It was drizzling. The awkward in-between stage of rain. It wasn’t pouring, but it wasn’t sprinkling. It was drizzling. Gray clouds blocked the sun from reaching the streets. That wasn’t unusual though. Seeing the sun in London rarely happened. The cobblestone streets looked eerie, and to ten-year-old Winston walking down them was the last thing he wanted to do.
A small hand gripped his tightly. Winston’s thoughts stopped immediately. He had a job to carry out. Looking down at the frail, blonde girl holding onto him he told himself to be brave. The pair was on a mission. Carefully avoiding the puddles, rubbish, and other bits of trash lining the streets they continued on their way. Walking past the bakery, a cobbler, a tailor, and a milliner shop their destination was within sight. The drug store with the medicine Mother needed was right by the corner. As the little girl took a step closer, into the street, a man stopped them. He was tall and had black hair. He also had a funny little mustache right above his lip and wore a tan coat that grazed the ground. Winston looked up at the man. Blue eyes. That was all he could see. They bore into his soul. When the girl started screaming, Winston was helpless. The eyes were following him. The eyes were following.
Winston woke up in a sweat. He quickly glanced around the room, hoping the telescreen didn’t notice his change in heart rate. The pillow sunk beneath his head as he attempted to slow his heart. Doublethink. That was what he needed to do. Nobody should be having dreams this crazy. Winston didn’t even have a sister. At least, that’s what the records showed. But, maybe they were wrong. That was a dangerous thought. The Party was never wrong, and even a small amount of doubt could lead to trouble. The eyes were always watching him.
With a sigh Winston sat up and tossed the thread-bare blankets aside. As one foot hit the cool floor the varicose ulcer above his ankle began to ache. Morning was always the worst. He tentatively placed his good foot on the chilly, wooden floors before standing up. With a slight limp Winston walked to the cupboard above the sink and pulled out a bottle.
The glass bottle held an amber-colored liquid. There was a simplistic label on the outside that merely said “Victory Gin.” Drinking early in the morning was usually frowned upon, but Winston didn’t care. He needed to forget what he had dreamt. A bitter smell filled the air as the black cap was screwed off the bottle. Rather than taking the time to find a glass, Winston put the rim against his lips and took a deep drink. The sting of the liquid hitting his tongue made his eyes water. One gulp wasn’t enough. He took another.
Behind him the telescreen hummed, a constant reminder of Big Brother. In frustration, Winston pulled out his book, reached for his pen, and sat in the corner.
April 12th 1984. Had a dream. Not a good dream. Party won’t be happy. I’m confused. Walking down street with girl but bad mad stopped her and stared at me. Little girl screams but scared me. I didn’t help girl. She was my sister. Dream sister. Trying to help for dream mother. Blue eyes stopped us. Blue eyes was bad. Big Brother is bad.
Winston paused. The thought of the man in his dream being Big Brother had never occurred to him before this. Big Brother wouldn’t stop a little girl from trying to help her mother. Winston knew He would stop to help the little girl. That is what The Party always said. Big Brother is our protector; He is protecting us from Eurasia and Eastasia. Surely he would protect such a pretty little girl.
This was the time to stop. Winston knew if he kept this new habit of thinking, he could get himself into trouble. Out of view of the telescreen, he hid the book and pen and walked back into the kitchen. The glass bottle of Victory Gin was still sitting next to the sink. The telescreen was still humming. The eyes were still watching. Winston grabbed the bottle and drank every last drop. Big Brother watched.
By: Morgan Taylor
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