Roxanne

Date: 11/10/2025

I feel my body vibrating. That ever-familiar screeching in my ear. Like a kettle screaming from another dimension. I know I’m about to take off — but something feels off tonight. The vibrations are sluggish, like my body’s too tired for adventures. I almost give up, almost let sleep take me, but curiosity always wins. I proceed. What’s the harm, eh? The air thickens. A shimmer runs through me like static beneath my skin. I jolt once, twice — then, with a few reluctant bumps, I manage to detach. The world tilts, and I drift upwards like a resurrection. I don’t usually look back. But tonight, I can’t help myself. I turn. There I am — lying on the bed. My chest rising and falling, my face soft and unguarded. It never fails to unnerve me, seeing myself like that — helpless, motionless, trusting the dark not to swallow me whole. I steady myself and make my nightly request. A ritual by now. “To whoever’s on shift tonight — the higher gods, angels, cosmic ticket. inspector — take me to an alternative universe.” A small pause, a grin. “I want to see how the other Amandas live.” Darkness answers. Then— I’m dropped into the arse end of nowhere. A vast plain of industrial rock surrounds me, grey and metallic. The towers stretch upwards forever, their edges jagged against a pewter sky. The air hums faintly, like a machine cooling down. “Hello?” I call. My voice clangs off the canyon walls, hollow and lonely. Nothing. I walk. The rocks repeat themselves endlessly — monotone, lifeless, oppressive. My shoes scrape on the metal floor. I start to wonder if I’ve wandered into a dream inside a machine, or a machine inside my dream. “Well, this is underwhelming,” I mutter. I decide to make another request. “Take me to my dad.” And the world folds open. I’m walking down a long corridor —narrow, dimly lit, lined with doors that whisper quietly as I pass. At the far end, I see him. My dad. He’s busying himself with something — some kind of DIY, tinkering with a string of lights that flicker faintly in his hands. His back is turned, but the shape of him is him. ”Dad.” I call softly. He doesn’t respond. Just keeps working, threadiwires, adjusting bulbs. “Dad,” I try again, louder this time. Nothing. A small panic prickles at me. Can he not hear me? Am I invisible? “I’m sorry,” I whisper. The words echo strangely down the corridor. “I’m sorry,” I say again. And again. And again. But he just carries on. Quiet. Patient. Distant. I want to reach out — to touch his shoulder, to feel warmth, to be seen — but something pulls me back. “There’s no point,” I think. “He’s gone.” And just like that, lucidity dries up like a desert river. I blink — and I’m back. My bed again. Except I’m not alone. My niece Ava sits beside me, scrolling through her phone. Perched at the foot of the bed is my old colleague Shelly, mid-rant about something or other. Her voice is a hammer tapping at my skull. Ava sighs. I sigh. We’ve all had enough. A voice message starts playing on Ava’s phone — Kylie’s voice, clear and bright, saying something nasty about someone. Me? Probably. I grab the phone from Ava. She looks at me as if I’ve snatched a vital organ. The voice on the recording drips venom — talking about home wreckers and karma. The tone makes my stomach twist. “What’s this about?” I ask. “Grandad’s having an affair,” Ava says, flatly. My mind stumbles. “An affair?” “Yeah. With some younger woman. Called Roxanne.” The name hits me like déjà vu. Familiar and slippery. Like a word I’ve dreamed before. “I wonder if it’s—“ But before I can finish, the door opens. And she’s there. Roxanne. Looking exactly as she did years ago. Not older. Not changed. Not even a wrinkle out of place. “Roxanne?” I breathe. She smiles, slow and feline. “Amanda.” “Wait — you two know each other?” Shelly’s voice sharpens. She looks at Roxanne with a kind of righteous fury, as if she’s been waiting for this confrontation her whole life. And then she snaps. “You’re the thieving cow that keeps breaking into my house and stealing my money!” I blink. Surely not? But Roxanne just shrugs. “You’ve got me.” Ava’s face twists with betrayal. “And you’re the home wrecker who took my grandpa away!” “Guilty as charged,” Roxanne says, light as air. And suddenly the room explodes. Three women — shouting, clawing, throwing pillows and accusations. Feathers fly, a snowstorm of white chaos. “Enough!” I shout, but my voice passes through them like smoke. Invisible. Powerless. I close the door and walk downstairs. Roxanne’s already there. She’s crouched by the fireplace, tossing logs into the blaze. The flames lick her face, warm and cruel. “Where are the others?” I ask. “Did you sort it out?” “You could say that” her eyes gleam. “It’s been taken care of.” She throws another log in, and for a flicker, I see something — fabric? A sleeve? Something burning that shouldn’t be. The scene dissolves in smoke. Now I’m in a department store with Mum. The place is a hive of activity, eager shoppers darting around like ants at a picnic. I only came in to look for bedding, but a bright red SALE sign pulls me in like gravity. “Shall we have a look?” I ask. A pair of yellow trousers catches my eye. They’re absurdly cheerful. “ I love these!” Mum snorts. “Hmm. If you want to look like an Oompa-Loompa.” The words sting. I drop them, wounded. Then — across the room — I see her. Roxanne. Stuffing items into her pockets. One after another, smooth and unhurried. Like she’s shopping in a dream where consequences don’t exist. And I remember — Roxanne, sweet Roxanne. The same Roxanne who used to eat sandwiches with me under the formica table, legs crossed and crumbs in her hair. The same Roxanne who’d chase me around the playground wearing that ridiculous flounder-shaped mitt, both of us screaming with laughter. The same Roxanne who could make even the dullest afternoon feel enchanted, dangerous, alive. That same Roxanne. Now winking at me across the store, eyes full of secrets. Roxanne, the thief. Roxanne, the home wrecker. And — The image returns. The fire. The flicker of cloth turning to ash. Her voice saying, It’s been taken care of. The murderer. The thought clicks into place like a lock turning. I look back toward Mum, then to Roxanne. But she’s gone. Only a faint smell of smoke lingers, curling through the aisles, as if the fire followed me here.

AI generated interpretation What a vivid and symbolically rich dream. At its core, this dream appears to explore themes of identity, otherness, and unresolved emotional conflicts—especially within family and personal history. The sensation of bodily vibration and detachment suggests a threshold moment between different states of consciousness or ways of being—it’s as if you’re journeying from a familiar part of yourself toward unexplored or alternate dimensions of experience. This crossing over invites reflection on curiosity, courage, and the tension between wanting to escape and feeling tethered to reality. Encountering your own body lying still and trusting conveys a poignant vulnerability. Seeing yourself through this external lens may highlight a longing for self-acceptance or a deeper understanding of your inner life that sometimes feels out of reach. The industrial, metallic landscape of “nowhere” can symbolize feelings of isolation or alienation, perhaps reflecting parts of life's environment or emotional states that feel cold, repetitive, or lacking vitality. Choosing to leave this barren place and request to see your father introduces a tender desire for connection, reconciliation, or closure. His quiet focus away from you, alongside your repeated apologies, might represent unspoken regrets or the complexity of relationships that once shaped you but now feel distant. The later scenes, involving family conflicts and revelations about “Roxanne,” layer in themes of betrayal, accusation, and competing narratives within relationships. Roxanne emerges as a multifaceted figure—both a symbol of past friendship and warmth, and as a disruptive force perceived as stealing and burning bridges. This duality could reflect conflicting feelings about change, loss, or the redefinition of roles and loyalties over time. Objects like the string of flickering lights, the fire, and the brightly colored trousers serve as potent symbols as well. Lights and fire suggest illumination, transformation, destruction, or purification. The trousers, brightly cheerful yet mocked, may reflect self-expression challenged by external judgment. Throughout, there’s a strong sense of searching—looking beyond the surface, seeking truth or understanding, and grappling with complex feelings tied to family, memory, and identity. The dream’s progression from shadowy corridors to chaotic confrontations and back into everyday settings mirrors how subconscious processing can weave together emotional threads from different areas of life. In sum, this dream invites a gentle exploration of who you are amid shifting relationships and histories, encouraging compassion for the many “versions” of yourself and those connected to you. It acknowledges the messiness of human bonds and the power of imagination to revisit, question, and perhaps heal those connections in your own time and way.