1984

           HehadthefeelingthatO’Brienwashisprotector,thatthepainwassomethingthatcamefromoutside,fromsomeothersource,andthatitwasO’Brienwhowouldsavehimfromit. 

           ‘Youareaslowlearner,Winston,’saidO’Briengently. 

           ‘HowcanIhelpit?’heblubbered. ‘HowcanIhelpseeingwhatisinfrontofmyeyes? Twoandtwoarefour.’ 

           ‘Sometimes,Winston. Sometimestheyarefive. Sometimestheyarethree. Sometimestheyareallofthematonce. Youmusttryharder. Itisnoteasytobecomesane.’ 

           HelaidWinstondownonthebed. Thegripofhislimbstightenedagain,butthepainhadebbedawayandthetremblinghadstopped,leavinghimmerelyweakandcold. O’Brienmotionedwithhisheadtothemaninthewhitecoat,whohadstoodimmobilethroughouttheproceedings. ThemaninthewhitecoatbentdownandlookedcloselyintoWinston’seyes,felthispulse,laidanearagainsthischest,tappedhereandthere,thenhenoddedtoO’Brien. 

           ‘Again,’saidO’Brien. 

           ThepainflowedintoWinston’sbody. Theneedlemustbeatseventy,seventy-five. Hehadshuthiseyesthistime. Heknewthatthefingerswerestillthere,andstillfour. Allthatmatteredwassomehowtostayaliveuntilthespasmwasover. Hehadceasedtonoticewhetherhewascryingoutornot. Thepainlessenedagain. Heopenedhiseyes. O’Brienhaddrawnbackthelever. 

           ‘Howmanyfingers,Winston?’