He’d been watching him for a lifetime. The sad man who sat in the corner. The man who had struggled so hard and for what?
Without asking, the waiter brought the sad man another gin and another, until he could feel nothing. Wasn’t that the idea?
Sure, he knew that the man had regrets - hadn’t he betrayed his little friend, Julia? He wondered if this thought still walked the corridors of Winston’s mind and if so, did it cause him real pain.
Pain was everything and victory was nothing.
Poor little soul, poor little Winston Smith. Of course he would have to be destroyed, it wasn’t enough that Big Brother had won, Big Brother would want the shell removed too.
He wondered what Winston was thinking, or indeed if he was thinking of anything. He had a look on his face of sad contentment, or was it just brain death?
It was very difficult to tell these days.
The same waiter who kept Winston comatose asked if he also wanted a Victory gin? The man should know better than to ask a member of the inner bureau such a question. Perhaps the waiter did not know who he was. He would deal with the waiter when it suited him.
He never usually stalked one of his targets, but Winston Smith had intrigued him, even just for the fact of how much work it had taken to break his little heart.
Nothing was real, and if that were the case then why shouldn’t they juggle with the truths? It amused him, like it amused them all. The majority had been screwed by the minority since the Homo sapiens had left the caves all those millennia ago.
He took a note of the waiter’s name and as he left to go, he bumped Winston on the arm. Winston just looked up and said ‘sorry’, then drank another freshly placed gin.
As the man entered into the square, a cold wind made him shiver and smile at the same time, and as he headed home, he heard the clock strike thirteen.
Tomorrow he would destroy Winston Smith.
bobby stevenson 2015