2+2=5

Part Four: Seeds of Rebellion.

Chapter 37

Thom Yorke, the teenage version, pounded the rain-soaked pavement, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. The abandoned house, once a hopeful sanctuary, now loomed in the distance, a monstrous silhouette against the gray, dystopian skyline. His backpack bounced violently on his trembling shoulders with each desperate stride, the weight of its contents a tangible reminder of the grim reality of his existence. The damp air stung his wet cheeks, the tears on his face mixing with the rain, indistinguishable yet acutely different. The older Thom's acoustic guitar, now a precious cargo, hung clumsily from his grasp.

His heart echoed in his ears, synching with the rhythm of his running footsteps - a grim soundtrack to the surreal drama his life had become. His mind was a whirl of memories - the older Thom, his face set in a resolute mask, allowing himself to be captured by the Thought Police, a sacrifice for his younger self's escape. His mother, lost to the Party, her gentle voice a distant whisper. The pain was raw, the loss profound.

He didn't know where he was going, but his legs continued their frantic pace, driven by an inherent instinct to survive, to evade the chilling gaze of the Thought Police. The city of Oxford came into view, a waning sentinel in the dreary landscape. He slowly slackened his pace, the crumbling silhouette of his old home beckoning him from the fringe of the city. It was a pathetic husk of brick and wood, yet it held the lingering ghost of his mother's warmth, of a life that was once his own.

The door creaked open, the familiar scent of decay and musty memories wafting out. Thom stepped in, the chilling silence of the abandoned house swallowing him whole. He sank to the dusty floor, his thoughts a cacophony of confusion. The strident phrases of Party dogma played alongside his mother's tender lullabies in his mind, a conflict of loyalties, a war of beliefs. His mother's nurturing, held so dear, was a stark contrast to the Party's cold indoctrination. It was a tangled web, where truths and falsehoods, love and hate, freedom and control, intertwined and coexisted within him.

Thom held the guitar close, his fingers tracing the worn strings. His older self's melodies floated back to him, a hint of defiance, a spark of rebellion. He knew he was at the precipice of a struggle, a struggle that went beyond his own survival. Joy, sorrow, anger and a thousand other emotions washed over him, leaving him exhausted and hollow yet oddly hopeful.

The silent house echoed his loneliness and desperation, but it also echoed the lingering defiance of his older self and his mother's unyielding spirit. Thom's heart, although battered and bruised, was not yet broken. His journey had not ended - in fact, it was just beginning. He was not just a lanky sixteen-year-old boy lost in a dystopian universe. He was Thom Yorke, the unlikely protagonist in a story he had yet to write. This was not his end, but rather a new chapter in his battle against the Party, against the Thought Police, against the destiny chosen for him. And he would not go down without a fight.

Chapter 38

Thom Yorke stood in the dimly lit bathroom of a house that seemed both foreign and strangely familiar. Cold water drummed against his thin, shivering frame as he washed away the grime of the day. The half-rusted shower head, which hung above him, seemed to echo the grim reality of his life, but as he looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror, he noticed a flicker of something new: determination.

His mind replayed the stories the older Thom had narrated, his tales of a world that sounded more like fairy tales whispered to children at bedtime. Tucked in his mind next to stories of three little pigs and Little Red Riding Hood, there lay tales of freedom, creativity, and camaraderie, tales of his bandmates Colin, Ed, Jonny, and Phil, the real versions of the people who were somewhere in this dystopian world, their souls trapped under the crushing weight of the Party's control.