"Charles, make sure that the car isn't to be taken out under any circumstances."

"Very well, Mr. Gatsby. Would you like help with that mattress?" I shook my head and dismissed him, trudging through the fallen autumn leaves, amidst the yellow trees and toward the pool. The day was blithe, but my heart felt heavy, my footsteps slow, and my movements languid and sluggish. The mattress I shouldered almost felt like a burden to me. Perhaps I was just in no condition to do anything today. I shifted again to reposition it.

The sun-dappled pool, like everything else in the scenery, glistened, with patches of light scattered about the flat water. I kicked off my bathing shoes and let the mattress float in the pool, disturbing the calm of the water. As I laid on my back against the mattress, my mind began drifting from reality, the gentle, undulating waves moving me in a lulling motion. I've done a good amount of ruminating, but none such as this. Today seemed different, almost empty. Even the sky was a vacant, pale blue. My eyelids felt heavy, and my thoughts wandered to Daisy. Sweet, frightened, Daisy. I recalled the incident clearly. The blinding white flash of the rear light, the shock, and the hasty getaway still haunted me. The knowledge of having killing a woman did not perturb me so much as the knowledge of Daisy's suffering did. After all, my hands hadn't been on the wheel during the moment of the accident. I wondered what Daisy was going to do after the mess. I hadn't seen her since last night, but she deserved time to recover. An influx of questions inundated me: Would Daisy visit me today? Would we discuss the car accident? What was she doing now? Was Tom Buchanan with her?

The sound of leaves crunching disrupted my thoughts. There was a dead silence in the air, and I grew uneasy. No one should be here, but I was instantly filled with suspicion. I listened again. The sound of a gun clicked. The muscles in my chest contracted in sudden panic. The only sensible thing to do was to get out of the water. I looked toward the ledge of the p-

"The Great Gatsby."

It was Wilson speaking. I guessed just as much. His face was contorted with hate and hurt. Here was the man staring into the eyes of one whom he believed to have killed his wife. My eyes. He stood near the edge of the pool, the barrel of his gun pointing directly at me. His voice was steady, but the hand holding the gun trembled.

"Not so great now, I presume? How did it feel like, running over my wife?" Now his voice trembled. I sat up opposite him, careful not to fall off the mattress and into the water. The least I could do in the face of death was to retain an ounce of dignity. Slowly, I stretched my arm out, the same way I did toward my green light. However, there was no light but the inevitable prospect of death in front of very own eyes.

I swallowed, "Come on now, put the gun down, old s-"

"Don't call me old sport!" Wilson shouted. The gun in his hand was shaking violently. It would be a terrible lie to say that I wasn't in the least bit frightened.

"So? Why did you do it? Why couldn't you have turned yourself over to the authorities? Be the man you always appear to be? Perfect. Untarnished. They say that you've killed a man; I've heard the rumors. But no, you've killed a woman now! My wife!" Wilson barked out a laugh. Anyone would have said he was mad.

"I didn't mean to." I said quietly, in hopes that my voice would not give my lie away. Whatever happened, Daisy would not be mentioned in this conversation.

"I can't...I can no longer contain myself..." Wilson's voice cracked. This was it.

Everything I've worked for, my whole life, came down to this. Everything for Daisy. Had it been worth it? Yes. What of Nick? He was the best man I ever knew; that old sport.

"...God sees everything. He sees everything...but God, just give me this."

Good bye Nick, old sport. Good bye D-