Milton depression

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The sound echoed painfully within his skull. Drunk and awake, with a great deal of grunting and effort, George Milton sat upright while knocking over a bottle in the process. The bottle clanged on a nearby rock and George winced at the bright sound of shattering glass. With the loud racket rumbling on in his head, dirty-faced and dizzy, George doubled over and removed his hat... only to be sick. The hat, now disgustingly unwearable, was pushed aside and George sat up, making use of his heavy arms, he dragged himself against a tree. It had been three months. The gunshot of Carlson’s luger, the blood and body of his friend haunted him still. His eyes were half-closed and his head began to roll about on his shoulders, almost comically, his upper body began to follow suit and began to sway too. George commanded his arms to stabilize himself but they hopelessly remained at his sides. In an instant, the swirling world he was a part of vanished into blackness and Geroge Milton was unconscious. The interrupted sway of his body caused him to flop over onto his side; head-on-bindle.

The afternoon light broke through the canopies above, and beamed down onto the drunken man. The birds were at war above him, lost in the trees, the finches and the robins and the blackbirds constantly shouting their symphonies at each other – a natural masterpiece echoing through the forest and Mother Nature; the composer. The roots of the trees ran deep underground, every now and then breaking the surface to greet the unknown world above. The oak trees spotted the landscape; a plague among a valley of maple trees. The bees hummed in their search for new pollen, each one hard at work, a part of a huge society. A secret society known only to the trees, where their activity goes unnoticed, undisturbed. The autumn sun was setting slowly as it neared the cover of the mountains; the sky turned a beautiful red, highlighted by the white wisps of high clouds. Mother Nature; the artist. With the world as her canvas she paints her masterpiece. As the setting sun kissed the horizon goodnight –

George stirred.


George rolled to face the sky and the world stopped spinning. He diddn’t dare close his eyes, he couldn’t decide which was worse; to close his eyes and see the red crimson blood gush in an endless waterfall from his friends skull, or to lay awake and face the spinning world. In his dreams Lennie was not Lennie, but instead was a helpless bird in a cage and himself; the monster to pull the trigger on such a helpless creature. But it never died slowly, the bird took seven shots... always seven to kill... but the gun in his hand only had six. So he could only watch the creature suffer and wail in torment as bullet after bullet tore through feather and flesh. Each shot erupting on impact; a magnificent splatter of blood far too large to be real, but in his mind, so real, too real. And just as the sixth shot was fired, the Bird transformed from it’s sickly, mutilated state into the limp and lifeless body of his friend; Lennie. And Lennie was not dead... Six shots... and the mutilated body of the man rolled over ever so slowly and George’s hands began to tremble and shake. Tears were pouring from his eyes but he couldn’t look away, couldn’t look away from the blood... Lennie was rolling over to face his friend, the one who betrayed him, George Milton, his friend... But just before George could look at his face, his pounding heart demanding to stay and watch - He sat up against the tree again. His eyes were wide open and the adrenaline burned through his body. There were tears streaming down his face, he sobbed loudly and viciously wiped them away. Awake again, he breathed heavily and focused his eyes on the horizon. The sunlight still managed to escape over the tops of the mountains.

Sobbing quietly under his breath, mildly sober, George strolled along the tracks heavily. Footsteps crunching on gravel as he swayed from left to right, occasionally grasping onto a nearby Oak to stop him from landing face-down on dirt. He hung his head on his shoulders and slouched, George slipped his hand into his pocket... a dollar and thirty four cents... He became angry, three months, three whole months and one-hundred dollars were spent on drunk nights. Here he was, in the middle of nowhere, miles away from the ranch where he once worked... Miles away from the last town he had seen. Alone. His anger, fuelled on pure self-loathing for shooting his only friend... slowly dissipated. He reached for his bindle... there, in the back pocket... A gun. He took hold of the weapon by the grip. It felt cold, solid... he remembered this gun. There was still blood on the end where the blood spatter of it’s last victim landed. Blood from a point-blank shot to the back of his head... Lennie’s blood. George’s eyes half-closed. His shaky hands brought the gun to his head, right to his temple. He breathed heavily, slided his finger ever so carefully... “click”... safety off... “click”... deadly... “click”...


George faced the mountains one last time.

George listened to the breeze rustling the leaves.

George heard the sound of running water.

His chest filled with oxygen

“Now”... he said... and with one swift, familiar movement, his finger pressed against the cold, harsh metal of –





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