I woke up in the morning feeling like I had slept for an eternity. Someone was singing outside and Julia woke up at the sound. We both walked towards the window, in hopes of seeing who was singing, and that was when I noticed how beautiful Julia truly was. I had never imagined that the body of 50 year old woman in her characteristic attitude would be that striking.
If there was any form of hope in Oceania, it lay in the proles. The future, of course, did belong to the proles. The proles sang, but the Party did not.
That was when I heard an iron voice behind me; Julia had a feeling that it was coming from behind a picture. The voice told us to remain exactly where we were and to make no movement unless we were ordered to. We didn’t think about running away or to get out of the house before it was too late; all we could do was stand there, gazing into one another’s eyes. The picture had fallen to the floor, uncovering the telescreen that was behind it. We were told not to touch one another, so we obeyed. I could feel Julia’s body shaking. Or maybe it was mine. I had no idea. Something was being dragged across the stones. I could hear a confusion of angry shouts and loud yells of pain. Julia thought it was a good idea to say our goodbyes, and since we had no choice, that was what we had to do.
I heard something crash onto the bed behind my back. There was a room full of men in black uniforms with iron boots on their feet, stampeding as they ascended up the stairs. Someone had picked up the glass paperweight I brought from Mr. Charrington and had smashed it into pieces.
I heard Julia thrashing about on the floor, fighting for breath. I couldn’t make myself look back, though her gasping face sometimes came into my vision. I knew what pain she was going through; the terrible, agonizing pain. I saw two men carry her out of the room, almost as if she was a sack. I caught a short, last glimpse of her yellow and contorted face. And that was the last I saw of her. No more Julia. No more dark brown-haired girl. She was a part of the past now and there was nothing I could do about it.
I was still alive. No one had come to hit me yet, but I did wonder whether they had caught Mr. Charrington or not. Suddenly, the demeanor of the men in black uniforms had become more subdued. That was when I heard Mr.Charrington in the background say “Pick up those pieces.”
He looked at me with one of those sharp glances he always seemed to do, almost as if he were verifying my identity. After that, he paid no more attention to me. He was still recognizable, but he wasn’t the same person at all. His entire appearance was changed, and for the first time, it occurred to me that I was looking at a member of the Thought Police.
- Winston Smith