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It had been six years.
Now his voice was quieter and his face was older. His sandy, silver-lined hair was parted differently than last time, and it glistened with a repelling mix of grease, sweat, and alcohol. Six years! It was enough time for someone to completely recreate themselves a dozen times over. His gait was more careful, his eyes were slower and were clouded from the drinking habit he had picked up while he was away. The weight he had gained in his first year away from this place had already been lost. Or at least it would be in a matter of time here. People these days who had been through the same thing as he were able to be completely unrecognizable.
But still, there was a little piece of his old self clinging stubbornly on to him no matter how hard he had tried to shake it off, no matter how many drinks waiters had poured in his cup. This was why he was here in the Ministry of Love again. He was still subconsciously fighting against his past life. He was still living somewhere between what he used to be and what he had to be.
He silently sat in a metal chair placed in the middle of a dark room. A glaring white light shone from the center of the ceiling down on to him. Staring straight into the dark, he did not have any desire to strain against the tight bonds around his extremities. He was cloaked in an unnatural glow, seemingly welcoming the encroaching darkness that stretched out immeasurably in front of him. He could not tell how large the room was. It was soundproofed, and the room's center of light crept around him for what he believed was only a dozen feet across. The edge of the light was immediately plunged into darkness. He also could not tell that on the other side of that darkness was a wall with a window. But perhaps he actually knew that it was there, and perhaps that was why his bright eyes started to lift. Perhaps he knew that behind that window was O’Brien.
The last time Winston was in the Ministry of Love, he had undergone torture -- from beatings, to something akin to electrical torture, to Room 101. The mere thought of Room 101 sent an uncontrollable tremor through him. He shut his eyes. But even if he could not see, he could feel the cold shiver of metal wire against his face, the brush of sharp whiskers across his skin. The temperature in the room felt like it had dropped. He could not help himself from shuddering.
Winston could only wonder why he was back in the Ministry of Love again. After he was released six years ago, he had always done his job in the subcommittee, he had always cheered to the telescreen, he had always raged with the crowd in every Two Minutes Hate. With all of this, he made sure that he broke away from his past life and became the perfect Party member. Had he not done everything he could for the good of the Party?
But after a moment on the conflicting subject, he abandoned it. He did not care. For all he knew, everything he had done in these six years was for Big Brother and no one else. The guards would recheck his background, find him innocent, and he would walk away free again. The thought made Winston calmer.
His mind drifted slowly to O’Brien. How was he now after all these years? The cultured mannerisms, the self-possessed power, the brilliant mind that encompassed Winston’s own -- would they all be gone? Winston was sure that he was still as clever as he was six years ago, perhaps even more. O’Brien, too, was still his mentor and teacher. The man had those wire-rimmed spectacles -- always perched intelligently on the edge of his nose -- and that cutting voice of a preacher. In the way that a preacher would teach a recalcitrant disciple to love God, O’Brien had taught him to love Big Brother.
He had begun to worry if anyone would ever come to get him, since he could not recall when he had arrived. He had only woken up a while ago, but his bones ached from being in a fixed position for longer than he had first thought. He started to panic; it was very realistic that no one would ever set foot in the room -- while he was alive, at least. Was that it? Was he here not to wait for repentance for whatever folly he had committed, but here to die? He knew this day was coming, did he not? But Winston could not even answer to himself.
He also could not bring himself to stay silent for long.
“O’Brien,” he whispered to the surrounding darkness -- as if the man would somehow materialize from the shadows at beckoning.
“Hello, Winston,” came the reply. An unseen door behind Winston opened, and the room in which he was held was instantly flooded with a crashing wave of blinding light. The visitor closed the door, turned aside to a switch on the wall, and pressed it. The only light in the room blew out, and the two of them were swallowed by the darkness together.
The straps around Winston’s wrists and ankles were gone, and he was free to move in the chair. He could get up from his seat if he wanted to, but there was nowhere to go. At the moment, he was more interested in watching O’Brien standing at a metal table that was not there before. O’Brien was pouring a black decanter of red wine into two glasses.
As if he was suddenly aware of watchful eyes, O’Brien stopped pouring. Without turning around, he placed the wine bottle down on the table and fixed the cork back in it. He then picked up one of the half-filled glasses and brought it to his lips, tasting it. But after a brief moment, as if Winston’s presence had just occurred to him, he set it down and picked up the other glass of wine.
Winston took it without a word and tried it, all while staring at the other man from above the rim of the glass. He knew that O’Brien must have been doing the same. They both drank their wine for a few moments before O’Brien withdrew his and placed it back on the table. Winston followed suit a few seconds later. But when he went to put his glass down, he did so a little too hard and the glass rang, slicing into the thick air.
“I never liked wine that much,” commented Winston, straightening his spine. He had waited until after the ringing died to speak.
“Even after that time you and Julia came to my home?” mused O’Brien solemnly.
He said nothing in return. The name “Julia” made Winston’s stomach churn. He could feel the mocking gaze of the other man burning into him. Winston swore, if O’Brien continued on that subject, he would - he would --
“Steady, Winston. Your drinking habit is exposing your colors.”
Winston bit his tongue. He never really did think he would ever see O’Brien again. After he left the Ministry of Love years ago, he had stripped himself away from everything and started anew. It meant pushing away flashbacks of his time in here until they were barely lingering feelings, effects of something that had happened too long ago to matter. He no longer went to the same Two Minutes Hate that he used to see Julia and O’Brien, and his new sinecure was far away from the old job that he had held in his past life. If he was ever to meet O’Brien again, he had sometimes thought before, it would be with thankfulness and respect on his part. But here, in this room with that very man, he felt neither. It surprised him.
“I am honest when I say that I have missed this, Winston. Though it is no shock that you are back,” said O’Brien, with a slight smile. “Under different circumstances, I must add.”
Winston only grumbled a feeble response as he took back his glass of wine. He was even more surprised now. As he tried to concentrate down at the red liquid in his glass, he could see O’Brien’s look of mild amusement.
“Are you shocked, Winston?”
He was not sure whether “yes” or “no” was a better answer. “I don’t know,” he said instead, and he placed the glass back on the table, having lost all interest in it.
“You are still your old self,” continued O’Brien, with an air of disapproval. “When you were brought into this room, you believed that you were free from guilt, that we would let you go. You believe that we are somehow wrong to have imprisoned you. Am I correct?”
Winston’s mouth was dry despite having just drank. “Yes,” he said quietly.
“You are still mentally diseased. All of our work that we have made last time to help you has regressed because of you, Winston. Because you are weak. Do you understand?”
“I am not the same person,” protested Winston hoarsely.
“Do you really believe that?” spat O’Brien. “You have seen yourself in the mirror and doubted who you saw. Burying those thoughts of doubt is not enough. Once the seed has been planted, it will continue to grow. Remember, Winston, you are no good liar. How many times have I told you that? I can see the uncertainty in your face right now, from the way the shadows hang around your eyes and the way every breath of air you take is unsteady.” He took a moment to pause and move closer to Winston, and then he went on, his voice significantly lower and more measured. “But your doubt has some truth in it. You are not perfect. Not yet, you think. You think with hope that I can help you to be who you want to be, who Big Brother wants you to be. But in this place, there are no second chances. You should already know that.”
Winston shriveled to the back of his seat, his heart sinking at the older man’s words. He knew full well that O’Brien spoke the truth, and an increasing feeling of helplessness overcame him. Every word that O’Brien said cut him down lower and lower, and he feared sooner or later he would collapse on the ground at the man’s feet, a crumpled figure of humiliation and tears.
“Do not mistake your seeing as perceiving,” said O’Brien, stopping to look down at him. A brief shadow of disappointment crossed the man’s face. His face was dark despite the overhead light, but his keen eyes were gleaming.
“Then cure me!” begged Winston, his face animated with the passion of a desperately-eager student. Oh, how he had failed Big Brother and the Party! He, too, had failed O’Brien, the only person who had reached out to him and pulled him up from the depths of a terrible, ignorant existence. “Re-educate me! Help me love Big Brother again!” His throat bobbed with every painful plea that came out.
O’Brien’s eyes narrowed. “You and I are both worn and old. My entire life I have been loyal to Big Brother. But not you, Winston. He will not take any more time for you," he said unsympathetically.
“Then why do you?” cried Winston. He wanted to leap up and seize the man, strike him even. "Why do you take time for me?"
O'Brien did not answer and went on. "Tell me,” he began, his head slightly tilted to the side in thought, "do you want to die?"
Perhaps - perhaps if he stood up and punched O’Brien would this be over. He could imagine the blood flying with one well-aimed, satisfying smash in the jaw, and it would not matter if the guards dragged him off and beat him with their truncheons and iron-shod boots. Even if he had not one bone unbroken left in his body, he knew it would be worth it. Somehow, O’Brien always kept him alive, and Winston had no wish to be. What other reason did he have left to live other than for this ridiculous, ongoing battle between him and someone a hundred times smarter? No, he realized, Big Brother did not need him any longer, no one did.
O'Brien's question forced Winston to compose himself. "I don't know. Perhaps," he said bleakly. There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. "I am tired. I am nobody. Why don't you just shoot me already?"
"These past thirteen years you have been under our keeping. By now, you have still not fully submitted to Big Brother. A single bullet in the back of your head will not cure you at this point. The heretic still lives inside you, and we cannot have that."
"I will be tortured again."
"Torture is not an option anymore,” said O’Brien evenly. “I have already said that Big Brother does not repeat himself for you. Know that you will have to die, of course. But we will not kill you; I will not kill you. Alone, that will not be enough to clean you entirely. No, Winston, you will kill yourself. You want your soul as white as snow? You will kill yourself and do so only on your own accord."
Something like a wail was lodged in the back of Winston's throat. Oh! He allowed himself to crumble into his hands. His body was racked with humiliating chokes, each one muffled by his hands over his mouth. He sensed another hand rest on his throbbing arm, but he moved to cover his face and did not look. "It's your fault, O'Brien!" he gasped underneath the man's hand. "You deny it, but you have brought all of this upon me! Big Brother would never treat me like this, but you would!"
"Truly, I am sorry.”
“Sorry!”
“Of course I am, Winston.” O'Brien spoke gravely with his usual faint, almost regretful irony. “Your difficult case has always intrigued me to help you, so help you I will now, with your last task for us.”
Head swimming, Winston did not reply, and he felt the hand on his arm remove itself. He peered out from behind his own hands to look up at O’Brien. The Inner Party member’s face was close to his, and he flinched at the near sight of it.
But what a face! Beneath the tired, aging creases and the weary, off-colored skin, his face shone with a vigor Winston had not seen since years ago. Winston was struck with a sudden flow of reverence. Here was this man who devoted everything to the Party, who toiled his whole life to save the misguided. It was O'Brien who always deserved to live. It was he, Winston, who was undeserving of such liberty. Just living and existing now seemed to be an unspoken form of betrayal towards the Party. A new, overwhelming sense of willingness washed over Winston. Death was his duty to the Party.
“How will I do it?” he asked.
O’Brien drew back and reached into a pocket in his black overalls. “Hold out your hand,” he commanded, but his voice was softer than usual. In his palm, he produced a clear capsule with liquid inside it. Winston obeyed, and it fell into his outstretched hand.
"Break it in your mouth. You will not taste or feel anything."
Winston examined the capsule silently, holding the smooth, small object between his thumb and index finger. He did not realize how much he was trembling until he nearly dropped it on the floor.
“Do not forget that we have always been on your side, Winston," said O'Brien, studying him.
He wanted to laugh -- and in fact, he would have if it was not for the unease churning in his stomach. He became conscious of an intense urge to throw up, and he tasted wine rising in the back of his throat. Just a moment ago, he had told himself he was ready to die; now, he was quickly backtracking. Anger rushed through him. This was what O’Brien had warned him about. He was foolish, he was weak! How could he even laugh at what O’Brien had said? The Party had always been on his side! His previous life fighting the Party had been full of fear and ignorance, but the Party had pitied him and helped him to understand. Alone, man was nothing, he remembered. He was nothing. He had taken his opportunity to a better life with the Party, and he had destroyed it along with himself.
“Do you agree?” pressed O'Brien. “Do you feel that we are on your side?”
Winston was busy tucking the capsule away in the pocket of his overalls, and he did not look up when he replied. “Even so, on the same side, I’m not one of you. I am alone.”
O'Brien was unblinking. “We are more alike than you believe, Winston -- you and I."
When Winston did not respond, O’Brien turned and sat down on the edge of the metal table. The tone of his voice changed. “Do you remember,” he said, “living with your mother and sister?”
Slightly surprised, Winston glanced up, and he hesitated. “I remember some things. But most are false memories.”
“Would it help you," said O'Brien, "to know that I was born with the likes of you? That I was raised from the gutter, too?”
Winston stared openly at him. “What happened?”
“That is the question, is it not?” O’Brien pressed his lips briefly together in a slight frown. “Life before the Revolution was constant hunger and death. You remember that. Cities were overcrowded with the poor and sick and starving. There were sewage problems and phosphorus poisoning and rocket bombs that fell every day. People hid in the dark half of the time, in air raid shelters and underground stations. The trains were cut off so that no one could enter or leave except for the soldiers. In a time like that, my parents could not support me and my two brothers.”
“Two brothers?”
“I was the eldest.” He gauged Winston’s reaction. “Was, yes. They are both dead. When the Revolution came, I immediately joined the revolutionaries. My parents were foolish and ignorant and did not join, so they were wiped out during the purges. My brothers, on the other hand, followed my path near the end of the Revolution, seeing there was no other way to go unless they wanted to end up like our parents. They joined Big Brother. They wore the uniforms and sang the songs, but they were not with Big Brother in mind and spirit. So they were both shot only a few months later." O'Brien's smile reappeared briefly. "I was not, of course. I still live.”
“And they don’t.”
O’Brien looked down at him. “You have condemned yourself, Winston, like them."
That could not be correct, he thought, growing upset. "But it wasn't their fault,” he said. “They didn't choose to die.”
O'Brien's expression curiously became guarded. "Nonsense. They were not with Big Brother and deserved to die. You realize that, of course," he said coolly, but with a dangerous edge in his tone.
"No," he said. His voice rose in challenge. "No, I do not, frankly. If Big Brother is the Protector of the people, and if he is so kind and so caring, then why does he kill them?"
"You are stupid, Winston. He does not care -- especially not for weak attempts at a philosophical argument. Have you forgotten? Everything he does is for power. They were a strain to be wiped out to keep him healthy; a "sacrifice," if you may, to keep him alive. He can be kind, he can be cruel, he can use any means of persuasion or control. This is all textbook, Winston. When will you understand? In death there is control; in control there is power. All of this is his design. Everything is for power in the end."
"But what end?” he cried out loud. “What kind of end can possibly justify death?" Anger at himself, at O'Brien, at everyone and everything started to spill over, and he could not stop it from finally rushing out. He was on his feet and he was yelling and shaking uncontrollably. "They didn't have to die! They didn't! In the end, no one has to! How could you have wanted them to die?"
"I do not want anything. I do what the Party and Big Brother wants of me,” he shot back. “All lives end, Winston. Does it not matter whether one dies sooner or later? Why must we prolong something that is ultimately temporary? Big Brother will never die; that is without a doubt, of course. My own brothers -- they were merely flies to be dealt with. As are you."
Winston could only let out a laugh. It was a sharp, twisted laugh, yet nonetheless it was completely genuine. Just like that, it seemed as if his anger had evaporated entirely. He gestured at himself in mock surprise. "Me!" He was practically like a delighted child who had won a little game. He stepped towards O'Brien and gave him a hard prod on the chest. "Dealt with? What are you going to do? -- Kill me?"
In the next instant, he was on the hard ground, gasping and clutching at his stomach. Oh, but this was the easy part! he knew as he kneeled over in twisting pain, unable to get up. Pain was temporary. Dying was not. He had always been laying in a casket carved with his own name, waiting only for the dirt to be thrown over. He would return to the ground and the earth that he had once risen from lifetimes ago, but no longer kicking and crying and alive.
O'Brien stood over him, and his eyes were narrowed. “Now, get up. This is enough," he said dryly. "I have enjoyed playing this game of ours, but it has finished. Time for the last man to die.”
The last man. The pain had ebbed away enough that Winston went rigid at the familiar words.
"Yes! The last man!" repeated O'Brien, his eyes flashing with satisfaction. "You have been right on one thing, actually. You are alone. You have lost Julia, your mother, and your sister. No one is on your side, and certainly not the Party or the proles. The future and the past are as they are without you. Obviously, I was never with you. You see, you have ceased to exist to anyone or anything."
Winston heard him. He took the capsule out from his pocket and presented it in his palm. He stared down at the small object. No, he was not afraid or angry. Not anymore. Too many things had happened for him to feel anything but an aching weariness that filled his entire body. Staying alive was too hard, too meaningless. It was just… staying, and he did not want to stay any longer.
O'Brien moved beside him, gazing from the capsule to his face. "A last request, perhaps?" he suggested.
"Privacy," he replied.
O'Brien broke into a smile.
Winston rose the capsule to his lips. "To Big Brother," he said.
O'Brien's eyes lit up. "To Big Brother."
Winston bit into the capsule.
If he could take someone with him, would that make him selfish? That would make him a man -- a flawed man driven by urges and desires, a man who was alive. Yes, he had always been selfish, but no longer did he feel regret for his selfishness now. It was simply human nature.
Winston blamed human nature.
And he blamed human nature for the selfishness that suddenly blinded him. He blamed human nature as he stumbled forward and grabbed O'Brien by the back of the neck. He blamed human nature as his mouth crashed against O’Brien’s.
And yet --
He found O'Brien struggling against him, and yet he only found himself pushing harder. This, he realized, was not some blind, animalistic instinct in him. This had nothing to do with emotions, much less human nature. No, he knew very well what he was doing.
He was fighting and breathing and living; he was alive. And when he, the last man, would finally die, he would take O'Brien with him. He was winning the fight not over himself, but over the Party. This was not human nature, this was a political act.
Winston staggered backwards, blinked once, twice -- and he opened his eyes again to see the cold tiles of the floor beside his head. At the edge of his eyesight was another slumped figure, spitting and screaming out of shock, of anger, of fear. What a sham O’Brien was! How could any man hope to win against something that had defeated every man before him?
Winston’s chest rose and fell rapidly, but already it had begun to slow down. O’Brien had already gone quiet. Soon, all they heard was their own labored breathing. If there was a God, Winston did not know it. He had never felt the immediacy nor the comfort of a higher being in his presence. The only exception was right now, with O’Brien.
O’Brien was staring at him, and together they watched each other, waiting until the darkness closed their eyes. But Winston was not afraid of the darkness, and, hopefully, neither was O’Brien.
Because soon again, they would meet each other in the place where there was no darkness.