1985

     It had been about a year since the incident at the Chestnut Tree Café, when one of the three global superpowers, Oceania, had made a great victory against another, and a certain Winston Smith had then truthfully thought that he loved Big Brother, Oceania’s political figurehead.

    Winston woke in his cot, eyes gummed shut and back near-broken with pain, barely able to sit up. The glass bottle and plain porcelain teacup gleaming on his nightstand beckoned him to right himself, and if it were anything else that was needed, he wouldn’t have done it. But the Victory Gin and cup- that was worth getting up for. Sitting up slowly, he reached over to the bottle and uncapped it.

    Almost immediately, the thick, oily, disgusting scent hit his nostrils, which wailed in complaint as he poured a tiny amount into the teacup. It was barely enough to get him through the morning, but it was enough- along with visiting the Café. Even thinking about the Chestnut Tree had him reminiscing.

   Bringing himself back into reality, he shakily raised the cup to his mouth. Swallowing the mouthful of gin with a shudder, he sat up and flicked the dim lights on. Blinking a couple times, he noted the dormant telescreen in the living room. Normally it would be showing something at this time due to the exercise program he committed to in the mornings, but the plaque showed no signs of activity, not even the slight humming it always produced.

    He was free.

    This barely even held any meaning to him anymore, considering everything he had been through. His attempts at relearning the Party mentality had failed to stick over time, despite how long he’d spent trying. It was hard to keep track of time- he rarely, if ever, knew the date. But if he was free for even a second, there may be hope to save a little of his humanity before time was up.

    Feeling much better after the morning gin, Winston crept over to his desk and opened the drawer with his still-intact diary. The speck of dust he had placed previously was still there.

    Picking up the plain-covered book, he skimmed through his previous entries. It contained writings mostly about how the proletariats were really the only hope for revolution and the fall of the Party, about how freedom was being allowed to say what you think, and other things of that sort. His heart beat faster as he reached the end of the dull cream pages, realizing what he’d become and what he’d allowed O’Brien and the Ministry of Love to shape him into. He hadn’t thought about this in a very long time, and felt the lingering worry of being caught.

    Sliding the drawer open, replacing the whitish speck and closing the drawer, he laid back down on his gin-reeking cot to wait to return to his normal life, with constant monitoring and no opinions, no thought of his own. He failed to notice the return of the slight hum of the telescreen. Sitting back up, he glanced at the drawer in which the book was stored. Not paying attention to the fact that the screen was on or that he'd committed two different crimes against the Party again, he was thinking about the new yet indistinguishable day.

    There was a knock on his door. He opened it, and there was one of his neighbours, one he had never bothered to learn the name of. Before Winston had a chance to react, the tiny beetle-like man reached to his waist and pulled out a smooth, black handgun. He pulled the trigger, barrel aimed at Winston’s head. He felt a sharp pain and was shoved back inside the house before everything went black.

WAR IS PEACE.

FREEDOM IS SLAVERY.

IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.

BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.