This was a piece of writing that we had to do after reading 'Of Mice and Men' by John Steinbeck. It could have been about events after the final chapter, which I did, or re-interpreting a section of the book. I included a few references and quotes from the book to try and match it/ ground it with/within Steinbeck's work (which is incredible and absolutely heartbreaking btw), so I don't lay claim to those or the characters. It gets a bit dark towards the end so if you are upset by depression/suicidal thoughts, I'm just going to forewarn you. Other than that, enjoy and please don't question why arrived to this conclusion, I have no clue either!
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It started with the rabbits. Their stall at the fair had attracted quite the crowd, and was drawing many a passerby with the magnetic force of curiosity. Naturally, this was where Curley, girlfriend and 'mates' in tow, gravitated to. With a commanding elbow, he scythed through the crowds, aggressive nature being entirely at odds with complacent crowd of mostly mothers and their young charges. Upon reaching his destination, the centre of attention, he immediately realised his mistake. Reputation at stake, he smoothly covered his blunder.
"Ha, they're only rabbits! C'mon sugar, let's go to them game stalls over there. I'll try win you somethin'." And he was off again, charming smirk set in place, dragging his flustered darlin' behind.

Carlson sniggered, watching the retreating pair's back.
"There goes his chance with missis number 5!"
"When d'ya reckon he's gonna give up?" Whit joined in the mockery.
"'Till he gets another wife, tho' his chances are gettin' slimmer an' slimmer 'round here. Them girls in town know wha' happened to his wife an' don't want nothin' to do with him."
"Gonna have'ta go to one of them dance palaces if he wants a crack at gettin' one."
"Yeah."
"God, can't he give it a rest? It's been a year since that happened, an' he's still all jacked up 'bout it!" A new voice entered the conversation. George, having lagged behind the main group, had just spotted the two 'lovers'. The first two men murmured a vague agreement, before directing their gaze elsewhere. Though a seasoned worker at the ranch, he was still an outsider and not altogether trusted.

A solid silence ensued, broken only by the delighted cries of the crowd surrounding the trio, a sea of youthful faces round a weathered island. "Hey, didn' that crazy bastard have somethin' with rabbits?" Carlson remarked, having finally noticed the aforementioned animals. George stiffened at the mention of his departed friend.
"Yeah, dunno why. Them rabbits are nothin' but dumb, stupid animals! Heck, if I wanted an animal, I'd get a dog like that one of Slim's or a horse. A good workin' animal is a horse." Whit replied, ever the practical man.
"True, but I don't have a thing for animals. Too unreliable. Now a good gun, like my Luger, that's reliable. My Luger is so Goddamn reliable, I could use it any time, any day, an' would shoot straight like it was bran' new!" Carlson countered loudly.
A small shudder rolled through George as a day came to mind, a riverbank specifically.
The conversation progressed into an in depth argument about guns, and with each word, a rising panic clawed at him. He had used a gun. Used it on...Lennie. He had kil... No. Not now. He had to leave, the floodgates in his mind straining to burst. With careful, measured steps he exited the crowd, unbeknownst to the two ranch hand still deep in earnest debate.

Once clear, the rising, irrational panic inside him began to subside, the gates restraining his memories, his emotions, were firmly barred again. Lennie was banished to the furthest reaches of his mind, and George's dominance over his emotions was complete. A sigh escaped his lips. Safe. For the moment.

"Hey George! Dammit, where'd he go?"
Reluctantly, George backtracked to the crowd, his chance to escape wholly unnoticed, blown. Choice curses flowed from his grimacing lips, his already dark mood rapidly descending into the inky depths of hell.
"George! C'm here! We need your opinion. How'd the Luger feel when you killed Lennie? This stupid bastard doesn't believe the Luger's the best gun out there. He's wrong, but the sonovab**** won't take my word for it!"
As if electrified he jerked upwards, Carlson's words blocked by the silent rising scream inside. Lennie. Lennie. A slow burn started in his stomach, magma bubbling, boiling, building, the prelude to a violent eruption. Containing it was not an option. He had to flee, run anywhere but this crowded fair. Away, somewhere private, where no one could see the explosion of grief about to consume him. Eyes darting around with ill contained panic, he surveyed the fair and crowd for an easy exit. It was in this moment his gaze alighted upon the rabbit stand. His dead friend gazed back at him.

The phantom took the form of a sandy haired, droop-eared and brown eyed bull rabbit, its broad, shapeless mass slumped in idle contemplation of the world. George froze, ice replacing blood, limbs paralysed. It was only a rabbit, yet his shattered heart conjured up a face; childishly innocent and trusting. It loped towards him, movements clumsy with the power it couldn't harness. With a twitching nose and mildly curious expression, it leant back on its haunches and stared at him with those eyes. He was then lost, tangled in a memory suppressed for so long.

"Look George!"
"What now Lennie?"
"George look! Look what I foun'!"
A young boy cast a bored eye over the discovery. "It's a rabbit Lennie, c'mon, I wanna try one of those games over there."
With an indicative jerk of his head, the boy began to walk away. The other, larger child didn't move, transfixed by the snuffling rabbits. Realising the other boy wasn't following, the dark haired boy retraced his steps exasperatedly.
"C'mon Lennie. We've gotta stick t'gether or Aunt Clara'll give me hell!"
"It...it looks so nice to pet George! Can I have one? Can I pet it?"
"No Lennie. I can't buy it! What'd Aunt Clara think? Anyways, ev'rything you pet, you manage to kill. Remember them mice?"
The large boy scowled like a petulant toddler. "They's too small! I pet them, they tries to bite me and I give them a lil squeeze and they die! They was too little!" Round face brightening, he looked at the rabbits. "But these George, these aren't too small! I could pet these just fine."
Sighing, the dark-haired boy corrected him. "Rabbits, Lennie. They're called rabbits. An' maybe when you're older Aunt Clara migh' let you have rabbits"
"Rabbits." The larger boy's brow crinkled. "Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits." As the animal was committed to memory, he smiled. "I'm gonna get rabbits George, jus' you see!"

A solitary tear wound its way down his angular face.
"You never did get one didya, you crazy bastard?" He shook his head, trembling with pent up emotion, composure slipping as memories and broken promises carved deep gashes into his already bleeding heart. "You never got one 'cos, 'cos of," Guilt choked him as he arrived at the same conclusion as always, spiralling back down into the pit of blame like a broken record on repeat. "'Cos of me. 'Cos of me not paying attention, 'cos of me letting my guard down." He struggled with his tears, loth to show anything in the accusing eyes of the public, fists clenching and unclenching as he strove to bottle his rampart emotions, to contain them the way he had for the past year, but they just kept coming. Wave after wave slammed against his control, each a different memory lanced with a writhing cocktail of guilt and blame. Their first meeting at the funeral of Lennie's parents. Playing catch in the yard and Lennie enthusiastically throwing it far into the brush. Aunt Clara's death. The red house and the birth of their American Dream. Beans and ketchup. He had to stop them, counter the flow, but the year spent suppressing them only increased their potency. His parents death. Their first job on a ranch. Trying, and failing, to teach Lennie cards. Weed. Lennie and the puppy. Candy and their Dream almost coming to fruition. Tears were streaming down his face, each one a treasure of a time long past. Yet still he struggled, fighting to keep himself from drowning in the raging ocean of his mind. That day. The gun. The hunt. The shot. He countered the howl rising in his throat, right hand numb with the ghost of the recoil. Keep it together, keep it together...
People were staring now, Carlson and Whit, mothers drawing their children close, away from the muttering mad man. An unmarked grave dug hastily by the riverbank. His composure shattered with a gut-wrenching sob. "Goddammit! It's my fault! My fault you died, you crazy sonova..."
"George!" A firm hand clapped down on his trembling shoulder, halting his tirade as he jolted and span around. With searching eyes, Slim inspected his broken frame and heaving chest, eyed the still watching rabbit, and calmly concluded the events. His ageless features settled into understanding grimace.
"Let's get you a drink."
A hollow nod was all George could manage as he slowly dampened down the uncontrollable wildfire of his mind. After a cool-eyed challenge to the congregation, particularly to two shocked ranchers ringed around the outburst, the skinner guided his numb charge through shocked murmurs towards the nearest bar.

Ale, cheap spirits and sweat dominated the air inside of the sparsely light, timber framed bar, accompanied by billows of cigarette smoke and a delicate hint of bodily fluids. The public house, though not the nicest in town, had a comforting atmosphere of use. Every stool and oak table had the wear of a thousand hands and pints, the straw strewn floor had the dull gleam of a myriad boots which had tramped across its surface. Voices mingled to create a therapeutic backdrop of noise, reminiscent of the sea waves upon the shore. That, combined with a couple of pints, had calmed the seething emotions in George.
"I guess I oughta thank you Slim for, y'know," He trailed off, still not quite ready to give name to his recent...outburst.
"Jus' lookin' out for you George. Am I right in thinking that was 'bout..."
"Lennie." He quickly finished Slim's sentence, eyes downcast, hat still pulled over his red eyes. "Yeah." He couldn't stand other people saying his name, even in goodwill. It made his loss more prominent. With a slow nod and kindly eyes, the weathered man clapped a supportive hand on George's shoulder.
"No man should ever have to do wha' you did George. But it was the right thing to do, believe me in that much, worse things could'a befallen your friend if you hadn't."
A dry laugh escaped from George. "That doesn't make it any easier. "
"No, I suppose it doesn't." Slim stood up, hand still resting upon George's hunched shoulder.
"You OK if I leave now? I got a couple of mules back at the ranch who need some attention."
"Sure."
"Righ', I guess I'll see you back at the ranch then."
"Yeah."
Only after the weight of Slim's hand had disappeared from George's back did he lift his empty gaze from his bottle, tracking the sure movements of the jerkline skinner to the door. Left alone in the clutching shadows of the corner, he sunk his wretched head into his neck and let the blessed fug of alcohol caress his splintered mind, sinking quickly into a listless stupor as his thoughts muddled into one vague mass.

Many pints later, he emerged from the bar, belly full of coarse fire and head lost in a brilliant fantasy. Darkness had begun crawling from its deepest niches as the sun erupted in bleeding crimson blades across the late sky. With staggering legs, he explored the all but deserted streets, wincing as his visage was periodically illuminated with stabbing light. Eventually, when walking became impossible to master for more than two teetering steps, he took refuge in a desolate alley. His first attempt at seating himself ended before he even bent his nonfunctioning knees. The second sent him toppling into a stagnant gutter, vile smelling liquid soaking his shirt front and denim sleeves. A scattered thought, accompanied by a hysterical laugh burst from his mouth.
"You'd drink outta gutter if you was thirsty!"
Trembling with mirth, George leant back against the grungy brick walls of the passage. It was hilarious for a reason unknown to his drunken state. With a hand filthy from the gutter, he wiped away the errant tears of joy, wondering with all the capacity of a drunkard why it was so hilarious. Then with sledgehammer force, the memory of their night by the river crushed his gaiety. He had said that to Lennie. To Lennie who was dead, shot by his own hand. The blanket safety of his inebriated state was wrenched away by the truth, the cold, unforgiving facts of that day. No longer did the comforting fire of spirits burn away the darkness inside, no more was his blissful naïvety. Everything came back.

Along with his newfound sobriety came the realisation of what he had just done. He had blown his month's stake on cheap beer in a desperate attempt to brighten up his world. Just like the men he had seen growing up, working on ranches, he had resorted to using a bottle as a crutch to prop his desolate world up. He had become one of the nameless mass, still struggling through life with nought but a vague, unreachable dream spurring them on. A sob rose in his throat as words spoken with such certainty not long ago came back.
Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world. They got no fambly. They don't belong no place. They come to a ranch an' work up a stake and then they go into town and blow their stake, and the first thing you know they're poundin' their tail on some other ranch. They ain't got nothing to look ahead to. The second half of the mantra slipped off his tongue, raspy voice easily finding the words to complete the passage recited so many times before.
"With us it ain't like that. We got a future. We got somebody to talk to that gives a damn about us..." His voice cracked completely, giving way to a deluge of tears. "But I don't, damn it! You're gone Lennie! Gone forever. I'm alone in a world full of men just like me. God, I can't do this anymore! Not without you." With his final confession, his voice had risen to a rough yell, punctuated by wretched sobs. Sharp pain lanced through his hands in sympathy to the roaring torment in his mind. His weathered fingers had formed fists, white-knuckled in an attempt to release the overwhelming emotion wrenching him apart, cracked fingernails piercing his calloused palm, causing crimson blood splatter on his worn jeans. Yet the pain was not great enough to drown out his grief, his anger and self-hatred. It surged again, pummelling his chest with fists of broken promises and hopeless dreams until he felt it would burst, his shattered heart pounding against his ribs, craving release. Roaring against the suffocating pressure, his right fist flew into the alley wall opposite. There was a crunch and a fresh torrent of pain raced into his mind, spearing through the heart of his raging emotions.
Veritable silence fell.
His mangled hand dropped onto a cool, smooth surface, blood pooling from the torn flesh. Only tears rained from his eyes, he was utterly spent. Everything dulled to a throb, the pain, both physical and mental, numbed by his exhausted mind. Emptiness began creeping into his shaking body, its dark mass seeping into the gaps left by his blazing emotions. Along with it came his awareness.
He was alone.
Completely and utterly alone, left to face the world with a bleeding heart and haunted mind. Gone was the reassuring presence at his shoulder, the bumble-headed fool whose pure innocence had provided light in his darkest hours. Realisation settled heavily on his shoulders.
Alone.
He hadn't understood that before, not paused to reflect what the true impact of the death was. And he found himself terrified. God, he had never been this scared. How was he going to survive, how was he going to cope?
Panic ripped through him and he began to shake more violently, hands clenching into fists as his chest heaved. Except, his right hand couldn't, and instead curled around a death cold cylinder. Sparks fizzled through him. He traced the outline of the object, a hope unfurling within his chest. A doorway opened, shedding light on his darkened mind. Delicately, he lifted the object, and with trembling hands he checked the magazine of the gun. A single cartridge winked back in the cold moonlight. One bullet, one chance for escape. One way to hide from the twisted reality of his life. Peaceful cold settled in him.
"I'm coming for you Lennie. I'm gonna join you at that place."
His words filled him with joy, hope, and the image of outstretched arms, a smiling face. With shining eyes, he raised the gun to his temple. The savage bite of the muzzle on his temple steadied his hand, calmed his racing heart to a death beat. He took off his battered hat and stared with hopeful eyes at the serene full moon, its pure light calling his aching soul to be healed.
"We're gonna be together, you and me, jus' like old times."
And with a smile, the first true smile in a year, he pulled the trigger. George Milton was dead before the resounding crack had echoed into empty silence.