Chapter Text
Following Gatsby’s death, I found myself a broken man. Whatever hope and excitement that had brought me to New York had shattered into a million pieces before my very eyes, the same way Gatsby’s soul had been shattered by the bullet piercing his body. A great plume of blood filled the pool, slowly turning it red. It still gives me nightmares in the depths of the night.
I hadn’t gone to work that day. I just had this inexplicable feeling that something horrible was going to happen...so after arriving at my driveway, I decided that I would return to the Gatsby manor. Screw my boss. Screw the bloody bond business. This was my friend. My BEST friend. My...crush? I suppose so.
With that, I grabbed my coat and walked back, already thinking of an excuse as to why I would stay with Gatsby.
Unfortunately, I was too late. I’ll never be able to come to terms with the fact that if I hadn’t left, perhaps my only friend in this crushing world wouldn’t have died. I heard the gunshot, and ran up the steps just in time to see Wilson shooting himself in the head. I didn’t even see Gatsby’s body as it fell. Only the great haze of blood slowly growing and spreading, like a wildfire in a dry forest.
I don’t know what came over me. I dove into the pool, my military instincts kicking in. My arms wrapped around Jay’s bloody torso and my legs kicked off from the bottom with such might that we catapulted upwards. Pushing myself out of the pool with one hand, I pulled Gatsby onto the side with the other, before putting both my hands onto his chest and pumping, in a desperate need to somehow resurrect the man from the dead. He coughed, a mixture of blood and water cascading from his mouth. His eyes fluttered open for a second. They were unseeing, clouded with the coming of death. I only heard him utter my name, before falling down, down, down, towards the light that took him with open arms. I grasped at his cold hand, my other hand laying on his chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding, to rejuvenate the pulse that was weakening under my grip. It was all for nothing, and I knew it.
Firm hands clenched at my shoulders and tried to pull me away. I yelled my protests, screaming that I wanted to stay with him.
“No, no...no you can’t! Let me stay, let me stay...Gatsby...Gatsby!”
“Mr Carraway, I implore you, you must leave...”
“Gatsby...GATSBY....LET ME GO!!”
I pushed wildly at the butler but his strength easily overpowered my shaking body. I felt like strained glass, ready to snap.
The servant dragged me away from his body as two more came rushing out of the house, enveloping Gatsby from my eyes. I felt a sharp prick at my neck, and the world turned lopsided as my unconscious self came to the slow realisation that I’d been drugged. My last thoughts were of Gatsby, and the muddy haze of ruby slowly overcoming the cool sapphire of the pool.
I woke up at home the following morning, with two notes left on my bedside table. One was from Jordan, telling me that the Buchanans had ran. She had invited me round for tea at her place the following Tuesday, but I had no intention of going.
The second note was from Gatsby’s butler, apologising for drugging me, but explaining that they had to get me away for my own mental state. I was going into shock, apparently. What happened after reading those notes, I don’t remember. I let the claws of a restless sleep drag me under once again.
~
The following days consisted of me drinking myself to ruin. I didn’t go back to work, and they later fired me. I couldn’t care less. I just drank, letting reality slowly die around me in a miasma of fear and pain. Any time I felt, any time an emotion surfaced, I drank it away with a large swig of vodka, my own secret supply.
The tragedy played over and over agin in my mind, each time becoming more dreadful and frightening than the last. The first time it happened, I saw the event as it was. The gunshot, the splash, the red plume. The second gunshot. A world of water, a breath of fresh air. Gatsby saying my name. Death.
After that, it only got worse. The gunshot became louder, encasing any other earthly noises into mechanical cries that screamed of the victims demise. Instead of Wilson shooting himself in the head, I only saw a cloaked figure with a gun pointed at the red pool, laughing maniacally. When I dove into the pool to rescue my friend, his cold hands grasped at my neck. The bottom of the pool seemed to disappear and we travelled down into the depths of an ocean. A watery grave. No more would Gatsby say my name, but would accuse me, as if I was the perpetrator of the crime.
“You could have saved me. You could have saved me. This is your fault.”
“No!”
I screamed, writhing wildly. The look Gatsby gave me was the same as the one he gave Tom in that apartment, on that sweltering hot day. My vision went blurry as the water entered my lungs.
It’s was always at that moment that I’d wake up, just in the brink of death. My face would be clammy and my hands gripped around an empty glass. That’s how it always was. It still is like that. And I imagine I’ll have these nightmares for the rest of my short existence.
~
Autumn is truly upon us now. Or...I think it is anyway. I don’t remember the transition from Summer to autumn, the slow turn of the leaves in the trees. I just remember returning to reality after days of alcohol and noticing the orange limelight peering through my curtains as the sun alighted upon the burnt colours of the trees. In any other circumstance, I’d be mesmerised by the beauty and serenity of the scene. But all I could think about was Gatsby, the end of his reign as the Great Summer King; the trees were mourning the loss of the sunshine he brought, and were dying alongside me. Autumn truly marked the end of summer, but in this instance, it marked the end of those lavish parties, the green light, the grand mansion of wonders, and my friend; a noble man, who’s love transpired five years of loneliness, only to be shut down in his prime.
Gatsby’s funeral was to be held soon, in a small alcove of his house. I wanted to go desperately, perhaps I could find some sort of closure. I sincerely doubt it...but it might help.
I pushed myself out of bed and sauntered towards the mirror. My reflection, I admit, startled me. I looked like an emotional wreck after the week I’d experienced. I suppose nothing could make me feel better at this rate.
‘I shouldn’t go to this funeral...what if Jordan’s there? I don’t know if I can even face her...’
Defeated, I looked over at my bed. Empty bottles were littered around it. My hands clenched in anger. I’ve given in to the clutches of alcoholism already. Why not just give in, and go to this stupid funeral?
My body flinched at the word stupid. It wouldn’t be stupid. This is Gatsby. I have to go, it’s my duty as his friend. Who else is going to organise it? Who else is going to go...?
Hitting my head against the mirror in turmoil, I decided to go, and picked up my razor, in an attempt to fix the mess my body had become.
~
I knew I should never have come to this funeral. It’s completely desolate. No on, except Owl Eyes, has had the decency to show up, and even he only stayed for a while, before leaving me by myself. Not even Jordan has come to pay her respects. I’m completely alone.
It’s a closed casket, for some reason. I don’t understand, but I suppose I’m just disappointed if anything. I’d wanted to see Gatsby’s face...to touch his cheek. To say goodbye properly. And now I’m not even granted that luxury. It’s not fair. My hands are already trembling in anguish. My throat is parched in desperation for a drink to quench my fear. I’m always scared nowadays. There was no reason to be scared around Gatsby. He was a comforting presence in the vile land of New York.
I stroked the wooden casket lovingly and stood up, wanting to leave.
“I’m sorry, Jay. I wish I could have done more...”
I mumbled, feeling a tear trickle down my cheek. I could feels weeks of unshed tears brimming in my eyes and months of words not said on my lips. I sobbed.
“I don’t sleep anymore, you know. Just as well...guess it’s karma for letting you die...”
I chuckled to myself, before choking on my sob and falling silent. At this point I was just having a conversation with him, as if he’d never died. As if, any moment now, he’d tell me why he had to die.
“It’s difficult, you know? You were my friend...my only friend...”
“You’re my only friend as well, Old sport.”
A voice from behind me said. My breath hitched in my throat and I spun around to see Gatsby looking at me. My head catapulted. I felt incredibly sick.
“This isn’t...you’re not...”
My eyes bulged at the sight of him. Gatsby, as bright as day, was staring at me, a concerned look growing on his face.
I felt a wave of hysteria wash over me, and began to chuckle.
“Hah....hahaha....”
I put one hand on my face and held my head, whilst my other arm clutched my stomach. A great laugh bellowed from inside me and I laughed and laughed and laughed until it hurt.
“I’ve done it...”
I said, gasping my words out in desperate breaths.
“I’ve actually gone mad!”
My knees gave way underneath and I saw the spectre move towards me, as if to try and catch me. My laughter turned into ragged sobs as tears cascaded from my eyes.
“I’ve gone mad...I’m imagining you now...”
Gatsby knelt down next to me and stretched out a hand to comfort me.
“Nick? You’re scaring me. Pull yourself together-“
“Leave me alone!”
I yelled, pushing away from him across the floor.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?! You mock me in my dreams...you mock when I’m awake! And now you’re here....”
My body trembled like a fallen leaf, stray from the tree. I wanted this vision to desperately be real. I wanted my alcohol tainted mind to cleanse so I could stop going mad with grief. That’s all this spectre was. A ghost of grief, a memory of time’s past. A glimmer of hope being dangled before my eyes, only to be snatched away when I reached towards it. I wanted to reach my hand towards this ghost now, like Gatsby did that first night on the dock, stretching towards the green light. The unattainable goal.
“I’m sorry...I’m sorry I let you die...”
I found myself gasping again, trying to take gulps of air to combat the mirage in front of me.
The vision crawled over to me, and reached his hand towards mine.
“Take it, Nick. Take my hand.”
I looked at it through blurry, tear-stricken eyes, and then stretched out my own, trembling hand.
I took his hand. It was so warm...so reassuring. Unreal, yet real. Impossible.
Gatsby was alive.
I gripped his hand tightly, and pulled him close to me to touch his shoulder. It was firm, and the clothes were soft. My breaths became faster if that was possible, and my body paralysed. Weeks of lack of sleep seemed to catch up with me, and I collapsed, down, down into the darkness.
~
I had the nightmare again. It’s gotten even worse now. This time...this time I watched Gatsby die. Any other time I’ve experienced this vision, I’ve always been too late to see the murder. But this time, as if my mind was trying to torture me...I saw him die.
Gatsby never saw it coming. He was getting out of the pool, climbing up the ladder. The bullet pierced his chest and his face drained immediately of all life. Blood splurged out of the gaping hole and he tumbled backwards. I tried to move towards him, but I was frozen in place, watching the horror scene.
Instead of using the last bullet on himself though, Wilson turned to me, grinning manically.
“You knew he killed her...I’ll kill you too...”
He giggled, and I screamed in pain as the bullet went shooting towards my head.
“Please, NO! GATSBY!”
I yelled desperately, and I felt a searing pain in my head as the bullet entered. My shoulders shook, and I heard my name being called by death himself.
“N....Nic.....NICK!”
My eyes flew upon and I saw Gatsby looking at me, fear painted on his face as plain as day.
“I’m here...it’s not real, whatever you saw. It’s just a nightmare...”
He put a warm hand on my clammy forehead and wiped away the sweat. I felt soft cushions under my arms and propped myself up. It was so calm, peaceful. Just like how things always were with Jay Gatsby.
“Is this another dream...? Because if it is, I want to wake up.”
I said, feeling another tear roll down my face. I prayed that this wasn’t just a sick joke someone was playing on me. Gatsby wiped the tear away gently with his thumb and took my hand in his.
“It’s not a dream. It’s real. I’m alive, Old sport.”
He smiled gently for my own well-being and I felt floods of relief wave over my body. I almost stopped breathing. Breathing was irrelevant compared to the joy i felt at Gatsby being alive. He surged forwards at this point, as if to expel any doubts in my mind, and hugged me tightly, keeping me close to his breast. My head rested against his chest and I heard the steady heartbeat of his main organ in his body, each beat expelling shouts of life.
“It’s all thanks to you, you know.”
He mumbled quietly, as my hands grasped at his clothes, so he wouldn’t let go.
“No its not...I let you die...”
He pulled away at that moment (much to my dismay) and placed his hands on my shoulders.
“You didn’t. You saved my life. I owe you everything, Nick.”
His mouth saying my name sounded almost foreign. I was so used to the affectionate nickname ‘Old sport’....but I much preferred this.
“I don’t understand...”
I mumbled, trying to grasp at the concept. He stood from the chair he was sitting in and sat next to me.
“Let me help you understand.”