A College Seeress' Diary

Explosive Kindling

Dear Jesus,

Day Three (At Dawn)

The sword slammed down into my chest region, colliding, with a metallic clang, with the bronzed breastplate I had on.
I yelled out of my sleep, heaving fitful puffs out of my nostrils.

I groaned up and frowned while my heart still pounded in my ribcage like a yo-yo in motion.
It was the exact same dream of the battle I had been having for the past two days. And I wasn't winning.
 
Enough is enough, my spirit seemed to protest in holy indignation. This has gone on long enough.

I switched on my lampstand and looked at my alarm clock. It was 3:16 am.
I made to move out of bed, but when my heavy cast hit the cold floor, I bit my lips hard to prevent myself from crying out in pain.

With trembling hands, I snatched my Bible from my bedside locker and flipped over to Psalms while muttering in other tongues.

I chanted chapters 68, 69 and 70 of Psalms for so long, over and over.
Slow, deliberately; fast, urgently. Peppered with a lot of speaking in tongues.

The fear gradually dissipated, and an unnatural calm and courage came over me.

I didn't even realize when fell back to sleep.
Maybe I didn't. Because the next sequence of things that happened felt too real to be a dream.

The dream continued from where I had stopped. Rewound a few seconds back. 

That same menacing sword was barrelling down, aimed for my chest region again.
I was sprawled helplessly—made, actually, to fall by those scurrying little imps—on the rocky ground.
I saw the dull glint of the blade as it swung in slow motion.
There was that dreaded lion and thorn picture ceremoniously engraved on the entire length of the sword, hilt and blade alike. 

This time around, just as it was about reaching my breastplate, I blocked it with my sword with such speed and dexterity that surprised even me.
With a triumphant roar, I did a perfect Chinese Get-up or whatever it's called (Something I wish I could actually do in real life), and pushed back the demon wielding the accursed sword at the same time.

My backpedalling nemesis was a hulking, pale, screechy, skeletal wraith with empty sockets where there should have been eyes. On its head was an ensign (a charcoal plaque with the letters in blood red) that read, 'End Time Principality'.

As I steadied myself on my feet, I took in my surrounding.

It was if I had been flung to a different realm in a different era.
The vast landscape looked medieval, gothic, rusty, dark. There was no sign of life nearby, only bleakness and dullness and... blood?

I looked at my regalia and took in my armour.
This time, there was a shiny gleam on it and it felt so light, like it was a part of my skin rather than the external embellishments I had normally considered it to be. Even the sword I held felt like an extension of my arm.

I assumed my battle stance pronto after assessing the precarious spot I was in. I was like a light in the center of a black hole, ready to be spaghettified and sucked in.

There was bloody carnage of defeated victims at the fringes of the battle ground. I could see that because my vision—which was eagle-sharp—reached that far.
All around, snarling, growling and scratching with all sorts of irritating sounds that a human ear shouldn't hear, were the fallen-from-heaven foes.

For a second, I didn't even know where to start a defensive attack from, or where to cut an escape route through.
Panic wanted to wiggle its way back into my heart.