A heavy drizzle pattered heavily on the ground, creating an endless din. At a cemetery, about three vehicles pulled up, and out stepped a minister, a young man around the age of thirty, and an old man, clutching his coat to his wrinkled body, all soaked to the bone. A few servants arrived shortly after, along with a single postman. They all met up at a freshly dug grave, the ground clearly recently disturbed. An owl-eyed man sludged towards them, splashing in the growing puddles.
Just outside the gates underneath an old oak tree, a branch snapped, grabbing the attention of the small, solemn crowd. The young man took a step away from the gathering, curiosity attempting to drag him towards the noise. He looked out near the gates with a puzzled expression, shook his head, and turned back to the others. The minister started talking, the words being swallowed up in the tinkling of the rain. Afterwards, comments were said quietly, some murmuring here and there, and the group shuffled back to their cars, and slowly drove away.
When there wasn't a sign of them anymore, and the vehicles disappeared into the distance, another young man stepped out from behind the oak, the source of the momentary disturbance. He squinted at the road, checking for any unexpected presences, and seeing none, made his way to the new grave. He was a sophisticated-looking man, with a new black hat, bought just for this occasion, sitting atop his neatly combed-back dark hair. A heavy coat with silk lining the inside and adorned with silver buttons kept the steadily growing rain out. Shiny black dress shoes squeaked as they made their way to their destination.
The young man took out a single flower from the inside of his coat, slightly bent from the cramped space. It was an orange marigold, known by some as the flower of the dead. The man twirled it between his finger and thumb, somehow amused by his own childish action. He stopped, paused, and then bent down, neatly placing the flower in front of the gravestone marked "Jay Gatsby."
He straightened back up, and raised his right hand, reaching for his hat. He grabbed the side of it, and lowered it, letting his head get soaked in the downpour. He dipped his head ever so slightly in respect. When he looked up again, he smirked half-heartedly, as if some ironic thought had popped into his head.
Thunder softly rumbled off in the distance, and the man shook his head, sending droplets flying from his hair, and a solemn expression adorned his face.
"Rest is peace, 'old sport,' wherever you are...you ol' bastard you… Came to say 'hello.'" The man took a laced handkerchief out and wiped the rain water that was running off his nose and chin. He put his hat back on his head finally, though it did little good now. A small, harsh chuckle escaped his lips.
"Told you your imprudent fantasies would be the death of you," he muttered, "Told you time after time, but 'older brother knows best…knows what to do,'"
He scoffed at the gravestone, tipped his hat a bit, and stood silently, his mind wandering off into the past, on a poor farm: a rebellious brother running away...right before getting an internship, which, since he wasn't there, was then given to a certain younger sibling, who found abundant success by working with-
"Mister Joseph, sir," a chauffeur appeared just behind him, the sound of his entrance masked by the seemingly never-ending rain. He nodded towards the gates and tapped his wrist. The young man-Joseph Gatz- led the way outside the dreary graveyard, past the old oak, to a limousine discreetly parked a block away. As the chauffer started the car, Joseph looked out the window wordlessly.
"You alright, sir?" the chauffeur asked, noticing the silence. Joseph looked up.
"Fine, just…fine…" he unenthusiastically said, "Now, then! Let's take a look at this 'monster house' that Jimmy left behind, shall we?"
The limousine took off.