Julia

It had never occurred to her that the color white could be so completely blinding. It was as if lights were flashing before her eyes. She couldn't see up or down, only the blinding white of the walls in her cell. Funny, how this is the color that surrounded her--almost like those books that her grandmother had spoken about from the old days--where at the last moment of a person's life, they talk about the blinding white that took over their vision. Perhaps that's what was happening to her. She had no doubt that each second that timed by brought her closer to torture and death.
Death. The word echoed in her head like a sinister promise, as if someone was standing behind her constantly reminding her of it. To no longer think,  or feel, or have any sense of being, falling deeper, deeper, into an abyss of blackness, and then your mind extinguished...the thought was crushing her head and she began to feel a burning pressure behind her eyes.
"Stop, stop it!" She cried out loud, trying to push the thought from her head. The other prisoners in the cell turned their heads, but then dismissed the outburst--it was normal for them to witness spontaneous cries as people slowly lost their sanity. No, Julia thought to herself, I must stay right of mind. I must never betray myself, or Winston, to anyone here. She took her thoughts and pushed them down deep into her mind. In the center, like a precious jewel, she held her dearest memory, her most prized thought--a poem. As a child, her grandmother read her a small book of poems, as she sat by the fire eating tiny chocolate truffles, smuggled into her home. Her favorite had been one about summertime.

Sunny wavelets kiss the riverbank
Summer breezes ripple through the green
Children running, trying to catch
The blushing flowers falling softly from the trees.
She pictured the scene in her head. Her mother sitting quietly, smiling with her grandmother on a checkered blanket while her and her brother ran through the vibrant fields of grass trying to catch the tiny pink petals in their hands. A perfect day, a perfect time. She took the poem, the field, the flowers, and wrapped them tight, shoving them into the dark depths of her mind. She would never let them take this away from her. Never. This memory kept her alive, it gave her comfort in her chaotic life under Big Brother. It was like a beacon of everything good--happiness, hope--shining within her. Like Winston's glass paperweight with the precious little coral inside. Now, she understood why it meant so much to him.
"Fiatal!" Yelled a voice from the telescreen. "9134 Fiatal J! You will be escorted to a room for questioning!" Julia snapped out of her thoughts back into her frightful reality. A guard walked into the room and roughly tied her hands behind her back before shoving her out of the bright white cell and into the hallways. Finally, they arrived at a small room which the guard then pushed her into and then slammed the door.
"Julia, how nice of you to drop in." The voice was familiar. She could not place it for a moment...and then she looked at him.
"You." She was surprised at the croaking sound her voice had made, rusty with misuse.
"Yes, it's me, it's O'Brien, you feel betrayed, oh no, the end. Now, let's talk." He set his hand on a small dial and turned it sharply. Julia screamed, a fiery pain burning through her. "This is how I will fix you, make you perfect. I have control. I can make you better. Do you understand?" He turned the dial.
"Yes, yes, I understand! I do!" She would do anything to make the pain leave her. She began to talk, about everything, her and Winston, her family, stealing Party goods, everything.
Weeks passed, and this was every day, intense pain, confessions, questions, O'Brien's face swimming above her.
"Julia, what is 2 plus 2?"
"Four!" His hand turned the dial.
Another month.
"Julia, what is 2 plus 2?"
"Four!"
"That is incorrect.
Weeks passed.
"Julia, what is two plus two."
"Sometimes, it is five. Sometimes it is three. Sometimes it is all at once." She said in a monotone. And she truly believed it.
"Very good."
She was sent to a more comfortable, personal cell with three meals a day after this particular session with O'Brien. She was able to sit on her cot between meals, simply thinking of her precious poem, holding on to her last scraps of hope--her last scraps of...well, herself. There was not much else for her to do, and not much else she wanted to do. Almost all of her former self had been scrubbed clean from her, leaving a shiny new mind of Party Perfection. Everything but her poem, and her memories of Winston, whom she knew she could never betray. She had accepted everything, except for these few, precious memory gems. She tried not to think of the day when they would shoot her, since it only made her panic and lose her control over herself. When she began to think of death, she pushed herself toward her cot and fell into deep sleeps.
One day, suddenly, she awoke with a start. O'Brien was standing in front of her cell.
"Hello, Julia." His voice was soft, almost dangerous. She nodded curtly at him. "What was that you were murmuring?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Julia shifted in her cot.
"I'm sure you do. What was that, a poem? And you seemed to be asking Winston to read it again for you--how nice, but I'm afraid this means we will have to transfer you." O'Brien smiled kindly, and Julia could see a menacing shadow pass over his eyes. She gulped, despite herself.
"Room 101 for you, Julia."
* * *
She was strapped loosely onto a rickety chair in the center of the room.
"Now, Julia, we have noticed, through many telescreen viewings, how much you value your youth, your life. Of course, this led me to believe that you would most likely be most terrified by, shall I say, losing it?" O'Brien spoke instructively, calmly, as if he were teaching her the principles of the Party. Her breath quickened.
"Julia, in 10 minutes, a man will walk into this room, and he will extinguish your life. That is all." O'Brien began walking out. Suddenly, he turned back, his eyes boring through her head, "also, we hope you enjoy the viewing we have arranged in this time." Julia's heart plummeted, her head pounded, beads of sweat rolled down her forehead as she sat, each second like a hammer to her mind, the mind that would soon cease to exist...
As she spiraled out of control, a timer appeared on the wall on front of her, which she now recognized to be a screen. Surrounding the timer, suddenly popped up a page with writing on it. Through her shaking, she managed to read the words.
Sunny wavelets kiss the riverbank
Summer breezes ripple through the green
Children running, trying to catch
The blushing flowers falling softly from the trees.
She felt a scream building in her throat. Slowly, it began to rise to the surface, bubbling to the peak, until she could hold it in no longer.
"NO! You cannot do this, please, no!" Her voice cracked and dissolved into hysterical, wracking sobs, as she looked at the timer, which now read a glaring "7:42:01" Each second was a tumultuous alarm going off in her head, like the ticking of a giant clock.
Tick.
The image of her grandmother, reading by the fire.
Tock.
Her beloved poem, burning, destroyed,
Tick.
The image of Winston, who she knew she would never see again.
Tock.
Blackness.
Suddenly, a spark in her head. She could stop this all from happening--she could end it all.
"Do it to Winston! Do it to Winston! Stop this timer, please, don't do it to me, do it to him! Please, stop it, please!" She sobbed to the walls.
Everything stopped.
And Julia saw the timer, horrifyingly close to her death, stopped short at "00:19:84".