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The farm building felt alive, whispers and murmurs filling the space, the sound of fear and anticipation clinging to the yellow hay. Curley lay slouched against the slope, fists tight, his eyes fixed on the roof. His gun rested beside him, the leather strap worn from countless hunts and threats. Beside it, his wife lay still, blond hair framing a face pale and serene, the purple bruise at her neck a stark accusation. Her red lipstick bled across her teeth and her body seemed to lose itself to dust and hay, the slow gray of decay creeping along her skin.
“That bastard,” Curley muttered, voice tight, “goes on killin’ my wife. Now he’s gonna pay.” He sat up, slinging the strap of the gun over his shoulder. One last glance at her, then the barn echoed with his furious yell: “That big bastard!”
At the far end, Slim pushed back from his chair, cards abandoned on the table. His expression tightened as Curley’s voice rolled across the hay-strewn floor. He rose, stepping lightly over the scattered hay, and approached a figure slumped in shadow. George sat there, hands pressed to his face, rocking,seemingly trapped in a trance. Slim’s hand touched his shoulder. “George, you alright?”
George turned, eyes sharp, scanning the roof and rafters, before reverting to their hollow state as they met Slim’s. “I’m fine,” he said, voice thin, “jus’ gotta keep movin’ on.” But he wasn’t fine.
He missed his friend, and the thought of Curley’s wrath weighed down on his sanity.
Curley’s yell cut through the room again. “We gon’ do it! Hunt ‘im down an’ kill ‘im!”
He turned to George,his blazing eyes a stark contrast to the other’s hollow ones. “And you’re the one holdin’ the gun.”
George’s hands gripped the gun tightly. His knuckles whitened. He nodded, drained, already anticipating the inevitable.
The red sun beat down as they stepped out onto the dusty path toward the river. Curley’s steps were heavy, each motion kicking up thick dust into the air, tinting the whole scene a dull tan. He cursed under his breath, impatience evident in the way he spoke. Meanwhile, George’s eyes scanned the shrubbery, his heart beating as he searched for any sign of Lennie.
A flash of brown and blue denim appeared in the bushes, and the river whispered beside them. George slowed, wiping sweat from his brow, aiming to create a distraction. “Sure is hot’n here,” he muttered, fanning himself with his hat, his eyes tracking Curley’s face.
“Not a cloud’n sight,” Curley said, voice tight and uneven, glancing around.
George seized this opportunity to toss the hat lightly into the bushes, the fabric thudding against the dusty path, directly beside the figure in the bushes. Curley’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s that?” he demanded, stepping closer.
George’s chest tightened. “My hat, I dropped it,” he said, voice low.
“Go get it,” Curley snapped.”We ain’t got all day!”
George moved slowly, almost hesitantly, toward Lennie, hands letting go of the gun, the metallic object falling to the ground. “I’m right here, Lennie,” he whispered, as he walked around the bush, sitting down beside him.
“I didn’t mean to, George,” Lennie said, voice quivering. “I didn’t mean it.” George paused for a moment, his response spoken softly.
“I know,” He said, “I know.”
A rustling was heard as Curley stepped out from the bush, eyes fixated on the ground, hands hovering over the gun, thinking George had dropped it. Dust clung to their shirts, the river ran quietly as George and Lennie sat in silent fear.
They held their breaths for a while, hoping for the moment to pass, although it never did. As a final act of desperation, George turned to Lennie, his voice cracking as he yelled. “Run!” The sound echoed through the quiet, enclosed space, the fear and dread of the moment reflecting on the surroundings.
Lennie understood the command, bolting and stumbling through the underbrush. Curley, realising what happened, raised his gun, hand shaking, aiming for the darting figure. The first shot rang out, echoing across the river. Lennie faltered, then pushed on. Another shot, and his legs buckled as he fell to the ground, hitting the dirt hard. George’s heart lurched.
Curley approached slowly, dragging his boots through the dust. He raised the gun again, aiming for his heart. Lennie’s hands clawed at the soil, trying to push himself up, trembling and blind with terror. A third shot tore through the air, grazing Lennie’s shoulder.
George’s knees ached, feeling the heat of the sun and the suffocating truth of it all. His throat tightened, his chest heaving. “Run, damn it!” he yelled, but Lennie was pinned by exhaustion, fear, and confusion.
The fourth shot struck Lennie in the heart. His body went rigid, twisting against the earth, his small frame jerking violently before lying still. Curley stood over him, gun still raised, face tight and unfeeling. George sank to the ground, chest heaving, eyes wet.
Curley’s boots crunched against the dust as he kicked George aside, stepping over the trembling figure. “Backstabbing a$$h*le,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. His gun hung heavy at his side. George’s hat lay abandoned by the riverside.
The river flowed on, unknowing, carrying away dust and blood alike. And so the story of Mice and Men reached its close. The mice had scattered and the men had paid their dues. Nothing else remained but the quiet, eternal river.