Alternate Ending to “The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Illuminated by the moonlight, it casts a shadow upon me. His spectacles stare into my window as if He his watching over me. But what about Myrtle? My dearest Myrtle taken from me in seconds, although she was never really with me. She slept in my bed, but showed no emotion. She lived in my house, but her heart lived somewhere else. But she was still all I had.

The desolate valley I live in is about as flat as my life. It has taken everything I’ve ever had: my vitality, my love, and my dreams, replacing them with nightmares. This yellow car Tom speaks of is now my white whale, residing in the ocean of West Egg. I find it to be my duty to venture off into the land of the “new money” and seek out this Jay Gatsby, resident of the gothic mansion.

A cast iron fence surrounds his fortress that towers over me. Gatsby, a man of the past. His gothic mansion, a representation of twelfth century opus francigenum . This past living corresponds with his love life as well. Unable to reconcile the love he once obtained. Despite my hatred for this man, I feel his pain. But unlike me, he caused my pain, and now I must inflict him with the misery I will forever suffer with.

Lifting myself over the rusted fence, I drop down onto his vast landscape. The dew remains perched upon the blades of grass for the autumn heat is unable to fade it away. Leaves crumble under the weight of my feet as I approach the entrance of hell, for I know if I enter there will be no going back. The crystal doorknob turns with ease but I halted half-turn. A door slams shut along the backside of the house. Peering through the window I see one of Gatsby’s butlers carry an empty glass into the house. I then hear the harmonic melody of jazz flow through the air, ruffling the leaves spread across the lawn.

Trudging alongside the house my legs begin to fill with lead. The sweat on my palms now hang off my finger tips as I anticipate the confrontation I await. The breeze of the jazz picks up as I enter the storm. A steady flow of water is now heard as I turn the corner to see the thing I dread most. A man, no older than his thirties, is found floating on the surface of the water. This is Jay Gatsby, this is my white whale.

“He murdered her.” I grumbled.

Gatsby peers in my direction, only to see my loathsome figure slouching on the side of his house. “George Wilson. What brings you here?”

“Damnit Gatsby! Don’t take me as a fool!” I could not constrain my rage.

“What is the meaning of this, old sport?” His voice lowered into a more serious tone.

“This is not a time to play stupid Gatsby. Be straight with me. Why did you do it?” My hatred was then accompanied with sorrow.

Gatsby released a sigh. “It was not me… But I will admit you find yourself here due to my inevitable love.” His eyes then glance out into the distance, into East Egg.

Despite my frenzied state, he appears to remain calm.

“Tell me what happened.”

“It was an accident, George. You don’t want to hear it.” His voice was drowning in sincerity, but I could not supply him with pity.

“God damnit Gatsby! Don’t bullshit me!” Lifted out of my belt, I now find myself gripping the cold steel of a Colt .45. Steadily moving towards Gatsby, I found the breeze has become non-existent for I have now entered the eye of the storm. I glanced down to see myself standing at the edge of the pool, the slim barrel of the gun is reflected in the water. Leveling the gun with my shoulder, I find myself in tunnel vision, zeroed in on Gatsby.

“You know you don’t want to do this, old sport. I too have a true love.” He glances out at East Egg again.

“That was a long time ago.” I began to feel pity for the man. As I could see he longed for his true love as I do for mine now.

“No! My love still resides in my heart as it does in hers! Daisy turns to me and finds comfort.” Gatsby’s eyes narrowed. “Yet you did not find Myrtle turning to you, did you old sport? At the end of the day her head may have rested on your pillow, but her back rested on Tom’s bed.”

I felt my stomach drop, weighing me down. My hands gripped the handle of the gun as I felt the ridges press into my skin. The trigger began to give in to the influence of my finger. But then Gatsby said something I did not expect, he let go.

In one last breath of air, Gatsby let out his last three words, but it did not seem as if he were speaking to me. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. Back in East Egg. “Well, good-by.”

Everything then seemed to drift away at that moment for I knew it was over. My eye lids weighed down on me, but I still found myself staring in disbelief with what I was about to do. With my last ounce of strength I tightened my finger around the trigger as I let go too.

“Yippee-ki-yay mother [explicit]!” The bullet pierced through the sound barrier and into the heart of Gatsby, shattering his only dream.

Flocks of birds fled from the trees as fluently as the blood drained out of Gatsby. His lifeless body drifted in the pool. A calm then fell over me as I watched the blood disperse into the water, flowing from Gatsby’s body on the smallest of waves to the edge of the pool, adjacent to my feet. The reflection of the gun became clouded, but I felt its presence linger just below my jaw. I then experienced an overwhelming sense of d©j vu.