The Plagues
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The night was warm, humid; too much for her. She tossed and turned in bed, sweating, her bedsheets here and there.
"God."
She sighed; groaning, she pushed herself up. Turning to the side, she groped for her slippers, before at last, uncomfortably, putting them on and standing up.
She stumbled to the window, the dim light of the moon shining through; stretching her arms outwards, she felt around the panels, before at last finding the cold lock. She took hold of it, and pulled; already it was old, a little rusted, hard to move. She'd have to oil it in the future.
At last she could open the window. She stared into the night sky, mesh pressing against her face as a light breeze passed against it. All was clear; the stars, the moon, shone brightly.
Someone was playing the trumpet, just out of sight. She could hear it, a single, deep, loud note, played again and again, tone and dynamic never varying, louder, louder, louder.
SIlence. Then a great appartion, a terrible abomination she could not identify, could not make sense of, flashed into the sky.
A low and terrible voice rumbled through the streets. It was everywhere, echoing, at once; she could not tell where it came from.
"The Lord Most High sees all, and He is not pleased."
"Anastasia City is a place of great wickedness. There is not one resident who does not engage in the most vile depravities. He has extended the gift of salvation, and all have rejected it."
"The people of this city have rejected Him, His Son, and the Holy Spirit. Their moral corruption, their total and utter faithlessness, have led them to commit the unforgivable sin."
"Here is the den of evil, of sin. You have turned your backs on Him; and He thus you."
"The Lord Most High is just; He has made His judgement!"
The apparation vanished at once, the voice fading away.
She did not know what to think.
