Krista Hoxie

Madler-7th hour

Alternate ending for 1984Starts at white book pg. 295, second paragraph

Yes, he decided. But even as the thought came to him, he took another drink of gin. Thoughts like that had to be suppressed. Big Brother was watching. In his heart, Winston knew that to be true. But did he even really have a heart? Had he ever? Could his existence even be considered human anymore?

A flitter of a memory slipped into his mind, and Winston let it linger for a moment. He saw a candlelit room with a vast white-counterpaned bed, and himself, a boy of nine or ten, sitting on the floor, shaking a dice box and laughing excitedly. His mother was sitting opposite him and also laughing.

It must have been about a month before she disappeared. It was a moment of reconciliation, when the nagging hunger in his belly was forgotten and his earlier affection for her had temporarily revived. He remembered the day well, a pelting, drenching day when the water streamed down the window pane and the light indoors was too dull to read by. The boredom of the two children in the dark, cramped bedroom became unbearable. Winston whined and grizzled, made futile demands for food, fretted about the room, pulling everything out of place and kicking the wainscoting until the neighbors banged on the wall, while the younger child wailed intermittently. In the end his mother had said, Now be good, and Ill buy you a toy. A lovely toyyoull love it; and then she had gone out in the rain, to a little general shop which was still sporadically open near by, and come back with a cardboard box containing an outfit of Snakes and Ladders. He could still remember the smell of the damp cardboard. It was a miserable outfit. The board was cracked and the tiny wooden dice were so ill-cut that they would hardly lie on their sides. Winston looked at the thing sulkily and without interest. But then his mother lit a piece of candle and they sat down on the floor to play. Soon he was wildly excited and shouting with laughter as the tiddlywinks climbed hopefully up the ladders and then came slithering down the snakes again, almost back to the starting point. They played eight games, winning four each. His tiny sister, too young to understand what the game was about, had sat propped up against a bolster, laughing because the others were laughing. For a whole afternoon they had all been happy together, as in his earlier childhood.

Finally, he pushed the memory away. He couldnt let thoughts like that float around in his head for too long. Not with everybody watching him, not with them all just waiting for him to slip up again.

He picked up the white knight from the chessboard, studying it. As he glanced over the board, there was clearly no way to win in just one more move. Unless

A shrill trumpet call pierced the air. It was the bulletin! Victory! It always meant victory when a trumpet call preceded the news. It was now or never. Quickly, Winston made a final move on the chessboard. Check mate.

He then stood up and looked around the caf. Everyone was abuzz with joy at the announcement, though Winston knew they couldnt comprehend the words pouring out of the telescreen. Outside, a victorious crowd had gathered, cheering loudly and giving gleeful smiles to each other.

Winston slipped, unseen, into the midst of it all. Surely the proles would be celebrating in the same manner all over the place. But he had to move quickly. Dusk was fast approaching for Winston; he knew the end was near. But human spirit cannot be destroyed. Not always. And it was up to Winston to keep it alive.

Reaching into the coat of his overalls, his hand fell upon a leather-bound book: the diary. When Winston had returned from the Ministry of Love, it had been in his new room, as if waiting for him. Winston had supposed it was a trap, and hadnt touched it until just the other night. Hed written in it cautiously at first, in large, bold letters clearly stating what hed learned from OBrien. Later, his print became smaller, and Oldspeak came flowing through the pen like it had been waiting for centuries to be recorded, like it had been inside him all along.

Thats when he knew. He knew that truth was truth, and lies were lies. His past was truth; Big Brother was a lie. Winston remembered some brief sentences hed scrawled in the diary:

We know our past is real because of the emotion behind it. Without our past, we are not human. Without emotions, we are not human.

Those sentences had seemingly come out of nowhere. Out of his heart, maybe. But people didnt talk like that anymore. Perhaps it was time to get back to the old ways, whatever they were. Yes, he knew it was time.

Winston squeezed through a tight cluster of proles, searching for one face, one face that would bring about the freedom of all people, event the proles. No, he thought. Especially the proles.

He could feel his end growing ever-nearer as the crowds loud cheers died down, and they began to disperse. Everyone was leaving! He wouldnt find her in time!

But suddenly, her face seemed to magically appear. A small girl, no older than twelve, was standing amongst the people. She was skinnier then everyone, to the point of looking more like a skeleton than a girl. Her long, blonde hair was matted with dirt and grime, her fair skin covered in filth. But her face shone with a hope and innocence that Winston had never seen. She was the future.

He approached the child slowly, aware of his impending death.

She watched him with a knowingness that surprised Winston and nearly scared him away. Yes, she was the one.

Can you read? he asked plainly.

Yes.

Even in that one word, her prole accent was undeniable. Winston reached into his pocket, taking a step closer. She glanced him over, beginning to take a step back, and then seemed to think better of it. She placed her foot back on the ground in a confident manner.

Winston looked around quickly, then held out the diary to her.

Please, he said.

She nodded and took the book. She knew what was expected of her, and understood the vast importance of the task handed off to her. Winston knew it by the glistening in her eyes.

With that, he began walking briskly away. He didnt linger, even for a moment. Death was upon him. A sudden silence pierced the air. One, two, three, and it came. The long-waited for bullet sliced through his skull. Winston died hating Big Brother and everything he stood for, which was a big enough success in itself. But the bigger success was the hope for tomorrow. And it would all be thanks to the hope of a prole. Humanity would be more alive than ever. A time was coming, a time of peace, in a place where there was no more darkness.