1984

           ‘Four.Isupposetherearefour.IwouldseefiveifIcould.Iamtryingtoseefive.’ 

           ‘Whichdoyouwish:topersuademethatyouseefive,orreallytoseethem?’ 

           ‘Reallytoseethem.’ 

           ‘Again,’saidO’Brien. 

           Perhapstheneedlewaseighty—ninety.Winstoncouldnotintermittentlyrememberwhythepainwashappening. Behindhisscrewed-upeyelidsaforestoffingersseemedtobemovinginasortofdance,weavinginandout,disappearingbehindoneanotherandreappearingagain. Hewastryingtocountthem,hecouldnotrememberwhy. Heknewonlythatitwasimpossibletocountthem,andthatthiswassomehowduetothemysteriousidentitybetweenfiveandfour. Thepaindieddownagain. Whenheopenedhiseyesitwastofindthathewasstillseeingthesamething.Innumerablefingers,likemovingtrees,werestillstreamingpastineitherdirection,crossingandrecrossing. Heshuthiseyesagain. 

           ‘HowmanyfingersamIholdingup,Winston?’ 

           ‘Idon’tknow.Idon’tknow. Youwillkillmeifyoudothatagain. Four,five,six—inallhonestyIdon’tknow.’ 

           ‘Better,’saidO’Brien. 

           AneedleslidintoWinston’sarm. Almostinthesameinstantablissful,healingwarmthspreadallthroughhisbody.