Lost Memories - The Great Gatsby Alternate Ending

The Truth

According to Gatsby, this is what happened. Through his frantic rambling, breathless words and hand gestures- before the nightmarish blur of bright lights and sirens came piercing through his windows, this was the truth that many chose not to listen to. According to west egg, and much of this crooked city, the truth is not the truth without some sort of question. With an audience that will never accept a firm conclusion, I guess it's expected for the city to provide cases to keep minds buzzing and mouths talking.
His house, once giving an aroma of carelessness and wine, now radiated an exhausting energy that could never be fed the right answers. Restless snakes occupied his once grand garden. Young, aspiring writers came to his doorstep day and night, hungry for his words, eager to release trails of lies on their scaly backs. They spoke of things that never happened, that never could happen, yet people from East and West egg fluttered to read the news headline that was published the following morning.
For a fleeting moment, Gatsby's name was known.
It had been late afternoon. The sun enveloped the world of west and east egg in a blistering heat, though the sun was slowing fading beneath a cloudless sky. Long shadows trailed behind rushing pedestrians in ties and top coats. One of these shadows, however, was not a rushing business man- but a wolf, looking to claw and attack anyone in a moments glance.
A single flower petal fell gracefully from the sky, dancing in the wind before kissing the water's surface. Many other small, white flowers fell lazily from the tree branch that hung above Gatsby and his pool, putting most of the pool in shade. Sunlight poured through holes between the branches, blotting the water's surface and Gatsby with droplets of sunlight. Floating on his mattress slowly, Gatsby stared up between the branches. It was as if Gatsby's thoughts melted together in one single thought, right before floating away into the sky. His glance locked onto the blue abyss above, until he felt the nothingness that stared back into him.
Reality had finally woken Gatsby from the dream he had tried to keep alive. This reality was a black cloud that had blocked Gatsby's light; Without it, he walked aimlessly through his thoughts, forever blinded without a purpose.This reality, a dark,lurking figure, made its shadow over the pool. This reality, to Gatsby's terror, was not a fragment of his imagination- It was living, breathing monster without a leash.
The shadow did not move. Small ripples surrounded the fallen petals in the water, as the wind gently pushed Gatsby's float on its surface. The pool felt strangely calm in comparison to the increasing tension that the long silence was creating.
"Oh, Nick? Have you returned already?"
The silence was deafening.
"Perhaps you forgot something? I'm sure that one of my few butlers can ge-"
A sudden gust of wind pushed Gatsby's mattress around in full view of the darkened figure.
Lost for words, Gatsby removed his sunglasses. Squinting before the brilliant sunlight, he made out the man's face.
Sweat dripped from his brow, as a grimace appeared across Wilson's thin lips.
The man raised the pistol. Trembling ever so slightly, Wilson continued to raise it until it became eye level with Gatsby. Gatsby, eyes jerking from the gun to Wilson, store with disbelief.
It was the sort of confused innocence that that a deer looking into headlights would resemble. The flowers that dotted the water's surface remained still; paralyzed, just as Gatsby was on his mattress.
"The entire scene- Nick, old sport, I swear, it was as if time had stopped. As if a photographer had come by, and took a picture of us just like that."
Gatsby had told me as he had explained what happened. During the entire time of explaining his side of the story, he had held hard eye contact with me; now, as if experiencing the whole scene again, his eyes darted around me lively, as he continued to tell me the chain of events that occurred afterwards. With a sigh, Gatsby leaned towards me, calm again. Having collected himself - not completely, but at least well enough- Gatsby continued.
The photographer's magic faded abruptly. A sharp crack emitted from the gun, breaking the silence, yet not interrupting the tranquil atmosphere of the houses around him. Feeling his body become immersed into the water, his vision began to blur as he watched his now limp, deflating mattress only become a dark patch above him. His world, fading into the blue abyss that had threatened to consume him earlier, filled his lungs. It tried to fill his veins, his very will to survive. it prompted Gatsby to let himself plummet further into the water's depths, away from the surface, where he could abandon the world that had stabbed him when he had asked for a handshake.
"But you survived?"
I had remarked. I knew the obvious answer, of course, but something within me kept wanting to ask questions.
"Yes, I did. I may not have much going for me, Nick, but I do still have some goals to accomplish in this small life of mine. In that moment, I realized that getting murdered in my own house, in my own pool, was not one of them."
As his sense of the outside world was beginning to numb out completely, Gatsby, using the last bit of strength he had, jolted back to the surface. A surging pain had begun to pulse through his body. Thrashing viciously in the water, Gatsby caught a glimpse between the splashing water. He saw green, blue, and the rushing blur of a man running back towards him.
Gatsby, having finally gotten to the ledge of the pool, was pushed back with extravagant force. As he attempted to come back to the surface, a hand shoved his head forcefully down. Another hand pulled Gatsby back up by the neck, as he was punched square in the jaw before plummeting back to the bottom.
It was a mess of waves and splashes. The water lapped excitedly over the pool's ledge as Wilson repeatedly punched, kicked, and did whatever he could manage within the few moments Gatsby rose back to the surface from the bottom. Gasping for air, Gatsby felt a jolt in his neck as blood began dripping from his nostrils. Wilson, his eyes strained red and circled with deep colors of purple and blue, flared with madness.
"I made a dash to the ledge where Wilson had jumped off. Old sport, it felt like a battle within itself. My body was lagging behind my spirit to live. The water was pushing me back to the man who kept trying to strangle me. My eyes were stinging, and the pain from my wounds had been numbed out by my wanting to just get out of there."
Gatsby paused.
"Nick, you have no clue as to how heavy water can be."
Wilson paddled behind Gatsby. Wilson's
clothes clung onto him, weighing down his speed. His vest and suit pants served like sandbags attached to his ankles. Though Gatsby had the advantage of being in a swimsuit, when he took a glance behind him, Wilson was only a fingertip away.
"I stretched out my arms. Despite how excruciating, the thought that I might actually live enchanted me. It helped me tread faster."
Gatsby had taken a sip of his coffee. Then, with a comforting, warm expression, his focus drifted from me momentarily.
"Thoughts of moments 'to be' enchanted me then. My pain disappeared, or at least seemed too- I was thrilled with the idea of... escape."
Gatsby seemed to be slipping off in his fantasies again. Leaning back in my chair, I responded with a smirk.
"You were thinking of something in particular, weren't you?"
Startled, Gatsby's focus seemed to be brought back to me again. He took a deep sigh.
" I was reaching for the very possibility that had inspired me initially. Before that beast had attempted murder on me, and even before this entire mess had even started."
Gatsby took a sip of his coffee again. In the yellow glow from the lamppost on his back porch, I made out a smile on his young face. I returned it shyly.
"Nick, you know me far too well, don't you?"
Rather awkwardly, Gatsby had pulled himself out of the pool. With a timid glance to the pool's surface again, Gatsby noticed Wilson had disappeared. Either he lost consciousness, or perhaps the madness had taken him under finally- Gatsby had thought, staring at the rising air bubbles. clumsily making himself to his feet, he saw the glint of the gun that lay beside him. Examining it, Gatsby tilted it at all angles in his hand. He felt the coldness of the metal, along with coldness of the idea that someone wanted him to be dead. The idea stumped him, fixing his focus on the gun with a mixture of confusion, horror, and wonder. He stared at it for what seemed like hours- questioning the piece of metal's existence, and why such a thing was happening to him in the first place.
Suddenly, a hand rose from the water. Clamping down on Gatsby's ankle, Gatsby, With a jerk- and a split second reaction- pulled the trigger.
With a loud crash, the bullet's bang rang through his house, his garden, and the entirety of his patio. Wilson's hand lost grip, as his body fell limp. Wilson's wide eyes, now set on the bottom of the pool, stared blankly. As evening arrived on Gatsby's mansion, night blackened the water. The small white flowers, damaged and tinged with red, spotted its surface.
The stillness that had come in the beginning settled back into Gatsby's mansion. Once again, life resumed, and the small sound soft night had emerged.
Meanwhile, I had heard the crash of the second gun shot. Turning around in my car, And dashing up the steps, I discovered Gatsby; frozen in disbelief, still trembling with the gun pointed at the pool's blackened water. It took him awhile to come back to his senses before he finally noticed me.
"Oh, hi, Nick."
Gatsby had said.
Which brings me to where I was currently.
All of this had happened months ago. Shortly after being the first to discover the scene, I became Gatsby's witness. I served as the one man who saw Gatsby for what he was- innocent. Before the camera men had arrived with their fancy gadgets, before eager investigators had their noses sniffing out Gatsby's property, and even before the press had their take on the case as well- Gatsby invited me over to tell me what had exactly happened,in vast detail after he had been released from the hospital. His arm was slung over in a cast, and his left shoulder had thick patches of bandages.
Under evening's calmness and the yellow hue that the lights gave off, we discussed these details over coffee in his back patio. Sitting alone, there were no prying eyes. No wild drunk from east or west egg disturbed the tranquility of the scene between Gatsby and I. Soon, I would crave for this peaceful sensation to come back again. It would be weeks, even months, before any feeling of such tranquility would come between Gatsby and I again.
It had been months since I had spoken with Gatsby. My work had taken me to sunny upstate New York, where universities rose proudly above the rummage of the suburbs, looking down on strangers. Though the atmosphere was not nearly as chocking as it was in east or west egg, Upstate still had its cliches. Everyone seemed to know each other. Anyone who was not attending college, or working at some large company here, was an outsider. It did not matter if you had lived there your entire life- if you were not educated, you were not one of them. A nobody. I was one of those Unknowns, a useless, "uneducated" accessory to the city around me. To be able to have the chance return to west egg, to say the least, brought some feeling of home in me.
I sat in my office, in my apartment, typing away at my typewriter. I had been gazing off into space, into the winter wonderland that was becoming of outside. A lamppost from below my apartment complex lit up the sidewalk in a golden light as children conversed amongst each other excitedly. I rested my chin on the palm of my hand,my eyes glazing over and my mind tottering between wakefulness and sleep. Suddenly, the phone rang. Startled abruptly out of my trance, I clumsily reached for the phone, Almost dropping it in doing so.
"Nick, This is urgent."
"This is who?"
A frustrated sigh came from the other end.
"It's Tom. You See, Well-"
I raised an eyebrow. Having it been months since I had heard from Gatsby, and even longer from Tom, I had some doubt in his intentions.
"It's about Daisy, She's in, well, you could say a dilemma- 'critical condition'- and she wont let me help her. All she has been doing for the past few months, since she got released from the hospital, is talk about you- "Nick, oh where is Nick?". Nick, I can't believe this; the doctors, the medication, were supposed to help her heal quicker-"
I hesitated.
"- Wait, What?"
Leaning one elbow on my desk,I began massaging my temples, trying to understand what Tom was asking for me. Tom's usual authoritative, heavy voice now sounded breathless and out of sorts. His sentences were broken, and Each time he would speak, Tom would either interrupt me or interrupt himself.
"Nick, There is no time for what's, this, or that. look, I promise you that I'll explain everything once you get here. Trust me, it is quite a lot to explain- something I think that we would both rather do face to face. Nick, Daisy is sick. She would really appreciate if you could find time out of your busy schedule to come and help her. For the sake of your cousin, and my poor wife-"
Tom paused briefly, as if distracted by someone. I heard a muffled conversation, before Tom's voice came back in full color.
"- Anyways, Nick, I will see you soon. Take care."
And, with a swift click, the other end cut off. I sat there for awhile, my thoughts tripping over one another in endless ideas of what more Tom could want out of me, and what new problem had risen from the very group I had come to despise.
The next morning, and the morning after that, was all a blur of moving people, trains, and cars. When I arrived at the train station, I was exhausted. Leaving work had been stressful enough- to imagine what was troubling Daisy, and the rest of them at East egg, had been haunting my thoughts. Ever since the court case happened and past, and Gatsby's name had disappeared from news headlines, I had not heard much from Tom, Daisy, or Jordan. They had gone mute, fading into their plaster walls of gold and silk.
On the train back to west egg, I dreamed that Gatsby had been killed. As I drifted into slumber, the moving snow covered trees drifted out of my view, I was transported into my thoughts.
In my dream, It had been 2 years.
The leaves had stopped dancing on sidewalks, and the sun had begun to fade beneath the clouds. Winter had begun walking and lacing itself between New York's streets, crooks, and corners, making its glamorous appearance seem even sharper and crisper in the sharp air.
The city glowed, as people of importance rushed across sidewalks in their jet blue colored suits. Women with glasses of wine in their hands held onto them gracefully, as they tilted back their heads and laughed enthusiastically. They held long cigars in gloves of white, puffing clouds of smoke from their red stained lips and doll like faces, snickering between themselves indecisively.
Grand movie theaters had begun appearing on street corners, where young men took their lovely dates on wispy nights like these. They had not a care in the world, as I had been at one time. However, just as with the seasons, I had changed.
When I had left, I had known that deep inside of me, I would take my leave forever. West egg after Gatsby's death never seemed the same; it was as if, once he had disappeared, the luster had gone with him. It was as if time had stopped, as if leaves had stopped falling.
The incident with Daisy, Tom, and Jordan, haunted me. Once in awhile, in the wee hours of the morning, I'd set up abruptly in my bed, sweat rolling in beads down my back. Nightmares of what could have been done, what could have been said, what could have been changed, chained down thoughts.
my thoughts had begun rummaging around my mind, so often that I myself had to start moving to escape them. I had to do something, in respect to my old friend, and to feel some sort of closure.
"Mr. Carraway, sir, your stop has arrived."
I jumped abruptly. My mind was glazed over, and my eyes were burning as they focused on my driver. The man across from me turned around in his seat, looking back at me with a humorous, slightly concerned look.
"Mr. Carraway, I understand that the hour is late, but I must ask that you don't spend the entire evening here."
My cheeks burning, I gave the cab driver a weak smile as I tipped my fedora hat in a thank you. I grabbed my suitcase, and with an awkward jerk, stumbled out of the cab onto the sidewalks of Wall Street.
It had been hours of wandering dead ends and corners until I found Long Beach again. When I finally arrived, I began running towards the water to the sun set. I was not a man to get drunk, but earlier this day I had made an exception- it was my birthday. I had gotten a job in The suburbs of New York, and not having enough money for a plane ticket back, I decided to surprise myself- to "live a little". The sun had splashed colors of orange, pink and red, putting the island into a yellow hue. The sand floated in the air momentarily with each step I took, and the water glittered. In my half awkward, half drunken state, time had started moving around me again. I collapsed, sprawling into the sand completely. I was not sure at the moment, what reality was, if I had been dreaming. I did not know why I was looking up at the sky, with gawking, nostalgic eyes, I just knew for once, in many months, I felt at home.
I was like a poor man stuck in the past, his glazed over drunkenness easing the pains of reality.
Before I remembered what I was doing, I found myself standing at Gatsby's door step. In my hand, I held an invitation - the invitation he had given to me. It was my purpose for being here; to simply bury the letter in the sand, so that way, I believed, my memory of him could remain in west egg and not be a traveling reminder for me to carry.
However, I stood there, blankly.
His house was hung over me. A demanding "FOR SALE" sign in bright red letters stood in his overgrown lawn.
I looked over in his mailbox, for no apparent reason. It was empty, crawling with spiderwebs, just as how I imagined his coffin to be.
What had seemed so lively at one time, seemed so dead now. The thriving, contagious energy had left the carcass of its aftermath. It's dark windows did not seem to be inviting and warm; but instead, haunting and black, reminding me of how terrible reality could be.
And, it was because of this dream, that I was determined to stop by Gatsby's first. By the time I had arrived back in West egg, the sun was setting over the Long Beach that outstretched in front of Gatsby's house. Standing on his doorstep, and whispering an apology to Tom, I opened the door. To my surprise, the door was unlocked- I had forgotten to knock, and had opened the door out of pure impulse. The door swayed gently, as if it had been expecting my visit. With a deep breath, and a short glance back to the sun set behind me, I stepped out of the orangish glow of the beach into the walls of Gatsby's house.
Inside, in stark contrast to his grand yard- which was now nothing more than a pasture of overgrown grass- the inside was neatly kept. The crystal chandelier that hung above the main room filled its light through the bottom level of his house, hanging magically, just as it had when I had left to go to upstate New York. Appearing again inside his house was somewhat calming, yet I knew something lay beneath the silence that surrounded me. If it had not been for my dream I had had on the train ride here, I would have assumed that Gatsby had left somewhere, and perhaps he had just neglected the outside appearance of his mansion for reasons unknown to me. I, However, kept myself planted in his entranceway, my fingers on the edge of the door, my eyes searching with wonder. Though his house appeared as vacant, it still amazed me, just as it had on that one evening many nights ago.
"Gatsby?"
I had tried to shout, but my words slipped from my mouth in only a whisper. I took off my fedora and rested it on a table. With each step I took in the house, my mind seemed to be asking more questions. I had not notified the small details in his house before; the felt, long blue curtains, or the subtle designs on the cream colored walls around me. I saw the piano, sitting alone next to the cushioned, vanilla colored couch. Every intricate detail was isolated in the stillness of his mansion- everything, from the chandelier to the carpet, seemed to now flourish in color on a canvas of black and white.
"Gatsby? It's me, Nick, remember? We had planned a little something today-"
I walked into his kitchen. Absent mindedly, I opened the refrigerator. Plentiful amounts of food, clearly aging, sat on its shelves. Out of curiousity I checked inside his pantry, and discovered even more goods that had been left untouched.
The golden light that reflected in fragments from the chandelier slowly faded into a growing darkness. as I approached the winding staircase upwards, I noticed that this darkness grew less inviting. Letting out a nervous sigh, and setting my suitcase at the base of the stairs awkwardly, I hesitantly put my foot on the first step.
"Well, not exactly today, I know, but I had to come early. You know, because of my work and all, but also because Tom needs something concerning Daisy. She's my cousin, as you know, and in a city like this family is almost all you have. Gatsby, I tried calling you to tell you about it, but you never answered."
My voice clattered up the stairs, disappearing into the endless empty crevices of the walls. Putting each foot down made a short, crisp click into the mansion. As the bottom level became less and less visible, the few sounds I did make began to sound more and more intrusive.
Each step became more hesitant, and each breath I stole from the air became quicker. My heart restlessly, however, urged me to keep exploring. It kept urging me to dig deeper into the maze of stairs, away from the golden entryway that had seemed so welcoming. It was not so much the silence, But the stillness. The stillness isolated me, it seemed to make every motion I made seem threatening and dangerous. I was suddenly only a shadow on the wall, a lurking intruder shattering the atmosphere of his house. I was suddenly the intruder.
It was not a sound, but a smell that broke the silence.
It Was a lingering scent that gave me direction through the endless corners of upstairs; a light was cast in front of me, and I suddenly knew where to go.
A door to a room was cracked open, and light seeped through it on the wall perpendicular to me. I felt the impulse to call out for Gatsby's name, but my mouth had gone dry as words had escaped me. Approaching the door, I gently opened it.
"...Gatsby?"
A man sat in a chair, his face lit up by the glowing flames of the fireplace. HIs blank, empty stare ignored my presence. Coming close, I made out a pile of shirts sitting next to him. Following Gatsby's gaze, I saw that many of the shirts were burning inside the fireplace. Their distorted colors and fragile fabrics curled beneath the power of the flames.
Shocked, my eyes darted from him to the fireplace, and back again. Just as he was about to chunk in the last of the shirts- pure white one- I grabbed hold of it sternly. Gatsby, his grasp on the other end, held onto it stubbornly.
"What has gotten into you, Gatsby?"
Gatsby's eyes, as if in a trance, looked deeply into mine. The light from the fireplace burned against the left side of our faces.
"What is the meaning to this?"
"They're useless to me."
Gatsby pulled the shirt towards him, but I resisted. He pulled back on it harder, and a small tear in the seaming appeared.
"What are you doing? You can't just, just burn them like this. If they are useless, give them to someone, Gatsby, I just don't think-"
Gatsby tugged the shirt towards him, but this time, I leaned into it to keep the shirt from tearing any further. Gatsby seemed to have tuned me out, though his gaze burned into mine.
"Do you want to end up like Wilson? What about Daisy, what would she think of this?"
At the mention of Daisy, Gatsby's expression softened. His lips parted, and his eyes sparkled with life again as they moved across my face. Letting go of his grip on the shirt, I tossed it on his bed gently.
We went down stairs, and out in his garden. We strolled amongst the flowers and plants that bloomed at our feet, that were slowly growing into the worn out trail leading to the back of his patio. Though I was tempted to ask him questions, on how he was coping, on how he was feeling, I figured letting him ramble on would be best.
"I...I just had to. I just had to burn them. I was going stir crazy, Nick. Between waiting for a phone call from Daisy, and being alone in this huge mansion of mine, I felt like the shirts were reminding me of the failure I had become. They were chanting my name, mocking me, and I felt like burning them would finally silence those thoughts in my head."
He looked away into the trees. I only nodded in understanding.
That was the most I got out of Gatsby that cool afternoon. After that, He slowly began closing himself off towards me, receding into his shell. For the rest of the time I spent with him, we strolled through the hidden garden trail in silence.
. The trail stretched around his house, hidden away from the loudness of the back porch. Trees hung over us as the cool air made their fallen leaves stir before our feet. Nature's fragrance filled my nostrils. We passed by a large, rather isolated fountain that was placed far from the commotion of his parties in a small corner of his yard. Though we didn't go off of the trail to look at it, Gatsby briefly informed me that because of the fountains placement, it had been ignored from the beginning. Nature had grown over it, wrapping it in vines. Gatsby also told me how sometimes at night, when he did take the care to turn on the lights within the fountain, how butterflies would flutter around it- as if they were struck in awe by the fountain themselves. Gatsby knew this, because he came here, he had told me, to read often.
Gatsby led me out of the front gate as we emerged from the path.
"Hey, old sport-"
Gatsby touched my shoulder lightly as I approached my cab.
"-Look out for Daisy for me, alright?"
He gave me,- in what I had not seen for a long time-, a weak,tired smile.
By the time I responded, though, Gatsby had faded back into his own world, away from the reality he was running from. My simple, "alright", did not seem to get through to him as he turned to make his way back into his house. As much as I didn't want to leave Gatsby, I knew that I was far beyond late on meeting Tom. Without any hesitation, my cab drove away, fading into the orange slow of the sunset, away from Gatsby's tall, looming mansion.