Author's note: The fic picks up after canon… Oh man, I can't use fanfiction-speak anymore out of shame. Orwell, you're too good for this! Sadly, 1984 is a category. Heavily influenced by Chuck Palahnuik's Fight Club in style and content but it's not a crossover. I'll only say this once- I don't own Orwell's brain baby nor do I own Palahnuik's brilliance. Thank you.
Warnings… eventual (subtle) slash (O'Brien/Winston) and mentions of sexual content.
My name is Winston Smith and I'm 40 years old. I want to mention something.
The Vaporized don't disappear, they're relocated to another job, better pay, another living arrangement, one not even far from their Pre-Lesson period. A snake sheds skin, but the Party wants you to take it all off, skin, nails and hair, and stand as the bleeding mess, bleeding rivulets from muscles that cover bones all over the tile floors of Room 101. What you ripped off for the sake of the Party sags around your ankles like the regulation blue overalls, there's the hole for the mouth and the eyes. The Party doesn't want you to cry because that means that you're hurt and they don't want you to hurt and besides, mothers say that tears sting wounds.
Metaphor and Symbolism: I've been walking in the Woods of Crimethink whistling tunes about War against Eurasia along the road of Doublethink. The sun shined bright, bright, brightly and each cloud was the shape Big Brother and the secret to survival was to feel contentment.
Victory Gin works the best and I ran out of cigarettes yesterday. Victory Gin heats up when it touches the insides. The goal is to always sleep with a warm stomach, even if the next morning you wake up in a puddle of yesterday's meals, bile stinking up your loft and urine too, on the occasion. Not to mention of pain on all sides of your head, but Victory Gin is worth it.
Yesterday, I dreamed of monstrous rats, the larger breed of hairy monsters with yellow eyes. The dream's setting was in the morning, bright sun and Big Brother clouds- heavy black mustaches and ruggedly handsome features. In my dream, the rat chewed on an eyeball, the pupil was clear blue, cornflower blue. If this was a memory, I don't remember how old I was.
My sister's eye is blue. My sister's eye was blue.
Beside that monster chewing out my sister's last parts was another monster gnawing at my mother's hand. There wasn't anything else but the hand left. If there was only my mother's index finger, would I still recognize her? Big Brother watched my mother's hand slowly being tugged down a drain by jaundiced teeth. Thankfully, I don't talk in my sleep.
The Big Brothers are watching. They're surveillance happens in present tense, never past, never future. Time is now; no one is allowed to think otherwise.
And the problem is you can't think like that. Nothing can be broadcasted. It might be better to not think of anything at all, the more you think, the more you broadcast and then they see. The Party requires statues, not people. Everything in this world has to do with the intangible bleeding into realism. Freudian slip? The Thought Police says yes and off you go to the Ministry of Love. Oops, Mother, I said a bad word. Is there a case out there like me? Where a Vaporized who was re-educated have another regression or am I the only one? How stringently is the Party watching or has it been the same since I stepped back outside? If the Party knows about regression, then why does it even attempt Room 101? Was I even regressing?
I shouldn't be, I don't think. The unspoken word around the outer Party members is that Victory Gin prevents Crimethink. I drink all I can.
Victory Gin is better at home; my flat's dust clouds influence the taste. Drink it all the time without fail, morning, noon, afternoon, night, and the cycle repeats. I always poured a shot for Big Brother on the entranceway and the walls by the staircases and made sure to graciously toast him. Victory Gin warms better than any exercise or clothing, even the new gloves I bought which are getting worn down at the finger pads. Even the thought of Victory Gin brings a thrill. Victory for Insoc, Victory against Eurasia (since the beginning, we've always been fighting Eurasia. Never Eastasia, Eastasia is our friends, has always been our friends. Big Brother is forever just like Goldstein is forever.) Victory Gin works the best during Two Minutes of Hate; the hot feeling pits at the lower stomach and grows for every obscenities you shout. That makes Victory Gin a passable substitute for sex; Victory Gin is a substitute for other niceties too.
Except as an outlet for broadcasting, like that journal. I'd rather think that I was much eloquent in writing than ponderings. This is all my head, me, and mine own, private…
This is usually where I stop thinking along that line and move onto other safer, less complicated topics.
The drink stuffs my eyes and mouth with cotton every single morning and is responsible to the pounding in my temples. The drink is night and day, life and death, it's what I swim in and it'll be what I'll stink like when they finally decide to off me. A hot night, no clothes and no covers, arms flung above the head and legs sprayed, one hanging over the bed, then they'll kick down my door and… that's the end. I'll ask them if I could masturbate one last time and ask that at the earliest, they could shoot me at my peak: everyone should die like that.
I hope no rats eat me.
Death is a combination of fetid smells. Gin stinks to the high skies. Cigarettes smokes are just as bad. There are smells of fear: sweat, urine, feces. Finally, there are the smells of a rotting body. That'll stink up the entire Victory Mansions Complexes on this block. Victory Mansions. Victory Road. Victory Lane. Victory Street. Victory Boulevard. Victory Square.
Victory is Sex, Victory is Peace, War is Peace, War is Sex. Everything is linked together by words but the strings are like spider's silk, it's only visible if you tilt your head in a certain way. I'm the only one who sees on the road through the masses of Proles who smell worse than Gin. But then I think- somebody else, one other living person, even a Prole, has to figure out that something is missing.
Gin can't hide everything. There has to be a fundamental human instinct that should be screaming that something's wrong, this instinct can't be repressed but it can be ignored but this instinct will be screaming so loud that one day, its voice blends into yours and Boom. Vaporization. The more time this element is missing, the more the human mentality becomes dependent upon the Big Brothers in the clouds. The birth of a mob, I tend to avoid them. The effects of war suppress morality, which is why war must be eternal, when it shouldn't. Big Brother is forever.
Victory tastes and smells so horrible, it's doublethink- everything is doublethink.
I love O'Brien. I love Big Brother.
A year has passed since Room 101. A year ago was my first day at my new job. My name is Winston Smith and I am 40 years old.
"Hi, Winston." I sat down. My job is boring, but at least my co-workers never looked too deep, they're pretty boring too. Not like: We would love to see who you are, Winston, and not what you are. You are not what you drink. You are not what you drink.
But, I sometimes wished I was what I drink, then I wouldn't be counting my days till my death. Nobody can shoot Victory to death.
A year passed since I was Vaporized. Despite the fact that I feel like an old man, my body seemed to be regaining its youth. Was it due to meals or emotions? My skin was darker, smoother, my eyes not so sunken in, I was growing hair, and my varicose ulcer wasn't a bother. I ate better; I felt happier; I loved Big Brother. Love is such a powerful emotion. I used to love Julia.
Julia still works in the same building, just a different department. Like me, she's also getting fatter, only slightly around the legs and arms. I watched her stomach expanded greatly like somebody had pumped air, or a baby, into it. Then one day, she was thin again and months later, her stomach began growing again.
I told her that becoming a Carrier for the Party won't raise her position in the eyes of the Party and she's going to die early anyways. She was pretty frank, "Don't associate with me. You're still a traitor to Ingsoc and once I get enough proof, I'm turning you in." and blew cigarette smoke in my face. She gave me a look of dislike and walked away.
Later, I had a nightmare of her on O'Brien, silent as a statue. Up, down, up, down… I knew that she was enjoying it because her eyes were closed. Doing it. Doing it. Doing it.
Being a Carrier was a recently introduced idea among the inner and outer Party Members. One woman was to bed with as many men as she could, as many babies as she could accomplish. Of course, this would all be systematic and preplanned, and the general consensus when one looked at a Carrier was, "Oh, that poor lady, giving her entire body as a noble sacrifice."
This would be the only way Julia was able to have sex once every nine months. But I'd wager that she often came back to the same man the day after claiming that, "it didn't work right the last time" and "oh, I know this is so hard on my very being but I have to so if you can just take down your pants and we'll try something new, how about I warm you up first? Fellatio or a massage?"
She said that "Fucking as a job is better than any other job you can hope for," and then mocked my own sex drive. I told her to shut the fuck up.
If she kept talking like this, she wouldn't last longer than I and I know that my days are numbered.
I want to find out one thing before I die: What makes the Proles what they are. How can they react, through what color shades do they view Ingsoc, how were they altered so that the Party saw them as relatively harmless? I'm positive that they were altered, likely at birth, either through ice picks through the eyes or chemicals during nursing. If it's through chemicals, Proles and Party members aren't actually all that different in their methods of being subjugated through Suggestion. They don't watch the Prole's closely and nobody suffered from a true mob rebellion since the beginning of the Revolution.
The Proles don't do anything, even when missiles come.
And today… Now… Not the past, not the future, but now…
The road from the Chestnut Tree to my flat was broken and riddled with holes that could swallow people whole. In the direction of the Party Member residential area, the holes were filled half-hazard with the rubble that the missiles had hit. My head is pleasant haze, a bit misty, but I can still see. I also have to really concentrate on the grip of my right hand; it's still holding the half-empty bottle of Victory Gin. The waiter has always been so nice; I think he knows that I'm going to die soon too.
And what can be a better use of this knowledge than to drown myself in warmth?
It smells like death today, because the body clean-up job from last week's missile attack wasn't completely done. Apparently, someone forgot to clean up a nearby shed that had a woman and a baby girl and their scent lingered. It was pretty obvious that the rats reached them some time after they died or maybe as they were dying. The woman wasn't missing a hand though and the baby wasn't missing an eye. Life went on but the smell of death never disappears on a day like this.
The air is pretty hot, muggy, like a million bodies pressed upon you and someone's sweaty armpit was shoved into your face at the exact moment you had to breathe. The clouds in the sky look down with the face of Big Brother. I wonder if they saw Julia sleeping with O'Brien.
I stagger down the street in the most straight drunken manner I can achieve.
Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me-