Nineteen Sixty-Four // Starrison

Chapter 2

Another dawn, another forcing himself to get up. Another day of boring routine.

George changed into a simple gray jacket and a shirt, typical Outer Party's member's outfit, looking at his reflection in a cracked mirror. He saw a thin man with a dark brown hair, brown, gloomy eyes, pale face and characteristic cheekbones. He never liked this view.

The man made his face expressionless and went out, straight on the dirty streets filled with citizens, hurrying to their works. Somewhere in the sky he heard a helicopter, the telescreens were rumbling. He reached into the pack of cigarettes and lightened one of them.

He stopped, hearing his own name.

"Harrison!"

He knew this voice pretty well. John Lennon, his friend. Although a word "friend" was rather dangerous — "an old colleague" was more careful. They knew each other from the childhood; they lived near and went to the same school. In a twist of fate they even worked in the same building — both in the Ministry of Truth, but John in the Department of Music, creating primitive music for proles.

"Going to work, huh?" The man looked at George. One streak of his wayward auburn hair fell on his eyes which watched him from behind thick glasses.

There was something in John Lennon that made him a rebel. He couldn't be controlled by a strict law, not him. His parents have been vaporized — killed and erased from the past, removed from every document; they never existed. They were the unpeople. Maybe this loss was partially fault of John's rebelliousness. Then his aunt took care of raising him. One couldn't think, one couldn't talk about vaporized. But Lennon never stopped thinking. And rebelling. Yes, John was definitely not the person you could control and manipulate like a mindless puppet.

He was hiding it perfectly — being a part of the Community Centre every evening and engaging in every spontaneous demonstrations and other acts of unquestioning love to the Big Brother. At the Two Minutes Hate he was the loudest one, the most destructive one. But his anger wasn't towards the public enemy, conversely, towards the government. But no matter how long he would be playing this game, the Police will find every single sign of an arbitrariness and rebellion. Sometimes, looking at him, George wondered, how much time he had left?

"Yeah." Harrison nodded his head.

"Good to hear, me either."

They walked in a silence, both lost in their own thoughts, when suddenly the older man spoke:

"Come to me tonight... maybe for a cup of gin?" He said it casually, shrugging, but George knew the look of this vigilant eyes very well.

Oh no.

It was their another act of an opposition — friendship they built. After one of their meetings Harrison first considered John as his friend, and Lennon him as a repository of his secrets. John sometimes invited George to his old house. The man lived there with his aunt, but after her death it became Lennon's possession. In the entire building the telescreen was never mounted, which seemed strange, because he couldn't be under the constant watch then. And the attic was also a quiet, dark, secret place. Place, when the one could talk without a fear that he's heard.

George still remembered the first time John dragged him there — they were about thirteen years old (he didn't remember exactly). The older boy was overly excited and they spent time, telling each other stories and talking about their dreams.

One day Lennon bought a guitar. A forbidden thing, founded on a black market in the dark of the night. The man was always fascinated by music; but not the primitive sounds created in a Department of Music. No, an object of his interest was the real music — songs whistled quietly by the oldest proles, a symbol of lost years. This act of an individualism was strictly forbidden for an obvious reason — being a sign of freedom. If only someone discovered this old guitar, songs John learned to play, eavesdropping proles and finding sheet music — he would be sentenced to death.

That's why Harrison always refused playing on it.

He was scared already of a crime he was committing by searching for a privacy. He didn't want to have something to do with the music of rebellion. But he had to admit, the first time he heard a sound of a guitar... he was fascinated. He couldn't stop thinking about this for the next days.

Another thoughtcrime on a long list of his sins.

That's why he was so worried now. He didn't want to be involved in those things again. He wanted only peace. Drowning in a routine every day, not risking. But it seemed like everytime he tried, John Lennon had to come and spoil his plans.

So he only murmured something as an answer and walked into the Ministry of Truth, thinking about a tonne of papers that waited for him.

* * *

Two Minutes Hate caught George in the middle of his work, with a desk overwhelmed all over with papers to sort. He obediently got up of the chair and followed the rest of crowd, gathered in a hall, staring at the huge telescreen.

This was a daily ritual, created to use society's rage towards the enemies of the Party. During this, they always watched short films with treacherous public enemies, on whom all the crimes were blamed. Bored, washed out of their emotions crowd could finally let their fury and hatred out, satisfy themselves and leave with a conviction that the Big Brother is their real savior. Harrison was scared when he realized that now the Party made people lose their individuality, telling them which feelings to have, everyone the same.

George found himself screaming, too. He couldn't avoid the rage that was taking control over everyone, no matter of their will.

The Ministry workers were screaming with fury. From a corner of his eye the man saw his sister, Louise, standing between the people. He heard her scream — "DEATH TO THE PARTY'S ENEMIES!". George threw his hands up and screamed the same.

"Son of a bitch!", it was Lennon's voice. Harrison turned back; John threw the trash bin, his eyes burning from rage.

But his friend knew. He knew that Lennon's hatred was not towards the enemies on the scream, contrary — towards the Party. And he understood him very well.

They looked each other in the eyes for an uncertain second.

The moment of a collective hate was over and the shouts changed to worshiping cheers, when face of Big Brother appeared on the screen with the three sentences, the most important Party's motto:

WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH