Of Repercussions

The day is lazily warm, just perfect to lay down in a hammock and feel the sun against your face as you drift into sleep. A crisp breeze is the only sign of winter’s arrival. A lonely farm sits in the middle of a wide field, dotted with blood-red flowers, replacing the pure white perennials that returned to the ground in whispers of dry brown petals during autumn, the perennials that refused to stay the whole year despite the rancher’s efforts. The clear sky seems to be enveloping the entire valley, with only a gray storm far away to the west. Squawks of chickens erupt as a rancher exits the faded barn, and fade away as the door creaks closed and the man meanders towards an enclosing with several rabbits inside, his heart beating a little faster as memories rush in. George Milton unlatches the lock, pads inside, and swings the gate closed behind him. Gently, he picks up a young gray rabbit.

George trails his hands over the curve of the rabbit’s spine, and it trembles in his grasp. I like to pet soft things.

His shepherd prowls around the fence, looking longingly at the rabbits, but not making a move. Its limp is reminder enough not to mess with the furry creatures. You jus’ let ’em to try to get the rabbits. I’ll smash ’em with a stick.

George lets go of the rabbit, smiling softly as it bounds to another and nuzzles against it. I got you to look to look after me, and you got me to look after you.

George walks back into his ranch, guilt following him inside like it did for the past three years. He knows what he did was right, knows what he did was wrong, knows nothing about anything and everything about nothingness because it’s inside him. And then the guilt following him around pulls out its weapon and strikes. George crumples to the floor as the deafening sound of a gunshot, the gunshot, rings in his ears.

But then Lennie, good old Lennie is there, patting his back a little hard, a little counterproductive, but still soothing, and George is grinning widely, is crying loudly because Lennie’s not there, and he can see the blood drip, drip, drip onto the dirt

and—

Breathe.

Shaking, George tries to take in a steady breath as he looks up—and sees Lennie. And Lennie. And Lennie.

There’s his body, slumped over under an acrylic painting. And he’s humming as he paces by the door, petting a dead, white mouse. He’s singing off-pitch in the kitchen. Sweeping the porch outside. Laughing delightedly from the rabbit enclosure. And right next to George.

“Say, George, what’s that?” George jumps as he hears Lennie speak. Slowly, he rotates his head to see what Lennie is pointing at, and turns his head away so fast a crick forms in his neck.

“What’s that?” Lennie repeats, heading for the body, his dead body. George can’t watch, can’t look away, as Lennie rolls the corpse onto its side—and wails. It resonates through George, cuts through him, and suddenly all of the Lennies join the cry.

George forces himself to pull his armchair into the center of the room, preparing for what will happen, has happened too many times to count over the last three years. There’s a visible mark on the ground from all the times the chair has made this move.

All at once, the wails disappear and all Lennies cease to exist from their nonexistence in George’s mind and room as a gunshot fires once more, a bullet embedding itself into the back of the necks of every Lennie. They fade away immediately. The silence is filled by the sound of feet, tiny feet. White mice scurry down the walls and into the center of the room, piling around the chair but never climbing it. They chitter and stomp. I wish I could put you in a cage with about a million mice an’ let you have fun. George pulls his legs near himself and shuts his eyes, shuts his mind.

Just like every other time, the mice are gone when he wakes up.There’s no sign of them or any Lennie, except in George’s mind. Trembling, George gets up and tries to collect himself. He pours water on the dried brown perennials by the door, and hammers the nail holding up the painting further into the wall. The plaster is cracking from how deep the nail is embedded.

George enters the kitchen, heart thudding along to the fierce downpour of rain outside. When did that happen? George wonders. He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter now.

He slides open a birch wood drawer with a creak and pulls out a Luger, its shiny black exterior covered in dust. George looks at it, lets out a shuddering breath, and picks it up. He brings it to his living room and opens the front door. He stands there, silent, watching the water pour down, with the Luger’s barrel kissing his temple.

I’ll see you soon, Lennie. There’s nothing left to worry about. George tried to build his and Lennie’s dream, their own little slice of heaven, after leaving the other ranch with his pocket stuffed with the money he saved, but it’s a hell without Lennie. George counts steadily down from ten, ready to hear a gunshot for the last time. The rain starts slowing down.

4… 3… 2…

“George!”

George turns his head to the right side, where he heard the voice come from, and is surprised to see Slim on his way to him. Even with a dripping coat and boots looking more like the muddy ground than what they’re supposed to be, Slim looks like God striding across the Earth. He stops at the foot of the steps of the porch.

“Godammit, George, put the gun down. Lennie woulda never wanted that.” Slim holds out his hands placatingly.

“Lennie didn’t want to die, either, Slim,” George murmurs, trailing his finger over the trigger. “Guess we all don’t get what we want.”

“I seen the way Lennie watched you—like a hero. Like there was nothin‘ else he’d like to do except watch you be happy and do well in life. You think he’d want to see you up there now?”

George hesitates, the Luger drooping a little. Slim seizes the chance.

“And what about them rabbits? Lennie’s gonna beat the hell outta you if he sees you left those rabbits all on their own.”

Finally, George lets his arm swing down. Tiredly, he runs a hand down his face and says, “I can’t do it, Slim. I can’t just live here pretending I didn’t kill someone, living his dream.”

Slim walks onto the porch. He pulls the Luger from George’s limp hand and tosses it into the mud. He grabs onto George’s narrow shoulders. “It wasn’t your fault. You had no other choice, George. And Lennie ain’t a selfish guy. I know he’s smiling up there with them angels, smiling at you and your lan‘ and them rabbits.”

George nods without conviction as Slim leads him back inside.

“I’m opening your beer,” Slim calls from the kitchen. “Didn’t come all this way to say hello and turn tail. Then again, I didn‘ come this way to see you try to kill yourself.”

George snorts. He settles into his chair, settles into warm memories of Lennie and him, traveling together without a care, trying to fulfill their dreams like everybody else. Maybe Lennie isn’t here now. But that means that George should make up for it by living twice as much, doing twice as much, enjoying twice as much—while remembering Lennie.

George accepts the glass Slim hands him with a small smile. It grows wider as he hears a pure, happy laugh somewhere in the back of his mind.