Rick wondered about the beautiful countryside. Yellow flowers dotted the fields like his own personal galaxy.
While he could recognize the beauty of such a sight, in a way, it was distant, almost like he was looking at it and himself from afar. He could've been in a gallery somewhere, perhaps on a date where he tried to express the meaning in the picture to appear 'deep.'
Long grass brushed against his legs, as well as the sting of a nettle.
His mouth nearly quivered at the pain of it, but he didn't really
feel
it, not really.
He didn't feel much of anything at all.
He picked up his phone and found a few texts from Georgia, his best friend.
If he had been at that gallery with Georgia, he was sure he would have thought of something funny to say about the painting. She would've scolded him for not 'appreciating the art.' But it wouldn't have been a date with her, so he wouldn't have cared. And besides, he usually made her laugh anyway.
What's up with you?
one of the texts read.
He put the phone back in his pocket. The bars of signal was slowly disappearing, but that was fine; he could always walk back.
Though he supposed he should've felt some guilt for leaving her on
read
after more than a few messages.
Maybe it was the way he had phrased it.
Just going on a wander. No need to worry.
Why would he say 'no need to worry?' It clearly only gave her reason to.
If she knew he had just quit his job on the spot and left to walk into the endless countryside on the edge of the city, with no cause to go back? Perhaps she would
really
be worrying.
"I should've asked her out," he mused to himself. "What does it matter now? I should've run right up to her and kissed her."
Georgia would have reciprocated the kiss. Hell, he knew it was more than a long time coming, as far as she was concerned.
He was willing to bet that if he had kissed her at one of their apartments, he would've been under the covers with her fucking passionately within seconds. She had given hints more than a few times, but Rick always pretended to ignore them.
It wasn't to be. Georgia was his best friend, so it would never happen for more reasons than that.
He wondered if she ever knew the true reason. He suspected she wouldn't have made any hints at all then.
Would they have even still been friends?
"What am I even doing?" Rick wondered. "I should go back."
His boring bean-counting job probably would take him back. He could claim a momentary lack of sanity or something. Companies were all about mental health stuff lately, and it would be easier for them not to accept his resignation than to hire someone else.
Picking up his phone to find his internet, long since lacking in signal, he made to turn when something caught his eye.
in a forest, on the edge of the field, windows shined against the sunlight even through the trees.
Curiosity had him walking forward, where he was coming to this crazy victorian sort of house. There was white and black... daubing? Was it called daubing? There was paint with black lines boarding it and one going diagonally.
As he entered the woods, getting an odd shiver despite it being quite warm and his shirt clinging to him from his walk, the roof of the house was visible, and it had a soft, cozy roundness to it, like an old cottage, with a chimney coming up above the side.
Alone in the middle of the forest, the house and he seemed to be kindred spirits. Neither of them belonged there.
Despite good sense telling him to head back home, Rick found himself climbing up the steps, where he frowned at the old door, with wooden lines running down it, almost like tree bark from its age.
"No way an axe murderer doesn't live here," he mumbled, then quietly hummed that creepy banjo-plinking melody.
His fist rasped against the hardwood, and after several moments, nobody answered.
"Hello?" he called. "I wondered if I could get a glass of water."
He stepped back from the porch and realized he saw a sign above the door.
Bed and Breakfast
.
He found that even odder still. What sort of location was this for any sort of business?
But if it
was
a business, that meant he could just open the door, right?
Hell, he'd been spontaneous enough today. There was nothing spontaneous about going into a bed and breakfast where they would have actually
wanted
customers to enter.
"I might even be their first, judging from how secluded this place is," he said to himself.
The doorknob turned with relative ease, but the door was jammed, so Rick--being quite a large guy--put his shoulder into it and pushed through to fall into what looked like a British pub.
Boozer
, did they call it? Paintings of old dudes and photos of victorian streets lined the walls. The seats on the outside were comfy chesterfield-style couches.
In the middle were regular round wooden tables.
"Hello? I wanted to get a glass of water," he said. "Or maybe a pint, come to think of it."
A tall glass of beer would be awesome right now,
he thought.
Stepping on over to the bar, he looked around at the tables, clean, newly done so. They were the classic round kind with plenty of chairs around each one, though the room was spacious still enough to walk around on its creaking, creepy floorboards.
Rick supposed that when you give up on life, stuff that should usually be terrifying doesn't bother you all that much.
And as such that he had given up on life; he saw no problem with going behind the bar and helping himself to a pint of lager. After all, nobody was there to serve him, and he would gladly pay them when they return.
O
r get blasted in the face with a shotgun.
Nevertheless, he walked behind the bar, where there was a large mirror behind the wall, reflecting all the many drinks back at him.
Should he have a pint? Or something else?
Truthfully, all he wanted was a glass of water, so he went to find the tap and grab a glass from the shelf above.
