Sequel
Chapter One
Shards of glass soar as the paperweight shatters on the floor. A single, small piece of coral shudders then settles forlornly in the corner to collect dust for an age. The Party so seemingly larger than life, shudders, then settles forlornly on the floor.
"I love Big Brother."
These words echo across time, from a past re-written, a past no longer there. Yet these words echo, reverberate through the span of time.
The young prole fiddled with something in his hand, perhaps a worry stone. No, a flash of pink, coral, pale pink coral is turned and rolled between long fingers. He thumbs the edges, edges smoothed from years of use by a wandering thumb. Thin, watery light splatters through the aged glass of a window under which the young man sits. Heavy lids fall languidly over ice-blue eyes, as a flash of light catches his attention, he blinks. His brilliant gaze lowers from the wintry sky to the street below. The inscription, Weeks, rests above the door just beneath him. No, the flash did not come from there. His gaze shifts further, across the street. There. The flash glints off of a hairpin found clutching slate gray locks in its metal grasp. The weak light of the waning day flickers as a time worn head moves to a practiced rhythm. An elderly woman pegs threadbare clothes to a sagging line. As she works diligently, the sings. He recognized the tune. It was an old song that she warbled a song that had been around for as long as he could remember.
"They sye that time 'eals all things,
They sye you can always forget;
But the smiles an' the tears arcorss the years
They twist my 'eartstrings yet!"
The tireless voice continued contentedly as she completed her chore. He had seen her before. She was always there, singing the same song. He sighed gustily and worried at the piece of coral in his hand, the dirt-stained thumb brushed the edges again. Memory assailed him as he glanced at the far corner of the room. He was young, maybe eight, when he had found it. Tucked away in the shadowed corner, shrouded in decades of dust, was the coral. He often wondered how it got there. What event would bring such a lovely object to this small room?
The room itself was quite spartan, the bed had long been removed, but chairs sat about, silent sentinels awaiting the attention of some long lost caretaker. The only thing of interest was an ancient engraving of a cityscape propped against the wall. There must have once been a large hole in the wall, but it had since been boarded over. No one came here, no one but himself. The room was in bad shape and wore its years in the mounds of dust that it robed itself in. He loved it. It was his sanctuary; none would bother him here nor think to search for him here, if any would wish to search for him of course. The room was above an old antique store. It had been out of business for years, antiques were not a profitable venture. The Party members wouldn't buy such incriminating objects and the proles had no use for old trinkets.
He loved this place, it was his place. Odds and ends from an era that was out of memory lay about the floor below. He came here to be alone. After his parents died in a rocket explosion, his aunt took him in. It was good of her to do so, she didn't have to and she had enough to care for to begin with. He was grateful, truly grateful, the problem was that there were just too many people under her care, under foot and in his hair. Sometimes he had to get away form the mayhem and this was where he went.
"Big Brother." The whispered words wafted into the room.
Just what was he? The young man recalled that his grandfather had spoken of Big Brother being around since before he was born. Is he immortal? Is he really there? Does it matter? No, it doesn't really. Those Party freaks have that, whatsit, doublethink thing. Crazy Newspeak words, he just couldn't see why they had to get rid of so many wonderful words. He wondered if they'd ever realize what they had lost. The Outer Party members seem to think that they have so much and are above the proles. Yet they have lost so much more than they have 'gained'. Their minds are no longer there own, their children turn them over to the thoughtpolice at a whim, they have only the babble of the telescreens and the drivel released by the Ministry of Truth as their own. They are like trained animals, birds that repeat the sounds around them. It is impossible to understand the motivations of animals.
Ice-blue pools grew deeper as the solemn young prole was drawn further into his thoughts. The sound of the woman singing lilted into the room, unnoticed, the song had changed.
"Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree."