VII: TRUTH
Winston was walking. Walking through a bright-lighted corridor in absolute silence. Suddenly, erupting the silence came four consecutive sounds: the pull of a trigger and the force of a bullet escaping its barrel; the cracking of a skull and a bullet lodging into the brain; the fall of a body and a final gasp of breath; and a song...
Under the spreading chestnut tree...
Suddenly Winston jerked back to consciousness. His head which (a moment before) laid resting upon the table, flew up. His arms which (also a moment before) laid limp by the sides of his chair, flew up in reflex and hit the table before him. The table, after the impact, swayed violently causing the gin upon its surface to tip over and drop all over Winston's new pants. At that moment, the telescreen directly above him, in the pub he currently just slept in, changed from a song to the daily news. Simultaneously, a waiter came by and helped clean up the mess Winston made. At that moment Winston felt like he was being watched. And he was. Telescreen from the top; waiter from the front. 'And for good reason,' thought Winston, 'My duty to Big Brother is to be diligent, faithful, and ever-serving.'
And Winston was diligent, faithful, and ever-serving. However, more and more often Winston would be drifting off at the oddest of times. He couldn't control it. He couldn't control them. His dreams. His visions. His premonitions...
It would cost Winston, though. His love for Big Brother was pure, however, every time these dreams would slip in his mind, this love faltered. Something within him felt unfulfilled. Something within him was missing. Something within him was emerging, and it was through the dreams.
Bright corridor...trigger...bullet...dead...chestnut tree...
Over, and over, and over.
Walk, bang, dead.
Over, and over, and over.
Presently though, Winston was making sure the expression upon his face was 'acceptable'. He could almost feel the telescreen observing him from above, and the waiter, also, was still 'cleaning'.
Finally the waiter left (not without giving a final side-glance), and at the same time the telescreen switched to something else. That was his cue to get up and leave. After exiting the pub, Winston became immersed in the thoughts of his dream. Distracted, Winston only much later realized that his feet had betrayed him. Instead of walking back to the apartment, Winston found himself in a completely different place. Instead of being surrounded by Party Members, he was surrounded by Proles. Oddly enough though, instead of turning around, he kept walking. It was safe anyways. After being free and faithful to Big Brother for almost a year, Winston was hardly a target.
As Winston walked through the area, it rather quickly transitioned from the average Prole slum, to the extremely poor Prole slum. And he kept on walking. As Winston approached the house at the end of the street, the sounds of babies crying, mothers shouting, and terrorized cats began to fade out. Every step he took felt like kilometers, and every breath he breathed seemed to take hours.
Winston found himself standing on the porch of that house. Clearly upon the door was a spray-painted word: ABADONED. Winston looked down at his feet, which stood upon an extremely dirty mat. A few swipes with his foot and two words became clear upon the mat: Welcome Home. Winston's heart beat began to quicken as his head slowly moved from the welcome mat to the mailbox which hung beside the door. It read: Smith.
All of a sudden, all of the noises came back. He could here crying babies, shouting mothers, and terrorized cats once again. Except, these were not only the sounds of the present. They were also of the past. His past. The truth came flooding back to Winston and his chest throbbed because of how fast his heart was beating. Suddenly, as an impulse Winston stuck his hand in the mailbox and pulled out a paper.
It read: Victory Street.
...
Winston found himself walking through a long and narrow alley which seemed to go on for eternity. Based on how dark the sky had grew it must have been around midnight, and not a soul could be seen. Winston's feet felt separate from his body for they kept on walking even though Winston did not want them to. His legs were shaking and unbalanced, and the bottom of his feet and his thighs were all numb. But Winston kept on walking.
Then, Winston heard a sound, and he felt a familiar feeling. Someone was watching him. No, not a telescreen or Party Member. Someone else. And they were following him too.
Without a moment of thought, Winston broke out into a run. At first he could only hear the echoing sound of his own footsteps in the alley, but a second later another pair of running footsteps could be heard. Winston's heart began to race, and streams of sweat flowed down his brow. He turned the corner and almost ran into a lopsided sign which read Victory Street. He dodged it unknowingly and ran faster than ever.
At the end of the street he found a small, unlocked cabin. He ran into it and locked the door from behind. The cabin, though empty, had all of its lights on, blinding Winston for a moment. Mesmerized, Winston walked through the long, white corridor, not even hearing the door being unlocked from behind. Winston continued walking, and at the end of the corridor was a large wall.
Winston gasped. Upon the wall were photographs. Hundreds. And very single one was of Winston. Winston as an infant. As a child. An adolescent. An adult. And in the center of all of the pictures was one of a women, not too much younger than Winston himself.
"It can't be..."
"Oh, but it can. Where's my chocolate, brother?"
Winston took a sharp intake of breath, unable to speak.
"Under the spreading chestnut tree. I sold you and you sold me..."
At that very moment there came four consecutive sounds: the pull of a trigger and the force of a bullet escaping its barrel; the cracking of a skull and a bullet lodging into the brain; the fall of a body and a final gasp of breath; and a song...
"Under the spreading chestnut tree..."