Me.

Me.

Me.

I opened my eyes, My eyes. I knew then that they didn't belong to anyone else, not to the telescreens that have coldly regarded my existence, from conception to that very minute. They belonged to me.

What was strange about this thought was that I had no concept, then, of what 'me' was. I didn't recognise myself as an individual. If someone had asked me what my 'name' was, I probably would have stared at them. It was around 2066, and 'me' was a non-entity. Only party workers were allowed to be 'me'. Only party workers were allowed do anything.

With my eyes open, I could see only a little. It was dark. It was always dark. There had been a blast, when I was only three years old, and it had all but stolen my vision. At least… I think I was three. Perhaps the blast had been earlier, or later. All I remember is that is killed nearly all the children at the institute. 450 of the 470 children, most of whom had been orphans, were killed. Of the twenty that had survived, nearly all were damaged in ways that were irreparable. I was rendered almost blind. So, in truth, opening my eyes was merely an act. It was an instinct that must be followed, much like listening to what other people are saying. Much like making facial expressions.

I turned my head slowly, so that the infrared didn't catch me with my eyes open. And I stared at the wall. I could hear whispers. Nothing incriminating- just gentle whispers of the sort that were commonly heard in the institute. They were talking about me.

"202 ungoodsee," someone was saying. I hated it when people spoke about me, but hatred was bound to get you caught by the thought police, and was not allowed, unless it was hatred for the enemy- hatred for Goldstein, or for Eurasia, with whom Oceania is apparently at war. "Ungoodworkful."

No, it was true, I couldn't work. I couldn't read- whatever there was to read, and I could barely speak. They only kept me at the institute because my donors would have objected if they'd sent me out to live amongst the Proles. Of course, they didn't know what it was like for me in the institute, despite having grown up in one themselves… I don't blame them for bringing me into this horrid, rigid, hungry existence, and I don't pity myself. I pity the weak-minded fools who believe in all the party propaganda.

I whispered the word. "Me." I wasn't a number. Numbers were… computer terms. They had to be. And "me" was what I was. A… a girl. Number 202, the girl. The blind, stupid and useless wretch. That's what they called me, or would have, had they known the words.

Me.

It was a new concept to me then, that the individual might me worth something more than the value allocated by the date of birth, by the system. By the overalled women and men who ran the institute.

Me.

I wasn't a number. I wasn't LIKE them. I didn't hate the Eurasians. Sometimes I thought perhaps they were even liberators. Perhaps Eurasia had a different governing authority. Perhaps I could swim across the Eurasia and live in freedom amongst them. But 'freedom' was merely 'unlife'. Life was slavery. Slavery was life, but because it was life there was no other possibility. I think now that I must have thought those thoughts, but perhaps it isn't true. The Newspeak as it had been called when it was officially introduced as the Oceanian Language was now referred to simply as 'Speak'. There was no alternative.

But I had thought of this word, and this word was 'me'.