"And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed — if all records told the same tale — then the lie passed into history and became truth. 'Who controls the past' ran the Party slogan, 'controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.'"

— George Orwell, 1984

~ * ~

London, Airstrip One, Oceania
January 1st, _ _ _ _

Her feet were cold.

The frigid bite to her toes woke her, and she rubbed her feet together beneath the scratchy sheets in a fruitless attempt to warm them.

The heat must have been turned off again. Not uncommon for this time of year, but always unpleasant.

Happy New Year, Jane Jones thought to herself.

She felt her face settle into a disgruntled frown. There was nothing "happy" about it. 2020 had been a terrible year, filled with war, explosions, shortages, and a highly contagious pandemic brought to Airstrip One from the far east. Or so the Inner Party claimed.

The new year would not be better, but it would be new. A fresh start, if one chose to believe in such things.

Jane scoffed. She had stopped believing in fresh starts and choices thirty years ago — around the same time she'd stopped believing in magic.

Jane tossed the threadbare blankets aside with a flick of her boney wrist. The crippling chill consumed her petite body, and she grabbed the pair of heavy knit socks she'd discarded at the foot of her bed the night before. With two swift jerks, she yanked the socks onto her tingling feet.

She stood up. Her sunken mattress groaned in protest, as if it, too, felt the oppressive cold.

Jane pulled her robe on over her nightgown, securing the worn, faded fabric snugly around her waist. Her hands shook due to her shivering, and her toes felt numb as she approached her bedroom window.

Jane's flat was on the eighth floor of the Victory Mansions — a dismal stack of bare, cold, shoebox apartments. Nearly every member of the Outer Party lived in rectangular ruins of flats. There were no houses. No property. No yards. Certainly no privacy. To desire privacy was a thoughtcrime. Proof of secrecy. Inexcusable. Worthy of vaporization.

The clocks struck seven hundred hours.

Jane gazed out the window. Spiderwebs of ice grew in the corners of the glass.

The streets far below were silent and empty. The previous night, while welcoming the new year, an obscene amount of Victory Gin had been consumed by all Party members. That, combined with the holiday from work, meant most citizens of London would remain in blissful oblivion for another hour. Perhaps two.

The Ministries would be closed for the holiday, except for Inner Party meetings. Jane worked in the Records Department at the Ministry of Truth. She was glad for the day off. One less day of bending, mutating, and destroying history for the sake of the Party's ever changing truths.

A light snow was falling on the decrepit, gray world that was Airstrip One. Allegedly, Airstrip One was once an independent country called Great Britain (though due to the efficiency of the Records Department, no proof of that existed in any document or on any map). Its capital city, London, was only beautiful when covered in a fresh snow. The dusting of white camouflaged the ashes and decay caused by the eternal war just enough to inspire the momentary illusion of peace. This deception, like every beautiful mirage, was finite. All too soon after a snowfall, the muck, and grime, and desolation would surface once more, like spilled wine spreading across a white table cloth.

As Jane gazed out the grimy window at the surrounding buildings, she heard the impact and echo of a far off explosion. Another bomb. Another missile from their momentary combatant, Eurasia. Oceania (of which Airstrip One was a territory) was at war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. For now. That wouldn't last long. It never did. The world's trinity of superstates were eternally engaged in a game of Musical Enemies.

Everyone knew this, but no one dared mention it. The present moment was all that existed. The Party's truths were absolute. The Thought Police enforced those truths.

The building across the street from Jane's flat was another edifice of Victory Mansions. Plastered across the worn bricks, twenty meters high, was a poster featuring the handsome face of the Inner Party's leader. His dark hair and mustache were immaculately groomed, and his watchful eyes observed all with an intimidating intelligence. The printed words along the bottom of the poster read:

Big Brother is Watching You

Jane frowned at the towering visage of Big Brother. His eyes were photographed in such a way that they seemed to follow and scrutinize her every movement. She was certain there were surveillance devices embedded in those eyes.

Her cold skin prickled.

Adjacent to the poster of Big Brother was another poster of equal size and authority. No face donned this common piece of propaganda. Instead, the three slogans of the Party were displayed in massive block letters:

WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

Phrases that once were thought of as contradictory had become the unerring truth of English Socialism, or "INGSOC."

Jane turned away from the window in disgust.

A dull thud sounded at the front door.

The Times had arrived.

Party members spent a significant percentage of their limited free time reading the newspaper. As it was written, edited, and distributed by Party members, it was approved reading material.

Until it wasn't.

Jane padded across the frigid floor in her stocking feet. She left her diminutive bedroom and crossed the living room into the adjoining kitchen area. The telescreen that took up the majority of the living room wall displayed the INGSOC coat of arms and played a militant instrumental piece. Jane adjusted the volume to its lowest setting. It wasn't possible to turn the telescreen off. It remained on, and live, day and night alike.

The telescreen was a permanent fixture in the home of every Party member. It received and transmitted simultaneously. Every movement and expression Jane made was seen. Every sound she uttered was heard. It was impossible to know if or when the Thought Police were observing her, so she lived under the assumption that they always were. Life was safer that way. One word, one eyebrow twitch, could betray her.

She cleared the kitchen counter of its empty glasses and open bottles. She'd indulged in three glasses of putrid Victory Gin the previous night. Not quite enough to strip away the lining of her stomach; rather just enough to dull the chasm of despair that accompanied the conclusion that yet another year had passed without progress or change. The war still waged. The pandemic still spread. Lives still ended.

Perhaps 2021 would be better. Perhaps the Party would release and administer the vaccine they had promised.

With her counter cleared of clutter and scrubbed clean of spillage, Jane made her way to the front door for her delivered copy of the Times. Her first newspaper of the new year.

She opened her door and was immediately assaulted by the smell of old, stale cabbage and the sight of Big Brother's face. Another poster featuring his handsome countenance covered the corridor wall across from her flat.

Big Brother is Watching You

"I know," she whispered.

She bent and retrieved her newspaper, glancing at the story above the fold. The headline read: "Cases of Common Cold Swell as Airstrip One Welcomes New Year."

Common cold?

Jane's brow furrowed. What about the pandemic? What about the vaccine? The Party had sworn in every publication for the past three months that 2021 would see a cure.

Jane glanced at the date printed on the upper lefthand corner of the front page. Her eyes widened.

January 1st, 1985.

1985?

That couldn't be. But it was.

It must have been an error. But the Party did not make errors. Big Brother was infallible.

"You look surprised," a young voice accused.

The statement, made up of such an innocuous trio of words, was as good as a death sentence.

Jane quickly arranged her facial features into the practiced expression of neutral optimism. To share one's emotions openly was always a risk.

She glanced down the hallway at the speaker. Her neighbor's eldest child, a boy of nine or ten, was standing in the open doorway of his family's flat. He wore the blue shorts, gray shirt, and red neckerchief of the Spies. Nearly every child in Airstrip One was a member of the Spies. Nearly every parent in Airstrip One was terrified that his child would denounce him to the Thought Police.

Jane smiled at the boy. Her smile was sincere, but minute. Kind, but cautious.

"Not surprised," she said. "Just overly energized. This morning. Today."

Despite his small stature, the boy somehow managed to look down his nose at her. He tightened the knot of his red kerchief, his thin lip curling in a sneer.

"Perhaps cut back on the Victory Coffee," he said in a voice that was far too haughty and pretentious for one so young. "You wouldn't want your 'energy' taken for dubiety."

Jane's cheeks stung as though she'd been slapped by his words and the harsh tone with which he uttered them. But her many years of wearing a metaphorical mask allowed her to maintain her blank expression without issue. It was wise to feign paralyzing stupidity while in the company of others, lest a glimmer of recollection or possession of opinion lead to a swift demise.

"That's good advice," Jane conceded.

"Yes, it is," the Spy said. He placed his hands on his narrow hips. "Take care, comrade. There is no cure for the common cold, you know."

He emphasized the words "common cold" as though begging her to argue the point. Jane recognized his antics as a form of entrapment. Should she correct him, and make mention of the pandemic and its promised vaccine, he would promptly turn her over to the Thought Police. She would be a traitor. A terrorist. A thought criminal. Having made claims that went against the uncontested truth of the Party. Worthy of vaporization. An Unperson.

There was no doubt in Jane's mind that the boy would take significant pleasure in bringing about her end.

Jane gave him another subtle, fleeting smile. "That's true. Thank you. Happy New Year."

"Yes," the Spy sniffed. His eyes narrowed by a fraction. "I'm sure 1985 will be the year of the Party's greatest successes to date."

"I'm sure you're right."

The boy turned on his heel and marched into his flat, shoving the door closed behind him.

Newspaper in hand, Jane retreated into her own flat. Big Brother's eyes watched her from the poster across the hall as she closed the door.

Jane went to the kitchen. With her back to the telescreen, she skimmed the headlining article. As the young Spy had mentioned, the text detailed the fact that the common cold had no cure, and recommended that any person sick (or believing himself to be sick) should "monitor his temperature, get as much rest as possible, and refrain from attending work and public gatherings."

The exact words the Party had used in regards to the pandemic for all of 2020.

Except now there was no mention of the dreaded pandemic or the imminent vaccine. And now it was 1985.

Of course, there was no proof it had ever been 2020. Or any other year. No one knew what year it was. Not with any kind of certainty. No one had known for a very, very long time.

The Party had done this before. Jane could recall another instance in which the present had suddenly and without warning plunged into the past. What should have been January 1st, 2013, had instead been January 1st, 1984. Within a week, the Thought Police had seized countless heretics and traitors and spies (in reality just poor, unfortunate souls who had misspoken in public), and hanged them in the park as enemies of the Inner Party and Big Brother. To go against any truth of the Party was to go against the Party itself. To say it was 2013 when the Party said it was 1984 was to go against the Party.

Jane bit her lip. Despite the goosebumps that covered the many expanses of her skin, she kept still, well aware of the fact that the telescreen had an unobstructed view of her back and shoulders. A back could be telling. Shoulders could betray.

She turned the Times over. There, in damning black and white, was another of the Party's infamous slogans:

"Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past."

Jane bit harder, nearly drawing blood.

It was 1985 now.

It was 1985 because the Inner Party could not allow a pandemic to exist if said pandemic could not be controlled by the Party.

It was 1985 because the Inner Party had failed in their attempt to create a vaccine, and the Party was incapable of failure, therefore all proof of the failure had to be expunged.

But most importantly, it was 1985 because the Inner Party said it was 1985.

Reality control. That was what they called it.

Jane closed her eyes against the revelation. She knew that when she returned to work tomorrow, she would be given the long term assignment of hunting down and destroying all publications that were copyrighted 2020. She would be tasked with eradicating all proof that the year and its subsequent pandemic had ever existed. That was what the Records Department did: scrape history clean and rewrite it to accurately document the most recent voice of the Party.

The Party controlled everything. The past, present, and future. The war. Freedom. Knowledge. Men's actions, words, and thoughts. If the Party claimed that two plus two equaled five, then it was so. No amount of logic or mathematical prowess could prove otherwise. The existence of external reality was denied by the Party's philosophy.

Jane folded the Times with gentle fingers, and placed the periodical on her kitchen counter in full view of the telescreen. She donned her expression of neutral optimism, turned around, and crossed the living room with light steps.

Back in her bedroom, Jane returned to the window. She stared at the face of Big Brother on the building across the street. Her eyes met his.

"You're not real," she whispered. Her breath left a circle of fog on the cold glass. "I don't believe in you."

She knew it made no difference. Whether the man known as "Big Brother" was real or not was irrelevant. The principles that had manifested INGSOC were real. The perpetual surveillance, and terror, and totalitarian control were real. The destruction of history was real. Big Brother was merely the face that English Socialism had been given. Big Brother was a concept, presented as a man.

2 + 2 = 5

Ignorance is strength.

It was 1985.

But Jane remembered. Yesterday had been December 31st, 2020. She knew it was true. And no matter how closely he watched, Big Brother could not take that truth away from her.

~ * ~