The Great Gatsby: A Love Divided
Written By: F. Scott Fitzgerald
Adaptation By: E. Isaiah Hoffman
Author's Notes: We read "The Great Gatsby" in English class and for a project, I had to write an alternate ending for the book. Though I believe that the ending for this book was as perfect as perfect can get, I had to do this, so I figured I would post it on here. I hope that you like it! This is mostly from Gatsby's perspective, rather than Nick's...
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After Nick left, Gatsby wandered through the house. As he strolled from room to room, he couldn't help but reminisce. Gatsby remembered the party, the only one that mattered, at least. It had been even more crowded than usual. Nick Carroway had come, along with Jordan Baker. Those two had been pivotal to the mixture of jubilation and fear that now conspired within Gatsby's soul. Gatsby sighed and rubbed a hand through his tousled black hair.
He couldn't get Nick's last words out of his head: "Your worth the whole damn lot of them."
That meant a lot to Gatsby. No one had ever really complimented him before. Sure, everyone had thanked him for his parties - at least those who knew who he was - and for showing them around or taking them to dinner, but no one had genuinely complimented him.
As he remembered, his eyes became glassy and several hot tears trailed down his cheeks, dripping onto his flaming pink suit. Four large, wet circles now marked his suit jacket, and he tried to wipe them off. It was futile.
Walking into the dining room, thoughts of Daisy floated into his mind.
"Daisy... Daisy... How I love to love my Daisy..." Gatsby murmured aloud and hauntingly.
His hollow, eerie voice echoed throughout the room, scaring him. Gatsby jumped, almost literally, out of his skin and knocked over the picture of Dan Cody on his mantle. The picture fell through the air like a feather and then smashed onto the wood floor. A jarring crash broke the silence and shards of glass flew in all directions. One piece clinked off of the table and imbedded itself into Gatsby's cheek.
He winced and let loose a sharp "Ouch!" Gatsby plucked it out with his forefingers and examined it. The shard was splashed with blood, his blood, and quite small. He set it on the table and went into the kitchen to grab a broom.
After a few minutes, the broken glass was in the garbage and the picture - sans glass casing - back on the mantle.
Gatsby's fingers delicately touched the front of the picture, careful not to cut himself again.
"Now dead. Just like the rest of them." Gatsby muttered bitterly.
With tears still leaking from his eyes, he stepped into the hall. Through the window, the tall grass waved farewell in the wind. Gatsby sighed again and carefully walked up the winding stairs to his bedroom. The finely polished rail was smooth underneath his lingering hand, as he walked up step by step. Memories flooded in, making him gasp and smile at the same time.
In his elegant bedroom, with its bed and fluffed up pillows, and its neatly drawn curtains, Gatsby grabbed his bathing suit and in no time was changed and ready for the pool. He lay the pink suit across the bed and noted that the wet spots were now almost completely dried up.
Sprinting down the stairs, Gatsby, graceful as a dancer, jumped into the shimmering crystalline water, soaking the towel laying keenly on the lawn chair adjacent to the pool.
As the sun sank below the horizon forming all shades of yellow and red and purple across the sky like a painting, Wilson was creeping through the lush foliage that surrounded the mansion.
Just as Wilson was brushing his way through the hedge, Gatsby remembered that he had never gotten a call from Nick. He stopped doing backstrokes and wondered what he was doing at noon.
"Ah! I must have been chatting with Wolfsheim," he cried out, startling Wilson, who crept back. "Perhaps I shall call him now."
Gatsby swam over to the edge of the pool and climbed out. He dried himself off with the soaking towel, which didn't really dry him off at all. In the distance, he heard a car pull up, but thought nothing of it as he walked over to where the house was.
Not far off, Wilson was steadying his nerves, trying to force his hand to stay still. His finger was on the trigger, but his aim was off. Steady now, he thought to himself.
A shrill cry broke the uneasy silence.
Daisy ran up the drive right towards Gatsby. That was when all havoc let loose.
"Gatsby!" she cried, her arms open wide, reminiscent of Gatsby opening his arms to the green light so long ago.
"Daisy!" he answered.
A shot cut them off, and Daisy fell, a smoking hole in her chest.
Gatsby turned to the perpetrator, a wave of sickly anger and fear and surprise on his face.
"What have you done?!" he screamed.
Wilson answered in a shaky, husky voice. "I just killed Gatsby," and leveled the gun to his head, and blew his mind out.
Standing in disbelief, and having not heard a word that the killer had spoken, Gatsby knelt by Daisy. He held her close in his arms and wept bitterly.
"Daisy... Daisy..." he moaned over and over, half hysterical.
Daisy's face was pale, the colour having drained out when the bullet hit. She was feeling no pain, her whole body was becoming numb. It spread from the bullet wound outward.
Gatsby cradled her dying body, muttering maniacally. She coughed hollowly and struggled for words. Her breath was coming in short rasps, but her words were clear.
"My... my love. I didn't... didn't mean..."
Gatsby shushed her.
She didn't notice. "I didn't want to... to leave you... I... I..." She never finished her sentence. The flames in her eyes had died out, they were still now, and forever would be.
---
When I finally arrived, Gatsby was sitting alone in his dining room. His hands were clasped together in his lap, and his head was down. He was pale and shaking slightly. I layed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and he brushed it off.
"I'm sorry, Gatsby," was all I could manage to say. I was speechless. We all were.
"I should have seen it coming, old sport. I could have saved her," he muttered frantically. "If only I had seen it."
"Don't worry yourself down that road, Gatsby. It won't help."
"But we could be far away from here if only... if only..." he looked up at me looking for some sign of agreement. I couldn't meet his gaze.
Instead I said matter-of-factly, "Tom is gone. Left as soon as he heard." I had thought that Tom would storm up here and rip Gatsby's head from its body, but I guess he cared for Daisy so much that he just couldn't. Gatsby just looked down at his feet. I pitied him, I really did. Who wouldn't?
"It's not right what's happened to you," I said flatly.
"I know. Nothing is fair, old sport," he replied with lackluster.
"So what will you do," I swallowed, "after the funeral?"
Gatsby sighed and wringed his hands. "I can't stay here. Too many memories."
I just smiled wanly and turned away.
---
The funeral procession was short and quick. Few came because the time between her grisly death and the actual funeral was so short. Throughout the procession, Gatsby kept his head down, save for a few quick times that he looked up with a blank stare. It was the last time I ever saw the great Gatsby.