Rebel

Chapter Two

I sigh heavily, watching the mist form in the air and setting my notebook down on the bench. I'm sitting in the garden of our home, with a notebook, a pen, and some writer's block. The teacher said to write a paragraph but I can barely get together enough words to form a sentence. I've never been good with academics. Especially when it came to writing. I've been out in the garden for about 45 minutes and I still can't get any ideas. Giving up, I place my pen down and decide to go for a walk.

I stroll through my neighborhood, watching kids fly kites and run around playing. The brightly colored shops are decorated with autumn decor. I always considered myself lucky, growing up in a large mansion, having maids to take care of me, getting a good education and such. I grew up watching Reds and Oranges suffer, with no idea how to help them. After a while of wandering aimlessly, I go to the place where I can think; the Yellow neighborhood.

Where I live, everything is organized in an orderly way, with strict rules. We can't smoke or litter to keep everything perfect. But I find the most peace in the lower class neighborhoods. When Mother and Father aren't around, I often sneak out to go watch the musicians play their music.

I went down to the alley and crouched next to my usual window. I peer inside to see a Yellow woman teaching her children how to sing. The notes flew together in perfect harmony, as the wind carried the array of voices. In the background, there were a few people playing old, worn instruments. I sat there for a while, synchronizing with how the music flows together.

I walk away from the alley, my floral dress flowing in the wind. I notice a family of Reds sitting in front of a building. A little girl, with torn clothes who looked starved, clings to her mother's shirt and points to my dress. "I want to wear something like that, Mommy!" she says with glee. The Mother gives her a sad smile. "Maybe one day, Rosabelle. One day...". It was heartbreaking. I tore my gaze from the two and looked around. There is trash all over the streets. I could hear the crunch of a cigarette butt under my shoes. Next to the fence, I see a girl around my age, with a can of spray paint, hovering over a wall. She stands there, trying to figure out what to paint. I look at all the previous messages people left there.

"Rebellion is the only thing that keeps you alive"

"Obedience is suicide"

"Revolution is coming"

"The system was never broken. It was built this way."

What do these messages mean to the people? Is this really how the people of the lower class see the government? I couldn't believe it. Eventually, I spot movement at the corner of my eyes.

The girl had decided what to write in her own message. I stand there for a while and watch her movements. Although it was vandalism, and I should probably stop her, I couldn't help but be in awe. She moved so swiftly and every stroke was like magic. The colors blended together like the lyrics in the song earlier. Everything flowed in a way that made my heart flutter. I watch as she puts on the last touches and takes a step back to examine her masterpiece.

From a distance, I admire what she had just created. The words build together a sentence that I can finally make out. "We were born in your world, but we will die in ours." I gasp, my eyes floating to her. She's watching me, with her hazel eyes staring back at me. She smirks, but not in a bad way. In a way that she is proud of herself, of the reaction, she caused in me.

That's when the realization hits me. She knows I was here the whole time. That message wasn't to reassure her people like the others were. It was to warn me. To warn the Violets. They all want change, but she says it's gonna happen. They will die in a world, unlike the one our government has created. Smiling at her message, I peer back at the mystery vandal girl.

I don't know what came upon me, but I start to walk up to her. What if the rumors were true? What if she hurts me? Kidnaps me? Murders me? Without thinking, I continue to walk towards her and come to a halt in front of her. We were so close that if I leaned forward, we would be breathing the same air.

"Your message has a meaning. A purpose. Unlike our system, you do things for a reason. I just wanted you to know... you've been heard," I say all in one breath. I look at her face, for the first time since I had the courage to talk to her and I see a change. Her expression softens, as though she is warmed by my words. Then, she must have realized something because she goes back to wearing a cold expression.

"I don't want to be heard." Her voice drops to a low whisper. "I want to be listened to." 

With that, she walks past me, her torn flannel wrapped around her waist fluttering behind her.