They were the rebels, and they were children.

They fought to save themselves, their personalities and minds and emotions. They were hunted, and they fought, and they were young.

They were killed when discovered a rebel. Their bodies lived on, but they were gone; and so they hid amongst the empty-eyed children in their lifeless world, where every thought and action was to be controlled and standard.

They knew they had no allies in the adults. Adults thought the world was perfect, as it had always been in the past and would be in the future. The leaders were friends.

When a child asked their parent, as they always did at one point in their life, if they knew what color was, the adult would gasp and tell them never to speak the word again.

“The leaders don’t like that word,” they would say. “They know what’s best.”

So the rebels fought, in the dark of night, and in the morning anyone could recognize where they had struck.

Upon the stark white walls would be a violent and vibrant mess of crayon and marker.