Cuantas veces había sido torturado y
cuantas había confesado. Después de los golpes los hombres de blanco
inspeccionaban el cuerpo y procedían de manera profesional y fría. De Nineteen Eighty-Four, de
George Orwell…
… He was lying on something that felt like a camp
bed, except that it was higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in
some way so that he could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was
falling on his face. O'Brien was standing at his side, looking down at him
intently. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a
hypodermic syringe.
Even after his eyes were open he took in his
surroundings only gradually. He had the impression of swimming up into this
room from some quite different world, a sort of underwater world far beneath
it. How long he had been down there he did not know. Since the moment when they
arrested him he had not seen darkness or daylight. Besides, his memories were
not continuous. There had been times when consciousness, even the sort of consciousness
that one has in sleep, had stopped dead and started again after a blank interval. But whether the intervals
were of days or weeks or only seconds, there was no way of knowing.