A Story A Day. Story 68 of 365: Art.

Jason ran blindly, carrying a large folder. He knew running was pointless, but he had to try. He sneaked inside a dark alley just in time to see the police hover-motorcycles fly past. It had been a close call. He opened the folder, and checked what was inside of it. The colored papers were in good conditions, Jason didn't dare to take them out in the middle of the street, but he was relieved all the same.

He barely knew where he was, but he managed to find his way to a safe location. Sometimes, he wished he weren't an artist. It was not like he had any other choice, it was the only thing he was good at, and the only thing that made him happy. It was dangerous, however.

Arts had been banned during the great epidemic, almost two hundred years ago. A virulent virus had decimated the world's population, and all available hands were needed to transform humanity into something new. Arts were ruled out as useless, and whoever practised them was sentenced to death. It wasn't much of a problem at the start, because everyone had lots of things to do, and even if they had an artistic feeling, they could repress it with hard work. As humanity bounced back, however, it became harder and harder for artistic souls to hide. Some people went back to painting, writing, singing, and dancing, in the privacy of their homes. This lead to underground artistic groups forming, and Jason was part of one of them. 

He arrived to one of the safe havens, still shacking from his experience. He didn't know anyone from that house, but artists were all family, so they took care of him. He would have never thought that he would end up this way, hidding all the time. He hadn't seen his mother in ages, and she was the only one in the family who supported him. But it was too dangerous, he was an outcast, and outcasts didn't have families. 

An older woman brought him a cup of broth and a blanket. 

-Are you okay, son? 

-Yes, I think. 

-So, you're a painter, they told me. Can I see your paintings? 

-Sure. 

He handed them to her. She looked at them for a long time, in silence. 

-It's a beautiful work, what was your name again?

-Jason. 

-Keep working, Jason.

And she left without adding anything. Later, he discovered that she was Amalia, the head of the underground resistance, but that was years after their casual encounter, when he had finally made a name of his own.