They Outlawed Love So We Do It In The Dark
Prologue
As he shuffles quickly down the Jersey streets, Gerard huddles up, curling closer into his winter coat clad body. The blue-and-grey striped scarf is so worn-out that it barely does its job. Biting chills freeze Gerard’s neck whenever another gust of wind makes its way down the street, but these days it’s already considered lucky if one owns a scarf at all. Although, Gerard supposes they hand out free ones if you attend enough Party meetings and help out in enough community activities, and it doesn’t take a higher being to know that he’s never been the perfect Party member.
Stepping into the lobby of Victory Mansion is only marginally better, the indoors being only slightly warmer than the outdoors. But it provides a shelter from the wind, and Gerard will take what he can get. He supposes the building’s radiator system must be breaking down for the fifth time this month, and he catches himself. He shouldn’t keep count of such things, it makes him frown and then they’ll figure him out faster.
He walks down the hallway and bypasses the elevators, opting to take the stairs instead. It’s not that he feels like exercising; living in this building for almost all of his life has taught him to never rely on anything that involves technology. He takes each step slowly, hands grappling for the banister as he pants his way up to his floor. The lamp outside his door is still flickering, and somehow it feels like a greeting. At least some things don’t change. Familiarity is kind of hard to find these days, although he doesn’t think anybody else is as concerned with it as he is. If they were, they’d be as doomed as he is.
He shuffles into his apartment and closes the door behind him with a resounding click. He walks into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of Victory Gin, which is the most disgusting sort of alcohol one can ever consume (he’s convinced it is, even though he’s never had anything other type of alcohol to compare to) but at least it’s entitled to be disgusting. Drinking whatever they call coffee these days is even worse. Besides, alcohol is the fastest way to warm himself up. At least the radiator on his floor seems to be in better condition than the one in the lobby, so that he’s not actually freezing in his apartment.
He picks up the cup of gin and walks over to the coffee table, with the lone chair, mindful to turn down the telescreen’s volume on the way. The telescreen is a curious invention, he supposes, it being both a receiver and broadcaster of audiovisuals simultaneously. But one learns to be wary of them when they are placed everywhere he goes, like inescapable little spies for the Party. So he’s moved the furniture around so that the coffee table is mostly out of the telescreen’s perimeter. That’s the most he can do, since there is no way to turn off a telescreen, and certainly no way to move it without arousing suspicion. He places his cup of gin down on the coffee table, next to the only other object that’s occupying the surface, a leather-bound journal. Every time he sees the journal sitting there on the table, he can’t help but feel a jolt in his chest – knowing that he owns it, uses it, and still hasn’t been caught. It isn’t the greatest crime on the list, but it’s certainly illegal to own something that is not manufactured by the Party, especially something from before the revolutions. Something that is personal, something that is… bourgeois.
But Gerard’s in it too deep now. He’s been writing in the journal for a very long time, months, maybe even years. (It’s hard not to lose count of days when dates and events change constantly. There’s also the issue of calendars being nonexistent in probably the whole of Oceania.) He flips open the first blank page that follows his last entry and picks up his pen. He starts writing whatever comes to mind, and ends up describing the scene he saw earlier today in the Proletarian neighbourhood – that of a small child slowly dying of hunger. Just thinking about it is enough to make his heart ache, but he’s quick to silence whatever sounds he may make, and to school his features into neutrality. One sound may expose him to the telescreen.
He doesn’t always write; mostly he doodles meaningless things, things he has had in his head for years just waiting to be put on paper, but as far as he knows that’s even more dangerous. He’s creating original pieces, out of his own thoughts, thoughts that aren’t spoon-fed to him by the Party. Even if the little doodles aren’t giveaway enough, his blatantly unorthodox entries are certainly enough to act as evidence, evidence of him conceiving unorthodoxy thoughts. And that could only mean one thing. If he was ever caught, he would be charged with thoughtcrime.
"Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime is death."
– Part I: Chapter II, 1984
Stepping into the lobby of Victory Mansion is only marginally better, the indoors being only slightly warmer than the outdoors. But it provides a shelter from the wind, and Gerard will take what he can get. He supposes the building’s radiator system must be breaking down for the fifth time this month, and he catches himself. He shouldn’t keep count of such things, it makes him frown and then they’ll figure him out faster.
He walks down the hallway and bypasses the elevators, opting to take the stairs instead. It’s not that he feels like exercising; living in this building for almost all of his life has taught him to never rely on anything that involves technology. He takes each step slowly, hands grappling for the banister as he pants his way up to his floor. The lamp outside his door is still flickering, and somehow it feels like a greeting. At least some things don’t change. Familiarity is kind of hard to find these days, although he doesn’t think anybody else is as concerned with it as he is. If they were, they’d be as doomed as he is.
He shuffles into his apartment and closes the door behind him with a resounding click. He walks into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of Victory Gin, which is the most disgusting sort of alcohol one can ever consume (he’s convinced it is, even though he’s never had anything other type of alcohol to compare to) but at least it’s entitled to be disgusting. Drinking whatever they call coffee these days is even worse. Besides, alcohol is the fastest way to warm himself up. At least the radiator on his floor seems to be in better condition than the one in the lobby, so that he’s not actually freezing in his apartment.
He picks up the cup of gin and walks over to the coffee table, with the lone chair, mindful to turn down the telescreen’s volume on the way. The telescreen is a curious invention, he supposes, it being both a receiver and broadcaster of audiovisuals simultaneously. But one learns to be wary of them when they are placed everywhere he goes, like inescapable little spies for the Party. So he’s moved the furniture around so that the coffee table is mostly out of the telescreen’s perimeter. That’s the most he can do, since there is no way to turn off a telescreen, and certainly no way to move it without arousing suspicion. He places his cup of gin down on the coffee table, next to the only other object that’s occupying the surface, a leather-bound journal. Every time he sees the journal sitting there on the table, he can’t help but feel a jolt in his chest – knowing that he owns it, uses it, and still hasn’t been caught. It isn’t the greatest crime on the list, but it’s certainly illegal to own something that is not manufactured by the Party, especially something from before the revolutions. Something that is personal, something that is… bourgeois.
But Gerard’s in it too deep now. He’s been writing in the journal for a very long time, months, maybe even years. (It’s hard not to lose count of days when dates and events change constantly. There’s also the issue of calendars being nonexistent in probably the whole of Oceania.) He flips open the first blank page that follows his last entry and picks up his pen. He starts writing whatever comes to mind, and ends up describing the scene he saw earlier today in the Proletarian neighbourhood – that of a small child slowly dying of hunger. Just thinking about it is enough to make his heart ache, but he’s quick to silence whatever sounds he may make, and to school his features into neutrality. One sound may expose him to the telescreen.
He doesn’t always write; mostly he doodles meaningless things, things he has had in his head for years just waiting to be put on paper, but as far as he knows that’s even more dangerous. He’s creating original pieces, out of his own thoughts, thoughts that aren’t spoon-fed to him by the Party. Even if the little doodles aren’t giveaway enough, his blatantly unorthodox entries are certainly enough to act as evidence, evidence of him conceiving unorthodoxy thoughts. And that could only mean one thing. If he was ever caught, he would be charged with thoughtcrime.
"Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime is death."
– Part I: Chapter II, 1984
Notes
The Newspeak Dictionary website gives the following definition for 'thoughtcrime':"To even consider any thought not in line with the principles of Ingsoc. Doubting any of the principles of Ingsoc. All crimes begin with a thought. So, if you control thought, you can control crime."
(Ingsoc = English Socialism = the doctrine in the 1984 verse. It's a bit hard to summarise it within a sentence so, once again, I'd suggest you Google the book.)
Frank will make his entrance in the next chapter.
ETA: Just discovered that 'Female Robbery' by The Neighbourhood goes really well with this fic. Go listen to the lyrics.
@fiftyshadesofmrway
thanks for reading and leaving feedback ^_^ much appreciated :)
4/13/14