He tried to be brave. There was a part of him, still, as he was led on the arm of his father into that starkly white cell, that still believed that there could be a way – that he could fight it, he had trained himself, he knew how. And Nia, Sherman, Mandi… they hadn't had the time. Or the practice. And seven years counted for something, after all.
And then he was left alone with the music, and he lost everything.
Are you proud of him?
It's not a message. Campbell Banks, famous proprietor and mayor of this utopian town, is barely affected by them anymore. He barely notices their presence – he has safeguards in place. The messages do not own Campbell Banks. Campbell Banks is in control. But he can hear them. Normally they comfort him – a part of his design, like a composer listening to his life's magnum opus – ensuring that he knows what is being said; that he remains aware, in control. But he cannot control the thoughts that float, even for a matter of seconds, from the depths of his own mind. Like a man longing to avoid the rain he stands there and feels the thoughts patter his shoulders, impossible to avoid as raindrops.
The worker there rushes up to him again for the fourth time that hour as he stares at the CCTV, watching. He sounds breathless. "Sir?"
There is a silence, in which Banks waits for him to continue. It is a moment before realises he is asking for his permission to speak. "Yes, John?"
The man sounds worried. "It's been eight days now, Mr Banks. Are you sure it's not dangerous to continue?"
He continues to stare at the screen, immersed in the world which lies before him. Muted, of course. The scene in which Oscar, the boy he trusted, believed in, thought he had changed, is centre stage.
He does not stand still in that room. He paces, over and over, and sometimes he trips, or falls, and appears broken. But his lips move constantly, almost imperceptibly, without break. He has never seen someone last like this before.
He's still holding on.
Banks does not turn his head away from the scene as he speaks. "Double the volume."
Even John – poor, brainwashed John – appears uneasy at this. "Sir, but…" He can see the conflict on his face as his thoughts fight for dominance. 'If he let you decide, would you like your job?' "But family comes first, Mr B-"
"He is not my son." It's an unusual lapse of character for so placid a man, but it is nothing compared to the suppressed emotion which now wells up inside of him; vivid, uncontrollable. But there is nothing that cannot be controlled. He turns, fully, to face John, but he can still see the boy pace in the corner of his vision. John seems shaken, almost – can't allow that to happen. He places a steady hand on John's shoulder and watches his features immediately soften with some cold comfort. "I mean, Oscar is ill at the moment. We don't want him to get worse, now, do we?"
A tempered relief washes over his face. "No, Sir."
"Oscar and I are the same. He'll pull through." He turns back as John goes off to summon his peers or whoever is rushing to help. And Oscar still moves – he is still fighting, he is still holding on. He will not let go.
Banks closes his eyes a moment, and exhales, deeply. He lied, of course. Oscar and he are not completely different – they are similar, so similar, but more than that he is like her. He wants to hold on. And that is why things have to change.
It is him they try to erase first. He paces around in his well-furnished cell; he mutters the name over and over again under his breath, clinging on to it with every fibre of his being, holding on to his hair as though that could prevent it escaping. Winston. Winston. Winston.
But there is no blocking out the messages; not in this place, with the music so loud and invasive. And he can feel the memories being dragged from his mind; can feel them slipping away; and for once there is no cure, no counter-message he can play. The steel wall which the formed in his head now lays crumpled on the floor, his only defence shattered.
But he does not give up.
Because he remembers, still – for this moment at least. There is another who has escaped, he is sure – someone who is worth this, now; who is living in his place, who is, as much as a person addicted to music can be, living freely.
And it is her name, too, which he mutters beneath his breath; still voices, screaming, after his brother and his mother and everything he was and made himself to be has disappeared, ironed out specifically with the strongest of messages. It is her name which remains with him, even after so many sleepless nights have passed he can no longer tell night from day. And perhaps it is because he, his father, never understood the extent of his relationship with her – but it may be because she was the one who changed him, who gave him a voice. And how she is the one who he hangs on to, now, until she is no more than a name.
And maybe, as he lies on the bed, still mumbling that single syllable under his breath though it has almost lost all meaning, he sees a figure outside his window. And perhaps that figure reaches out and presses a hand against the glass; as he once did, a time he can now no longer remember. Or maybe it is all a hallucination, a figment of his imagination: because he cannot believe that she could be back here, in this town of nightmares, risking herself once again. She is free.
She loves him too much to ever do that.
And that is what he must believe; and that girl, too, wherever she may be. As long as she remembers them, he will still exist. He will live on.
And perhaps that is his freedom.