Of Mice and Men: A Continuation

        The day had become cold, and gloomy.  The illuminating light that once fell over the mountain tops was now hidden beneath a thick sheet of grey sky.  Within the surrounding trees, the birds and rabbits which had been lively and at play were now silent.  That once brilliantly beautiful pool of deep green water lay stagnant, reflecting the pale sky in its wake.  There was a grasp of death that held tightly to the air.  Each grain of sand and blade of grass oozed an unimaginable sadness.
        A beautiful sanctuary changed to a desolate graveyard.
George and Slim were in the pub with empty shot glasses lined in front of them.  Their faces were flush; Slim, despite his drunken state, sat proudly on the bar stool, watching George.  There was compassion to his stare, and those deep, holy oculars lingered on the sad, intoxicated man.  He sat sipping his whiskey.
        “Are you gonna be alright, George?”  Slim asked, his voice rising to pierce the otherwise silent room.
There was no reply.  
        At this point, Slim couldn’t do much to help.  Even after he bought George a few drinks, no words were exchanged.  He would never be able to imagine what was going through George’s mind.  What it was like to lose a best friend by your own hand.
        For George, life was spinning; the pub, the bar, and Slim, who still sat just as silently next to him.  All of this was shifting and his perception of reality was slowly slipping away.  Perhaps it was the alcohol, or his ultimate sadness, but Slim watched George stand, nearly tripping, and head toward the door.
        “George.”  Slim proceeded after the stumbling man, trying hard himself not to fall.  His strides advanced two paces ahead of George’s.
        There was a hand on George’s shoulder and he tried to shrug it off.  His feet lingered at the edge of the doorway, a trembling hand resting upon the flat of the handle.  His advancement ceased.
        “George.”  Slim repeated, still holding a firm grip.
        “I have to go.” For the first time since the incident, George spoke. His words were firm and serious, and Slim loosened his hand.
        “Where are you thinking about going?” Eventually, Slim was able to completely free himself from George, giving him just enough space to both be on his own and be helped if needed.
        George gave him a look of utter loneliness. Even though he knew he was in good company, the realization that he would now be completely alone, and on his own, had hit him hard. Beneath the haze of intoxication, George had slumped into a state of depression that he was certain no one could pull him from.
        “I’ll go up into the mountains.” The door was pushed open.
        George wanted to leave the world, and with a stagger, tracked through the mud and down the dirt road which lead into the spread of forest that surrounded the mountain’s base.
        Slim stood in the doorway of the pub, watching George wander through the now apparent fog before disappearing into the brush. A light rain began to fall, and the day had turned suddenly to an early night.
        The ranch had returned to its normal state of existence after that; the migrant workers continued to wander from ranch to ranch with the American Dream in the back of their minds and Lennie and George were both eventually forgotten.
        Nothing was seen of George after he wandered into the mountains. Perhaps he made himself a home, and lived off the fat of the land. Either way, life continued to progress without a second thought and so did the migrant workers.