UnSyme

DISCLAIMER: wow. 1984 is so not mine, it ain't even funny.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: i wrote this for english class about a year and a half ago. if i'd known about ff.net then, i would've posted it then. enjoy anyway. it's a missing scene from the book, while winston is is the waiting room of miniluv.

UnSyme
by kaydee falls

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Winston stared down at the floor. It was interesting, he thought, how there seemed to be no cracks in this floor. It was smooth white porcelain, like the walls and ceiling. In fact, he noticed, there seemed to be no distinction where the floor met the wall. The edges were gently curved, like the sides of an old bathtub—a rarity he faintly remembered from years before.

He had become so accustomed to the footsteps of the guards outside this pitiful room that he hardly glanced up when the door swung open again. Then he nearly started out of his seat. he asked incredulously.

The familiar mournful eyes passed over him once. Syme said emotionlessly. I was wondering how long it would take them to get you. He looked the same -- more tired, perhaps, and thinner, and a bit coarser -- but all the intelligence in his eyes had gone dead. His voice, too, was dead. He moved stiffly, painfully, but there was some strength in his movements as he sat down on the thin, hard bench besides Winston. His eyes squinted now, as though accustomed to the constant fierce glare of the sun. His skin was tanner, as well, and he had a fierce red burn across his bare arms. Winston glanced down at Syme's hands. They were rougher, coarser. He had only a stump where one finger had been. Winston knew, with certainty, that this was the result of months at a forced labor camp.

I was sure you were dead, Winston said dumbly. Syme had been vaporized -- when? He couldn't remember. It had been a long time ago.

Syme laughed sharply. Oh no, Smith, he said mockingly. I am not dead.' I do not know of that word. I am -- he stopped short, and leaned in as though imparting a great secret, I am an unperson, he whispered. Then he leaned back and laughed again, helplessly, like a doomed beast.

he said furtively a moment later, you are wondering why they took me? Because -- and his eyes darted around suspiciously, glaring at the telescreens, because I was too intelligent. No, he corrected himself quickly, too ungoodthinkful. I doublethink, I am a master of doublethink, but still -- he broke off again, breathing hard, sometimes the niggles of heresy creep into my mind. They seep in until I am ready to burst. And then -- he smiled, eyes glittering fanatically, I do. His gaze drifted back to the telescreens. I can't help it! he shouted, jumping to his feet. I can't, damn you!

8356 Syme H! a voice from the telescreen barked. Return to your seat and be silent! Whimpering, he complied, burying his head in his hands, the rage completely burned out of him.

Winston stared at him. He must have endured more than the labor camps, he thought, to have broken him so completely. This was not the shrewd, intelligent man he had known in the Ministry of Truth. This Syme was a desperate, hopeless one, who had been completely shattered by life. He was beyond the point of sanity.

After a few long minutes, Syme looked up at Winston again. You know, he said morosely, I blame myself. It is because of Newspeak. Perhaps you recall, a day in the cafeteria -- I said that Newspeak is Ingsoc...I said that it would make thoughtcrime an impossibility.... His voice trailed off. You would not. Perhaps it never happened. But at any rate...I failed myself. You see, I did not...allow myself to become immersed in Newspeak. I used words -- I still use words -- that are invalid. It is the fault of my inability to absorb Newspeak that I have...thought things... thoughtcrime.... He trailed off again, mumbling to himself dolefully.

What was it like, at the labor camp? Winston asked softly, when he couldn't bear the silence any longer.

Syme's gaze remained fixed on his own hands. he muttered. Foolish criminals... thoughtless proles...misguided men like myself. They babbled on about nothing... everything... home... this ministry.... He looked up at the room around him and shuddered. None of it ever happened, he said, returning his gaze to his hands. You cannot say that it ever happened. I may not remember anything...there was nothing to remember.

Winston said carefully, might you remember, once, a reference to a Room 101?

Syme nodded his head vigorously. he said bewilderingly. There was a man who mentioned it, in passing.... I recall that he used an obsolete word, and I corrected him. Now what was the word? he demanded, suddenly, intensely. It was very simple, I believe...yes. He shook his head. I am sure that the corrected word was doubleplusgood...or was is doubleplusungood? His brow furrowed with concentration. he muttered, then continued on a long conversation with himself under his breath.

Winston turned away, despairing. This was not Syme. This was a pitiful, rambling, broken creature who had once been a man. Winston had never liked Syme, not really, but he couldn't see him in this state. Is this, he thought achingly, is this what I will become? He thought of Julia -- perhaps she had already been reduced to this same state as Syme. It was such a fall, such a terrible fall.

The guards returned, not long after. 8356 Syme H! they called. Room 101.

Syme slowly pulled himself to his feet. He started to follow, helplessly, when suddenly he turned back to Winston. You know, Smith, he murmured perplexedly, I really can't remember which word it was. Isn't it odd? And you know... He glanced upwards, hazily. Doubleplusgood and doubleplusungood. For some strange reason, I can't seem to recall the difference. Completely subdued, he shuffled out, a shadow of his old self...a shadow of the guards he so dutifully followed.
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well, i'd like someone to read & review this, anyway, even though it's a year and a half old. now you know why i don't usually write 1984 fic....