One Night Revolution

My name is unimportant, my identity destroyed and lost all at the same time. My only identity is the mask that now hides my face. I stand on this darkened street, alone, the air cold from the now growing dusk sending the city to sleep. They came quickly. The night guards. Enforcers of the city, our so called ‘protectors’. The light of a small street lamp lit up, illuminating my figure, alone in the halo of yellow light. From here, I can see the look in there eyes, the same lust to hurt. How they loved to dominate those who can’t or won’t fight back. My hand tightens around the rusted pipe in my right hand. Curfew ended just minutes ago, the orange sunset falling behind the shadow of the beginning dusk. I could feel the gazes, watching me silently from the darkened windows.

Ever since I was young this city had been hell. Political tyrants, the monstrous dictators living in their balcony view of the skyscrapers that loom over our heads, blocking the sun with their shadows. Their rule ruthless to everyone living under their control. If you stood up against them, you were shot right back down. If you want the truth, I’ll give it to you straight. I am tired, tired of running, of hiding, of being tread upon like nothing more than dirt. But the greatest part was...I was not alone. The sounds of footsteps flooded through the alleys, through the streets. Dozens of shoes, all connecting with the solid asphalt, the sound of an army marching to war. They came like ghosts, masked covered in an array of different colored masks and bandanna. I did not turn my eyes away from the figures ahead of me, but I felt the presence of the group press behind me. Moments passed, the air seeming as thick as water. No one moved, no one spoke, not a single noise was heard. Silence. Deafening silence. My hand rose, rising above into the air wrapped tightly around the metal pipe. The only sound I could hear was my heartbeat, pounding against the inside of my chest like a drum. A war drum. Driving my pipe downwards, the ragged rusted edge pointing towards the malicious tyrants that stood feet away. I broke something in that swing. I shattered the silence and fake peace like glass, as the world erupted into chaos.

It was war, it was hell. The world was a mix blur, adrenaline coursing through my veins like a drug. We fought, as hard as we could. We fought for our families. We fought for our loved ones. We fought like demons, for a cause of angels. The sounds of gunfire and yelling echoed through the streets and alleys, creating a melody unlike any man had ever heard before. And you know what? They should have won. Statistically they should have wiped us out. But they forgot something vital, something so important yet so minuscule. We were not statistics or numbers. We were people, with hopes, with dreams. We were fighting not only because we wanted to win, but because we had to.

The rooftops were a perfect place to watch the city burn in the midnight sky. We watched as the flames encircled the building, smoke rising to the starlit sky as the light gave off a halo, piercing through the darkness of the corrupted city below. The flames flicker, and roar as they hungrily engulfed the once proud buildings that stood above the rest of the city. This, was more than a cluster of building. It was a symbol of corruption, for the hundreds of victims that lined the streets below. My eyes looked downwards, to the packed streets, jammed with dozens of people, faces shielded by masks of all sizes, shapes and color. All gazes locked on the burning pyre, high in the dark heavens, as they all could taste the ash. Mismatched tools in there hands, weapons of a mob, some stained red. The tortured, the abused, the victims of the torn city, joining in harmony watching their city burn. My own mask felt cool against my skin as my golden brown eyes reflected in the orange hue. We were outlaws, terrorists, to the tyrants above, but to those below on the streets, we were more. We are freedom fighters, the unbound, the light piercing through the shadows. We are more than a riot, more than a civil upset. The winds pressed upon my back, with specks of gray, of ash.

Around me, several others stood, staring into the masterpiece that they too had a hand in creating. My family, the ones who picked me off the ground when I was beaten and bloody, the ones who helped me stand. Their own identities covered, protected by the similar snow white porcelain. Their fingers still wrapped around their firearms, some of the barrels still warm. Each of us had our reasons, our own causes for fighting. Families torn apart, love ones lost to the corruption, lives ripped apart. Everyone of us had created a small spark that led to the blaze that stood before them. Memories laced through my mind, as I watched the raging inferno hypnotically. The first time I met my new family. The first time I stood up to make a difference and rid the city of the evil that plagued it, my city, my home. To save our city, it must burn, and from the ashes it will rise like a phoenix. My eyes looked downwards once again, brushing over the hundreds of those who stood shoulder by shoulder. The ones who took up arms despite their fear. Because when I looked down upon that street, I didn't see a mob, or a riot. I saw a revolution. It took years of injustice, and hate, all piling on top until everyone had enough. Until everyone took up arms in a single night, and decided enough was enough. An army of civilians, ordinary people playing the roles of revolutionaries. We are an army of fallen angels, the chosen dead. And we will watch as this city burns, and from the ashes will rise our salvation.