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My father had once taught me to observe without judgment. He told me this so that I may be a good and honest person, one that did not make presumptions about people who did not deserve it.
I appreciated this sentiment and carried it throughout my life. I learned, however, that the best part of being a neutral observer was not the personal satisfaction of being a fair person, but instead knowing everything far before everyone else did.
Of course, this wasn’t always the case, the most prominent perhaps being talking about Mr. Jay Gatsby to Mr. Jay Gatbsy, a fact that I have yet to live down even many years later. But in most cases, people were understandable when observed without judgment; understandable and predictable.
Of course, I was not exempt from this.
I was the biggest observer of myself first and foremost. Every action I made, every thought that took form in my head, was analyzed in the quiet hours of sleepless nights.
I was predictable and was unable to fool myself, though hard I may try.
So, on that aforementioned night, when I stumbled, at first unknowingly, on the notorious Mr. Jay Gatsby, I made a prediction, or perhaps it was so inevitable that it was just an observation.
At his introduction, framed with fireworks that seemed to form a halo around him, accompanied by a full orchestra I had yet to even find, I knew that I would fall in love with this man.
I, of course, was right.
I took every moment I could with the man, even the moments where I had to watch him so hopelessly in love with Daisy.
Being in love with Jay was perhaps the most infuriating thing I have ever experienced. It seemed every day I struggled with the desperation to scream sense into him. I loved my cousin Daisy very much and I knew her actions were actions made out of fear, confusion, and doubt. She would not hurt Jay on purpose and yet hurt him she would, on that I was sure of.
I watched him, so desperately in love with her, with no way to make him see this truth.
And so I did not. I made the choice to let him try, perhaps I was wrong about Daisy and then he would be happy and that would be enough.
But most of all I did not tell him, because as infuriating as it was to be in love with Jay, it was also, most certainly, the most wondrous thing I have had the privilege to experience. It was flying and soaring and a thousand other words even I could not come up with.
I could not lose him.
Perhaps it was this desperation that subconsciously made my decision that day.
When Jay asked for me to accompany him at his pool and await the call from Daisy that I could not believe would ever happen, my decline fell short in my throat, even though it was what I wished to say.
It had been forgotten, at my own wish, that I was a soldier as well. Next to Jay, the war hero in all the Allied countries, my own small part to play was minimal, but I was not a bad soldier. So when that feeling, that hammering in my chest, consumed me, choking back the planned response I had wished to say, I listened.
I accompanied Jay at this pool that day.
It was the best decision I have ever made, my own consequences be damned.
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I didn’t bother calling in for work. I didn’t enjoy lying and I was sure that at this point I had made so many excuses for my absences, of which all I was spending with Jay, that they would no longer believe me anyway.
Yet the consequences I knew would come from my actions did not even register against the unexplainable thundering that pulsed beneath my skin. Something was going to happen, I could feel it in every inch of my body, from the hairs that stood on the back of my neck to the itch in my bones.
And so, with Jay I stayed, yet barely paid him any mind. Instead I focused on everything else. I eyed the wait staff, the architecture, the landscape; anything that could be deemed a threat or conceal a threat suffered through my scrutiny. My back faced nothing for too long. I realized then, how easy it would be to hide somewhere in the Gatsby Mansion, how many rooms to hide in and entrances to sneak through. The house, once beautiful and welcoming in its anonymity and endless hospitality, soon became an open and haunted battlefield, a No Man’s Land like no other.
Jay paid no mind to my squirely behavior. He got like this, when he was nervous, when he felt more like James Gatz than Jay Gatsby. He rambled, uncaring if I was paying attention, asked questions without waiting for the answers. It was oddly endearing the majority of the time, to see the great Gatsby so un-put together, but now it was just convenient. It allowed me to keep my silent and distracted vigil without fear of being questioned, or worse, stopped.
He talked about Daisy and the pool and then Daisy again. His mention of Daisy usually stirred something in me. At first it was confusion, then jealousy, anger, pity, and, most often, some strange cocktail of emotions I would never be able to put cleanly into words no matter my affinity for them. But not even Daisy could dent the drum that beat inside of my heart; a warrior’s drum that promised blood.
I continued looking, waiting, and answering Jay half-heartedly, when the drum quickened.
My heart followed this new tempo. I stood up, rudely interrupting one of Jay’s rants, for which, I felt myself having no care. I surveyed all that I could see and met eyes with Wilson; deranged, drunk, and dangerous.
I recognized him as a threat before I recognized him as Wilson, which only confirmed my initial instinct.
I was sure the man wasn’t here for a pleasant talk about the weather, and forever and always I will thank whatever being, true or not, that takes credit for my thinking of moving towards Jay, for I dread to think of what could have happened if I had not.
When I saw it, the glint of silver metal in the abhorrently bright and happy sunshine, I was close enough to prevent the worst.
Before the gun had even been completely raised I was running towards Jay, crashing into him and pushing him off the path of the bullet.
It was not my intention to take his place, better yet for us both to remain unscathed of course, but when the alternative was Jay; Jay’s pain, Jay’s death… well it was not like I could live without him anyway.
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The pain did not come immediately. Instead, as the bullet pierced my chest and logged between my ribs, time seemed to slow so intensely that it had stopped.
I was still clutching to Jay, falling forwards together.
Another shot went off and my heart seemed to stop.
I understood then, for all the grandeur my sacrifice held, there was nothing stopping Wilson from simply firing another bullet.
It was only the realization that the shot had not been from Wilson, instead fired by one of Wolfsheim’s men, the ever loyal bodyguard, that allowed for my heart to continue beating and for time to continue running.
Unfortunately, as time resumed and my heart beat for the first time, it allowed for pain to come.
The pain from the bullet crashed into me; a tsunami of anguish my body could not handle.
As Jay and I, still falling, finally slammed into the hard pavement of the pool deck, my vision whited out and a scream ripped through my throat.
It was only Jay that allowed me to cling to consciousness. I needed to see him, to hear him one last time before I slipped into oblivion. I needed to know that I had succeeded in my one goal.
He was above me now. My vision swam and my ears rang, yet I could just barely, through cosmic effort, make him out.
He was screaming, shaking with sobs, his face red from the effort of both.
It was my name, I realized, of which he screamed.
My name, over and over; like a chant, like a prayer. A prayer to the devil, as he said my name with such devastation that I feared I had been wrong, that he had still been shot, despite my efforts.
But no. I had succeeded, the Great Gatsby would not fall tonight.
The last thing I felt was his hand, stained red with my blood, at my cheek and his forehead, with the gentleness of a butterfly’s flutter, leaned against mine, my name a wretched sob on his lips.
I wished not to leave him. But this, I thought, despite the pain, was still a peaceful way to die.