Hi Guys, this is my first story, so be nice please! I originally wote it for an English assignment and decided to make it my first story post. It focuses on George's guilt after shooting his friend Lennie. Enjoy!
George's Story
By Mary Nugent
George sat on the bunk, looking at the gun in his hand. It was an old Luger with one bullet missing from the magazine. Six months ago to the day, George had dispensed that bullet into his best friend's head.
Six months ago, he and Lennie had been working at a farm just a few miles from Soledad. The harvest had been gathered and the ranch hands had had the day off. It had been a hot day, well over ninety degrees. George had decided to join Slim and some other hands in a game of horse shoe hoopla, whilst Lennie had excused himself and sneaked off to the barn, as well as a six foot two man could sneak anywhere. George had let him go, knowing that he was just visiting his new pup. What he hadn't noticed however, was Curly's wife sneaking in a few minutes later. She was later found dead, lying on the straw at the back of the barn, an innocent victim of Lennie's bear-like strength. George never even knew her name.
After this, George's memory became hazy. The only things that he could remember with absolute clarity were the gunshot, then Lennie's limp, lifeless body falling forward. Strangely, after this everything seemed to speed up to an almost unnatural speed. Slim leading him away from Lennie, Curly and Carlson standing over the lifeless form of his friend, shoving Slim away and running back to the bunkhouse, gathering up his few belongings in his bedroll and getting as far away from the farm as he could. He was three hours out of the farm when he realized that he was still holding Carlson's gun. For a few seconds he had contemplated throwing it away, before tucking it carefully into his bedroll.
He had found work at a farm a good fifty miles from the Tyler Ranch. The pay was good but most importantly, none of the other ranch hands questioned him about his past, which was what he wanted more than anything. He knew a few of them by name, but he hadn't cared to get to know them better.
The moonlight streamed in through the window of the bunkhouse, illuminating the Luger in his hand. He could feel the cold metal heating slowly under his fingers, could feel the smooth wood of the hand piece on his palm. Holding the gun up to his eye level, he thought on how easy it would be for him to end it all, right here, right now. Everyone else had gone into town for the night, so there would be no interruptions for another few hours, he reasoned.
He and Lennie had had it all planned. They were ready to send off a deposit for a house of their own, a dream that they had shared for years. George was going to cultivate the fields, whilst Lennie would care for his longed for rabbits. "Those rabbits were the last thing that Lennie ever thought about" George whispered to himself.
Slowly, George raised the gun to his head. What was the point in carrying on? He had no family left, his closest friend was dead, and he was the one who had ended his life. Above all, though, his dream was dead. What hurt the most was knowing that deep down, they would never have owned their own place: Lennie's simple mind had kept them on the move for too long. For years he had clung to the fragile hope that it would someday happen, but now his dream was shattered.
His finger found the trigger on the gun. He let it curl around the worn wood, which felt warm to the touch, almost willing him to pull it. As if it had a life of its own, his finger tightened around the trigger.
With a tremendous effort, he relaxed his finger. Slowly he came to realize that, even if things had turned out differently that day, Lennie would still get into trouble, no matter where they went. Only the next time, it would not have been him who found Lennie first. He would have died at the hands of a vengeful stranger rather than a caring friend.
This knowledge strengthened him and he pulled the gun away for his temple, salty tears running down his cheeks: the first that he had cried in a long time.
With renewed strength, he made his way to the door. Stepping out into the darkness with only the moonlight to guide him, he made his way to the western ranch border. Here a thick crop of brambles grew, which spilled out of a thick tangle of trees. Taking one last look at the Luger, he launched it into the undergrowth.
Later, back at the bunk house, the other farmhands arrived back from their night in the town.
"Do anything interesting tonight, George?" asked a man George recognized as Casey. "We had a great time."
George smiled sadly to himself, "Nothing much," he replied softly. Not appearing satisfied, he could only say it again. "Nothing much at all."