Illusioned

I wake to the sound of screaming: strange, inhuman screaming that comes from everywhere and nowhere.
It takes a moment for me to realize that the sound is coming from my own mouth.
I promptly snap it shut, still shivering from fear. This is not the night to be drawing attention to my home. This is the night to blend in with those who stand out.
I no longer trust majorities.
The walls of this gray house no longer suffocate me. They are merely a border. Beyond these cripplingly stoic walls lies the resistance. Beyond them, there is hope.
I am a ghost in my standard-issue white night-dress. I am silent and swift as I move through the standard house over the standard carpet to the standard kitchen.
I take out the red candle from my drawer. It is the only color in the grayscale room and milky moonlight that colors even my skin pale smoky gray. My lips draw into a smile as I run my fingers across the wax, smoothly gliding down the length of it.
I find the matches in the cupboard, right where they are supposed to be. Little plumes of swirling, refracted air spiral up from the tiny flame. I touch the match to the unused wick and wait for it to catch.
I feel the little burst of energy. It burns so quickly. If it just conserved its energy, it might be able to hold on for just a little longer. It burns so brightly in the darkness.
I glide over the cold wooden floor to the window.
Across the cobblestone street, through two panes of glass, I can see a blood-red candle flickering in Rebekah's window. She stands behind it, another ghost lost in the night. Our eyes lock, and even through the darkness and fog, I can see her faint smile.
I return it. The light of the candle under her face makes her look like a child telling a ghost story.
Everything about this strange hope seems surreal.
I hear ticking behind me, but I dare not look at the clock. They could come any second. I absolutely cannot risk missing them.
Down  the street, almost every window is illuminated in a faint glow. Our numbers have grown. We are the aware. We are the ones who know.
The government has stripped us of our rights. Our sector is run by cruel men with no limits and no empathy. We are kept in darkness, separated from our parents and all those who may influence our morals. Their teachings are that with proper punishment, we will all fall into line. I feel the lash scars on my back throb. Not many people realize that there is a possibility for life outside this vicious world. But we are the Resistance. We know.
They never expected this.
The men arrive with the thought of them. Black horses come down the street, their heels clicking in the silence. Revis, Rebekah's brother, rides the lead, a red infinity sign ringing his first two knuckles on his right hand.
There are just enough of them. The women come out of their homes, their candles left in the windows.
Rebekah really should be the one riding with Revis, but since the betrothal, we have shaped the rules of the Resistance to fit our needs.
I mount the back of his horse and wrap my arms around his torso. The animal begins to move, first slowly, then breaking into a steady gallop. I feel hollow. Yet I feel free.
The houses behind us begin to catch fire. The candles, caught on the drapes and floors, serve their purpose at last.
We ride into the darkness, away from the horrors of the past and toward a new world, unaware of anything but our breathing.
No one speaks.