Dystopian Setting

          The sign on the road had a battered look and where the rust had given way, the words freedom rain were sprawled clumsily in bold, red paint. Even the misspelling of half this phrase did not distract from the way the intense red had dried, sliding down the unmoving board, as if wishing to be free of the sign itself, before it became trapped there permanently.
          Its dripping red blood was merely a mark to others, and seemed to glare at those who passed, desperately wishing that freedom would actually rain down upon it, to wash away the stain of unlikely belief that its defacement promised.
          Signs lied, just like people. It was only a reflection of the world in which it resided. The earth in which it was trapped.
          That sign in the road, with its bloody red soul, oozing hopeless life, a trick, for all those willing to believe.
         That hope existed, out in this part of the world.