Winston winced, waiting for the gun to fire. For a split second, he wanted it. He had lived a lowly existence since his release, since room 101.
His thoughts raced, creating an aching sensation in his skull. Beckoning death to venture to him, he could almost feel the decayed fingers of the Reaper reaching toward his neck. The nose of the barrel sniffed at his skin, grazing across the fine hairs which stood rigidly upon his neck.
His varicose ulcer seared in pain, a pain that he hadn't felt for quite some time. Suddenly, in a blaring epiphany, he saw reason to live once more. He saw her, his lover, his Julia. Imprinting onto back of his eyes, her image thrived with lifelike vivacity.
For the first time in his life, Winston Smith knew that he had truly lived. He had lived for Julia. In Winston and Julia's rebellion, they had incited the awakening of a revolution.
Everything lies in the Proles, and the Proles, once ignorant and blinded, are touched with knowledge.
And with that, Winston Smith was shot. His body slammed against the floor, a smile gracing his visage; even in death, Winston was finally content.