Of Gray Cigars and Green Pearls
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Prologue
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The house was dark, almost lifeless. Its large windows mirrored nothing but the gray, outside world- as its eyes had nothing left to do but become blind and fade away over time. With wooden plasters that hung limply by nails over the many mouths and noses and eyes of the creature, it seemed much more like an injured animal- too dead to take care of itself. It limped, too, in slow, agonizing pain, with gashes along its sides that showed guts made of crumbling bones made of brick and rotting intestines laced in once fine white, farther inside. Dust became its deteriorating blood that puffed out with every gust or little breeze- its heart beating, gushing, waiting for revival- but at a loss with wounds too deep to be healed.
This had been the house- the one that belonged to the infamous man that was still known as the "man that used to hold the biggest parties in New York". He hadn't ever had to do anything. Order the food, call for the band, pay, pay, pay. What did it matter? His shady dealings would forever remain a mystery. It was an odd thought, playing with your mind like the wind did with the overgrown, yellowing palm trees surrounding the house, their necks winding sideways with every passing year- so much that the tips of the leaves skimmed the broken house's nearly un-shingled roof.
Nature may have taken its course on the once perfectly trimmed green lawn, leaving it overgrown with fleshy weeds and patches of bald spots, but the destruction of the house was half man-made. It was an unfathomable forthcoming- and yet, it was such a probability that maybe I should have realized it sooner.
There was no party to go to anymore on Saturday nights, nowhere to swoon young girls into strong arms, or get unutterably drunk so that the host's many chauffeurs would have to give them rides home- which would probably take a while since the guests were so drunk they wouldn't be able to recall where they lived. No, these past memories and once present thought angered past guests or merely intrigued the younger fans, when they were too naïve too realize that there host wasn't not holding back on them, but the fact that he just wasn't coming back.
But that was what was so great about his parties. Glamour lasted night long, and reality was just a simple, faded memory in the background. What did these guests have anything to worry about? They were being fed and housed for free. That was the innocence of it, the dream-like quality of it all, of the lavender rooms that were bathed in sunlight or crystallized light of the overhanging chandeliers. Jordan's lavender pearls belonged here, Daisy's white dress and golden hair had every reason to reside. And not anywhere else…
My bungalow was to the side, dirty and musty and brown. Weeds were nearly as tall as the roof. My Finn had gone after I had left five years ago, leaving the little shack abandoned as well. But the thing was: my old house looked better than Gatsby's. It had withstood. We had both taken a beating, but I had been the one to leave, to forget. His was dilapidated. His dream hadn't lasted. I wasn't so sure if the lavender rooms were lavender anymore- maybe it had morphed into this dying yellow from the sticking dust and mold and constant, harsh sunlight coming in from the patchy roof and dirty windows.
West Egg hadn't survived as everyone hoped. It had become a nuisance, a place of constant reminders of a past phase of life, gone forever. Large mansions all around were being sold- nearly begging to be taken, and many here favored the city life more. The ashen gray suits and yellow taxi cabs... Reality at its best proximity- hushing everything else to remain in the background. It rose from the pummeling smoke of modern life, becoming a nebulous glaze over the rising, orange sun and bright blue sky…
I tried going into Gatsby's mansion, to get a look inside the great beast, but things above were falling left and right, threatening to hit me over the head with a piece of loose brick or dangling crystal piece of chandelier or splintered plywood. Angry past guests or even the younger crowd( still unbeknownst to them that the host didn't reside there any longer for permanent-like purposes) hadn't taken much of a liking to the place, leaving the furniture in shambles, the walls torn of once graceful wallpaper, mirrors shattered, and finely crafted wooden railings derailed of all purpose.
The breeze poured through the openings -one of which being from where I had entered- rifling for the life lost, for the dried blood spurting methodically like the chime of a grandfather clock striking twelve- until the end of the minute moment dissipated into the next day, and the life disappeared, carrying along on the wind's wings and hoping to someday return.
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AU: After reading the Great Gatsby in -surprise-surprise- English class, I couldn't help but write a continuation to the story. I could never imitate Fitzgerald's incredible writing style or his use of symbolism, but as you can see, I'm doing my best to continue- not only in the continuation of the color symbols he used, but in other types as well. So, for now this is just the prologue. I'll try and get back with the first chapter as soon as I can. Hope y'all liked.