at how coldly my body executed this macabre choreography. I stopped at the door of the room where my mom and Carola shared a sponge cake, and carefully observed them. My sister was the first to notice me standing there.
“Holy shit Ariadna!”she said, barely holding in a scream. “You scared me to death, what are you doing there?”
All I wanted was to scream for help, but my body wouldn’t offer them a response. I felt my jaw clenching, and my fists tighten.
“Is everything ok Ari-” Mom began to ask.
“Shut up you fucking whore. You are not my mother.”
They were stunned, and unable to find words for such a sudden aggression. Even if this wasn’t my doing, all I wanted to do was to cry and beg them forgiveness.
“Can you explain to me what the hell this is about?” my mother demanded.
“I told you to shut up. My real mother is dead. You killed her.”
My sister gasped, and Mom stood up. I felt my heart drop.
“You stabbed her everywhere, you goddamn cunt. You even stabbed her belly because you knew I was there.”
Mom rushed towards me, and in those few seconds her tear-filled eyes betrayed an anger that ran deep into her core. I’d never seen it before, and have not seen it since.
“You murdering bitch!” I kept spewing. “I should do the same to you, and send you to hell-”
A slap made my head turn. This was the first time Mom ever laid a hand on me.
As I tasted blood coming out of my gums, and slipping to my lips, I regained control of my body. I kneeled down to cry in despair and confusion.
I tried explaining what had happened, but in the end we were only able to imagine it had been an extraordinary case of sleepwalking.
“Your body went crazy, or something” guessed Mom, who couldn’t hide her unease.
And with that we were sent back to bed, without true answers about what just happened.
Something I’ve never told Carola or Mom is about the knife I hid underneath my shirt. I waited for them to fall asleep in order to bring it back to the cabinet. Upon closing the drawer, I examined myself once again in the mirror.
I could no longer fully recognize the person in the reflection. I had always thought that my heart harbored only games, laughter and boundless affection for those I cared about.
But in that mirror I now also saw a dangerous creature, carrying a rage towards my family that I could not explain. Mom had also witnessed it, and I hated knowing that she would now have to learn how to love it as a part of her daughter.
I changed my mind. I opened the window and threw the knife out to the woods, as far my strength would allow me to. I wasn’t going to risk finding it again.
Next morning, Mom woke me up with a hug.
“Never doubt that I love you” she said, just knowing that’s what I needed to hear. But I also knew she was speaking to that awful side of me which had hurt her just a few hours before.
Neither of us has been able to acknowledge, at least not to each other, that we know it remains there, repressed beneath all of me.
I haven’t had the dream ever since that night, which means I’ve also ceased to feel the warmth of her womb, and that it’s becoming harder and harder to remember it.
