The prison cell was damp and cold. Not that it mattered. Sophie was to be executed tomorrow.
Sophie Bunzel had seen the monster of the Pura behind its diplomatic appearance. Its insidious rise, the labour camps, the cruel laws outlawing any form of art, but, above all, their brutality. She watched them take over her country, now it was time to take action.
She wanted the people to rebel, to rise up together against the evil that had infected the land, to think for themselves, instead of believing what the Pura pushed in their faces. One idea could start a revolution.
She started planning her most ambitious painting yet. It was suicide, she knew that well enough; she had already arranged a safe passage to America. She just hoped she would get there.
The next day, she slunk off after curfew to the middle of the city with her cans of spray paint and a large rope. She worked all night, abseiling down the ugly concrete wall of The Dictator’s mansion, painting every inch with her cause. Bright colours shone from it, a bold piece with a bold message. It was a tribute to the people suffering under the Pura’s reign.
It was soon completed, bringing a beacon of truth amid all the propaganda, amid all the lies.
Noon, the next day, Pura agents swarmed into Sophie’s cramped apartment room like locusts on a piece of fruit. She was arrested just before she was about leave for America, and taken to New London. Of course, there are no trials in the Pura’s world, no hearing or judge, just a death sentence.
She stayed in prison for two days, two short days full of hopelessness and worry. She was then shot, her blood, bright smears on her paint stained hands. Her painting was whitewashed; no trace of it was left. Like her work, Sophie Bunzel was erased from existence.