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Winston Smith can hear music.
His eyes are closed. He can’t bear to open them, lest he wake up to the gray unforgiving walls of the Ministry of Love, but he can hear music. A rich, joyful tune played on an instrument he can’t quite recognize.
He wishes he could pinpoint exactly what it was. He knows he’s heard it before. His memory is just so small. So fickle. So subjective. Nothing compared to that of Big Brother.
If he can’t even name an instrument, how can he be expected to know more than Big Brother, than the Party?
War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength. Two plus two is five.
Five.
Five.
Five.
“Five?”
Winston Smith’s eyes shoot open as he rockets into a sitting position. This… isn’t the Ministry of Love. Nor is it Mr. Charrington’s antique shop. It’s not even his house. This isn’t anywhere he recognizes. It’s an ornate, opulent room, all surfaces coated in a thin layer of dust. The decor is so undeniably
foreign
that Winston knows it’s a trap. How cruel of Big Brother to put him through what is undoubtedly another punishment, when he has already learned his lesson so thoroughly.
“Oh shit, there you are! You were talking in your sleep, saying ‘five’ over and over. What’s up with that?” The child sitting at his bedside exclaims.
…what?
Winston is taken from his thoughts, and finally notices the child sitting in a chair pulled up right against his bedside.
Judging by looks alone, the child can’t be older than thirteen. His soft features are undercut by the battle scars that mar his skin, riddled all over his arms and face. He’s holding an instrument. God, what’s it called again? It’s right on the tip of his tongue-
“You sure stare a lot, huh?” The child asks, snickering. “That’s alright. Hawkins’ my name. Jim Hawkins. Put her here.”
The child, Hawkins, apparently, holds out a hand. Winston tentatively shakes it.
“This is the part where you say your name.”
“Oh, right. It’s…”
Winston contemplates giving a fake name. What good would it do though, really? Big Brother is omnipresent. He sees all, he knows all. He’s tried hiding before, and he knows how it ends.
“…Winston Smith.”
Hawkins grins.
“Pleasure to meet you, Winston, welcome to-“
Hawkins is interrupted by a curly haired man poking his head into the room.
“Ah, Mister!” Hawkins greets the man, taking his hand back from Winston’s hold. “The old man’s alive.”
The man walks fully into the room. He’s wearing a fine tailored suit with a long tailcoat, like the conductors in the books at the antique store.
“Of course he’s alive. Dr. Jekyll said his condition stabilized hours ago, no one asked you to stay here and keep watch.” He chuckles when Hawkins bristles. “Now why don’t you give me and our newcomer some privacy, yeah? I’m sure Renfield’s got something cooked up, so go pester him. Go on, get.”
The man shoo’s Hawkins out of his chair and out of the room, leaving just himself and a dumbfounded Winston.
“Welcome! I’m sure this is all strange and overwhelming to you. No matter, I’ll give you some time to get acquainted in a moment. Just thought I’d introduce myself first. My name… isn’t important, but as you’ve seen, Hawkins calls me ‘Mister.’ A bit too formal for my tastes, but it’ll do.” He says, giving a drawn out dramatic bow.
“You seemed like you were going through something rough, let me tell you, so I took the liberty of bringing you to my humble abode. Any questions?”
This is the strangest form of torture Winston has ever been privy to. If he had any less sense he’d say it isn’t a form of torture at all. He does have a question, though. He’s been dead since the moment he thought against Big Brother, so what’s the harm in asking?
“…That boy, Hawkins. What was his instrument called?”
Mister squints in a way that just screams “ That’s it?”
“The accordion?”
The accordion.
With that, Winston Smith falls backwards into the bed, breathing a sigh of relief. He can think about everything else later.