Dream Journal Ultimate
Date: 2/10/2026
By blucanary
I was, I believe, on a college campus, walking through a crowd—moving against it, the wrong way, moving opposite everyone else, while the crowd pressed forward past me, none of them even looking at me. In their hands, this crowd of people walking past me carried cake. Some held in their hands only a slice, sitting on a saucer. Some held boxes, entire cakes within them, balanced proudly in their arms. Still a few had nothing at all. And I remember thinking, Where did they even get that? I want cake! At the very end of the crowd were two young men, lagging behind. One of them appeared to struggle under the weight of what looked like a massive, fluffy cake; With a large slice being gone, I could see the yellow cake beneath so much chocolate icing. With a tired shake of his hands, he dropped it. Hurriedly, I asked if he needed help and lifted the cake the had fallen upright onto the concrete, up for him — Only to realize that it wasn’t cake at all. It was foam. Empty and light. A mere imitation of sugary goodness. He laughed as I took notice and said, “What, did you want some cake?” I laughed too. “If it was cake, then yeah—I was going to ask for some.” We all laughed. It felt friendly. Warm. Harmless. Like friends in the making. He asked if, despite it not being real cake and it being light, I would mind carrying it to his room with him and his friend. I agreed, and we talked as we walked. I immediately liked him. He was charming. Funny. Attractive in a way I wouldn’t normally go for—long brown hair, a few small braids threaded through out. Somehow, it worked on him. He didn’t need to try. He didn’t need to force attention. He had it naturally. Which made what happened next so much worse. We reached his dorm room, just a small apartment on the first floor. The three of us entered, and within minutes, suddenly & without warning, his demeanor changed. The warmth vanished. His eyes hardened. His voice turned dark as he spoke of the things he was going to do to me. Horrible things. Violent things. He was on top of me before I could understand what was happening—pinning me down, speaking violence like it was inevitable. And then, I dont know what happened, everything just went black. I passed out. When I came to, the room was silent except for breathing—ragged, shocked breathing. Across the room, on a bed, the man who had attacked me lay broken. Blood everywhere. His face was beat in. His body battered. Deep stab wounds gaped in his chest and stomach, soaking the sheets beneath him. The other man stood over him, a heavy lamp clutched in his hands, staring down at what he had done. What he had done was saved me. But it had cost him something. You could see it. You could *feel* it. The shock that verberated throughout the room. The hollowed-out look of emptiness in his once bright eyes. Like the act of stopping evil had carved something out of him. I stepped closer to the first man. He looked dead—but then he moaned. Shifted. Barely alive. His voice came out broken, breathy, almost regretful. “Why do I always have to tell them what I’m going to do?” he rasped. “Why can’t I just do it?” I looked at him—this man who had been charming, funny, desirable—and my heart hurt in a way that surprised me. “Why do you have to attack at all?” I asked him. “I liked you. I would have gone out with you. We could’ve been friends. Maybe even more than friends.” He didn’t answer. He didn't even have time before the other man grabbed my arm and pulled me away, forcing me out of the room. I didn’t fight it. I knew—whatever I felt for that broken man, I couldn’t save him. I had to leave. The friend opened the door and shoved me out of the dorm room. I ran straight to a friend's dorm room on the other side of campus. I told her what had happened. She didn’t believe me. “Where are they now then? Where is this guy that attacked you and the other one who saved you, huh? Where are they?” she asked. “I think one of them is dead,” I said. “Just watch the news.” Surely someone would find the guy, dead on his bed, at some point. It was bound to be on the news before long. But we couldnt sit around and wait, just staring at the television waiting for a news cast of a dead college student. We had to go. The campus was emptying for a season, and night was quickly falling. As we passed the room—the first-floor corner room— I couldnt help but look at it. I saw someone step out. Law enforcement, maybe? I honestly couldn't tell you who it was, just someone with a jacket and a cap. My heart raced. Then I heard it. “Sunday…” A whisper. Sing-song. Familiar. I grabbed my friend’s arm and quickened my step to a near-run. The parking lot was massive and nearly empty. Too open. Too exposed. And then — hands. The man who had saved me before, now caught us both and dragged us back to that room. But he wasn’t the same. His eyes were now dead. He didn't smile anymore. He didn't look at you. He looked past you, as if beating that guy changed him, took away who he was, took away the goodness in him. That goodness that had protected me earlier was now gone — burned out by the violence he displayed in protecting me, by the guilt he now harbored for beating that man so relentlessly, and by whatever breaking point he had crossed. He was just numb now. And so he took us back to the guy, and I prayed to Jesus. "Jesus, help us. Please get us out of here." And for a moment, I thought my prayers had been answered. We escaped! We got out of the room and we ran — only to be caught again straight away by the guy with the long hair. This time we were dragged into the men’s showers. Cold tile. Echoing walls. He tore our clothes off of us, starting with her, so that he could take his time with me. I knew — *knew* —that this time he wouldn’t let us live. I prayed again. Desperately. Jesus. Please. Save us. And then, as my friend lay in a fetal position, fully naked on the cold, wet, tile floor; and me, naked from the waist down, the man unbuttoning the last button of my white button-up men's top, it pushed down off my shoulders and already halfway down my back — a miracle occurs. Suddenly, literally in the blink of an eye, we're in the women’s locker room. In a shower stall. My friend still in a fetal position on the tile floor; me on my knees nearly naked, warm water flowing down on us. Other women stared at us in confusion as the reality hit me, and I laughed—laughed with pure, giddy joy. My friend looks up, just as confused as the other women in there, and I told them what had happened. I couldn’t stop smiling. Of all the ways Jesus could have saved us, He chose the impossible. He moved us. *Transported* us. And with a room full of witnesses. We dried off. The women gave us clothes. And as we left, my heart overflowed with gratitude, awe, love. I couldn’t contain it. “Do you believe in Jesus now?” I asked my friend. She hesitated, confused, saying, "I don't know, I just have a hard time believing in a man who supposedly lived till he was 100 years old and then got married to a 6-year-old or something like that." I incredulously said, "What?! Wait, wait, wait. WHAT?! Jesus didn't live to be 100 years old. You're getting people confused. He never got married, especially to a 6-year-old. You're confusing him with Mohammad. As for living to be 100, I don't know who you're thinking of, but Jesus was crucified and died for our sins at the age of 33. Jesus died at 33." And that was it. Betrayal. Fear. Violence. Blood. Confusion. Brokenness. And then— Jesus. Moving heaven and earth to save us.