Chapter IV

It’s been ten years now. There are no tracks left from the earthquake in the city. Everything looks perfect. Everything seems to be fine from the outside. But on the inside, I knew the people were afraid to express what they feel. Afraid to be carried away, to be liquidated with no tracks left of them, no photos to remind anyone of them, no documents, nothing. And everyone who ever knew the people who just vanished one night seemed to have forgotten them. They only whispered about the vanished. They never talk loud about the ‘dead’.

But this is what we are for. We are here to break the silence. We are the ones bombing walls at night with graffiti, we are the ones reminding people about the dead. Reminding them that there is still hope. And even if the writings on the walls disappear the next morning, we know that people see it. We know they understand what we are talking about. We know they never forget.

Tonight I’m alone. Even though I know I’m alone, I can feel the paranoia. The fear of being watched, the fear of being spied on. I’m shaking it off. I somehow manage to convince myself that it’s only me and my backpack, filled with cans of paint muffled in old cloth to silence the sound of the metal balls inside the cans hitting the walls. There was no way to remove the balls, they were there to keep the paint from hardening, the cans we had were constructed that way. We’ve heard that somewhere on the internet one could order special graffiti paint cans. Silent, stealthy ones with no balls inside, made specifically for illegal spraying. But there was no chance for us to order them, even if we had free access to the internet. Everything coming in and going out of the city was precisely controlled, there was no way in apart from the main gates. All we had were some old spray cans “borrowed” a long time ago from auto mechanics who forgot to lock the windows at night. I’ve read somewhere that it isn’t stealing if you intend to give it back some day. We lived by that principle.

I find a nice spot, a silent one at night, without very little pigs around patrolling. It’s dark, there are only a few streetlights, here and there. I know the street is highly circulated at day. I pull out the stencil I’ve made earlier today and some duct tape. I stick it to the wall. I pull out a can of black paint and start bombing. Soon enough, I remove the stencil and put it back in my backpack. It can now be seen the face of our beloved commander. I take out of the backpack another can of spray, red paint this time. I write next to the portrait in large, block letters. “FUCK THIS KIND OF FREED.” I am two letters away from finishing the painting, but I hear paces. At least three pairs. They have seen me. I drop the can, I grab my backpack and run.

Running. Running in the rain. I am too afraid to look back, I keep my view straight ahead. The streets are deserted, although it’s only 9 pm. I hope against hope I’ll see someone, someone who can help me. There is no one around. They are following me. I keep on running. I trip. I fall. Time stops.