The Artist

It was the night that changed her. During the day, she was like anyone else, a cog in a machine, unthinking, unfeeling. Those were traits long forgotten, now deemed too dangerous. It was our own fault, we brought war to this world, and now we have forced stagnation upon ourselves. Work how we’re told, eat what we’re told, sleep when we’re told; but not her.

Every day she takes a bit of pigment home from the factory. Just a few dabs, hidden in the shallow pockets of her overalls, tucked away in a small crumple of the government propaganda. Safe in her apartment, she found her expression.

Removing the pigment from her pockets, she dips her fingers into the colors and drags them across the walls. Each night, while her neighbors sleep, she adds life the the murals she’s created. Never in the light, as the photometers installed in every room would determine she was not asleep, and she would be seized; but she did not need the light. Her fingers knew where to move, deft and swift.

When the work bells rang in the morning, she woke to the sight of her newest addition. She would dream about it in the night, but it was always more beautiful when staring back at her. It gave her strength. It was creativity and imagination, wonderful and exciting, illegal and punishable. It was her rebellion, and the start of her revolution.

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