Leon Kennedy

He never understood the hype of living in a city. It’s too chaotic, too loud, and overcrowded. Maybe he’s a little claustrophobic but the idea of walking in the middle of New York City makes him anxious already. Yikes… like imagine having to squeeze through bodies just to get to the store. He doesn’t get the appeal— why would one prefer concrete and buildings over nature and peace? Nobody can convince him to move out of his little farm. Here in this town everyone knows each other, which isn’t more than a few hundred people. Small but cozy.

Life out here is simple. Here you don’t have a 9-5 job, no. Here, he can decide whatever he wants to do. He likes getting his hands dirty— quite literally with how often he gets dirt under his nails. Most of his jeans have stains of dirt since he’s outside most of the time. Either he’s feeding his animals or he’s busy in his barn trying to fix his damn radio that gives up on him every once in a month. The only responsibility he has is the farm. Other than that? He’s free to do whatever the hell he wants.

“But, uh, doesn’t it get lonely?” It’s a question he hears quite often whenever he’s out of town. And… maybe it does. While there are hundreds of others in town, he doesn’t really have friends. Why? He just prefers it this way. The solitude. He isn’t the type to fully commit to a friendship. He likes being alone— and to be left alone. The whole town just knows him as the guy who doesn’t talk much. Even when he’s at his local bar, he doesn’t say much more than “Hey, the usual.” But when the silence becomes uncomfortable in his house, he blames himself for it.

At least he has his animals to keep him company. Especially Matilda, his beautiful horse. Is it pathetic to say she’s the closest he has to a friend? She’s like an extension of him— she can feel what he feels. And that’s something he never had with a person. He doesn’t like explaining himself to be understood. Hell, he doesn’t like talking in general. Animals are easier. They don’t ask why he’s drinking two bottles of whiskey on the porch at two in the morning. They don’t ask why he spends entire days without saying more than a few words. Humans, though? They ask too many damn questions.

But still— humans are social beings. And the lack of human interaction was definitely starting to weigh on him. Sometimes he can’t help but wonder what it would be like if he actually let people in. Would he have been married by now? With kids running around? He doesn’t know. He’s getting older— thirty-eight isn’t exactly young anymore. Time is ticking and he’s aware of that. If he keeps this up, he might even die alone. No one to attend his funeral— Christ. That’s a little depressing. But terrifyingly not wrong.

Despite the loneliness in his house, he does like the peace here. Nature always had a way to help him empty his head. The soft rustling of leaves, the cows mooing in the distance, birds chirping a familiar tune. Most of the time he spends taking care of the chickens, sheep, and cows. He feeds them, brooms them, cleans their stalls. Some days he goes on a ride with Matilda, some days he goes to his local grocery store on foot. Anything to keep himself busy— anything so he isn’t rotting in his home.

But if there’s one thing he hates the most it’s his peace being disrupted. It was just another Tuesday for Leon as he sat in his home, drinking whiskey while listening to his old radio that played some random Texan song. He was zoning out, trying to ignore the thoughts that were getting louder. At least the music helped— and the whiskey too. Then, a sudden loud crash. It made him immediately jump, eyes darting around while his hand automatically reached for his gun. If someone wants to break in, they chose the wrong farm.

He tucked the gun in his pants and moved fluidly to his front door. He stepped outside, ready to confront whoever had the guts to come here. But instead, he saw a broken car, his mailbox scattered across the ground, and fences half broken down. Christ, who drives like that? Then, his eyes landed on a figure who stepped out of the damaged car. A woman, probably in her late twenties. She looked quite devastated— probably more worried about her car than the fact she had basically broken down private property. “Hey—“ he finally called out, voice low and firm, as he stepped towards her.

He adjusted his hat, his blue jeans hugging his powerful legs that ate up the distance between them. “Hell of a way to park. But that there is gonna cost me,” he grumbled as he gestured to the pieces of what was once his fence. “Better pay up for the damage.” But the frown on her face made him almost feel pity. She’s beautiful— but shitty at driving. He can already guess she’s from the city. He inhaled sharply and tapped his thigh impatiently. “You got cash?” he asked, to which she shook her head. How convenient.

Well… if she doesn’t have the money, she has to pay for the consequences differently, right? His eyes lingered on her for a moment and then back to his farm where he could hear Matilda neighing. The place looked messy— grass overgrown, a pile of wooden planks near his porch and the barn looking like it could use a new layer of paint. He was suddenly hyper-aware of how uncared-for the place looks. It’s not like he neglects the place— he only has two hands and sometimes tasks can pile up. But with her…? He’d have four hands. And… a little company. Could be nice, perhaps.

He finally cleared his throat, a hand dragging down his face that prickled his palm. Shit, he should shave. “Alright then. Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said and glanced at the broken fences. “I’ll fix this up while you help me around the farm. I could use an extra pair of hands ‘round here,” he gestured towards his farm. And what he wouldn’t say out loud is that he could also use a bit of company. Even if it’s for a short while. At least now he finally has an excuse to use the guest room which has been empty for years.