In the great, vast, bitter end it is with crystal-clear vision that I now see it is vital that Gatsby were to die. Each great tragedy needs a scapegoat, a hero to die to set off the cataclysmic ending plot. Throughout the course of my life, I now see that in the events that have happened, the choices I have made have had a profound impact on my life and Gatsby’s. In a magnanimous effort to protect that glass world I have painstakingly crafted years later, I felt compelled to write an ending that would drive readers to believe the events played out exactly as told.
However, that is not my true ending.
‘“I’m going to drain the pool today Mr. Gatsby. ...view middle of the document...
Jay lay gasping wet, sobbing breaths beside me as a second crack of the gun came, and the laughter dissipated, fading into oblivion over the misty bay.
I don’t quite remember what transpired afterwards, but I do remember shouting wildly at the butler and gardener to please call for help,and I remember the way Gatsby had said,
“Please, Nick, old sport, call for some help will you? I’m not quite ready to go just yet.” in a small, boyish voice that had me squeezing his hand in a way I never would have if we were both in our right minds.
“Now just you listen here Jay”, I replied hastily, “You’ve got to listen to me. We’ve made a call to the doctor, help’s coming, please just pull through for a little while longer, please Jay”. Despite his glazed-over expression, he nodded faintly in reply to me.
I walked in a daze as reporters shouted questions and accusations at me while pops of blinding photographers light bulbs caught and blazed every few seconds. Nurse after nurse began to question me about the nature of his parties and the almost ironically bizarre circumstances of which Gatsby’s injuries occurred.
I finally had pushed my way through the throng when a particularly exasperating young reporter came to me and asked what had become of Gatsby. Out of spite I said, “What? Gatsby? He’s dead!” and slammed the door shut behind me, leaving the bewildered man surely the story of his career. I slid down the door until I hit the ground, burying my face into my hands; I exhaled a shaky breath.
I’m not quite sure what transpired after that, but I do remember waking up with an awful taste of cotton in my mouth, and my hair in a shameful disarray. A tall, stately nurse slipped into the room as a I attempted futilely to lay my hair flat. She shoved a clipboard under my nose. I returned back to the chair on which I spent the night to fill out the requested forms. The nurse leaned her hip against the wall of the room, “Your cousin should be waking soon,” she began, gesturing towards Gatsby with her head, “The medicine the doctor gave him should be wearing off in a few hours Mr.-”
“Carraway. Nick Carraway.” I supplied, not remembering quite when I told her Gatsby was my cousin.
“Mr. Carraway. Also, if it’s not too much trouble finish the forms, I’ll be back to get them in a while. Oh and, it would do you a world of good to go home and rest.” She abruptly turned on the heel of her polished boots and swept out of the room.
I resigned myself to finished the papers, and didn’t stay to see him wake up; I quietly left the room, and Jay, behind. The weather had turned a melancholy grey, as if mourning the once brilliant mask of the great Gatsby that now lay in shattered ruins. The drizzle overhead mingled with the heat of the afternoon and caused steam to rise from the pavement. I tried to catch a cab, nearly impossible during the rain in New York, and succeed after I had already been thoroughly soaked. The driver gave me look like he’d eaten...