Jay Gatsby wished there was someone who could save him the trouble.
The summer was turning into autumn, and as the leaves on the trees slowly bled out and fell, so did Gatsby's hopes. He was almost disappointed when he woke up after the day he spent in the pool to find that the Buchanans had fled from East Egg and to discover that he had no desire of ever seeing Daisy again. But really, how long can a man hold on to the notion of a woman? Gatsby liked to think he set a record for that.
But after Daisy was gone and he had squandered a few days in empty freedom, he realized that there was no point in living without his idol. Sure, he didn't need her anymore, but perhaps that was the universe's subtle attempt at sending him a message.
Gatsby, your days are numbered.
So they were.
And now he came to this annoying problem. Jay Gatsby didn't mind getting his hands dirty-he was rich, so he had done plenty of that-but it was the uncomfortable prospect of staining them with his own blood that made his stomach curl.
Hanging was out of the option. He had already tried that, in his less prosperous days, when he would sink into one of his heavy and fleeting fits of depression and would stand on a chair for hours with white linen around his neck, commanding his unbudging foot to kick the back of the chair. Kick the back of the chair, dammit, you oaf. What do you have worth living for? When will things ever get better?
Things did get better, but now Gatsby didn't want them to get better.
He considered shooting himself, how quick it would be, how his blood would spatter the wall behind his head in an impudent good riddance to the world, but in the end decided that it would be too quick and that it seemed a little uncouth to stick a pistol in his mouth. Besides, Gatsby wanted his death to be the climax of his life.
He wished there was someone who could save him the trouble.
There had been a small chance Tom Buchanan could have tipped off the husband of his dead mistress, but the accident had been nearly a week ago and Gatsby was tired of waiting.
The man Myrtle Wilson was married to was not named George. In fact, his name wasn't even important enough to be remembered in the grand scheme of things. He was an on-and-off alcoholic, and Myrtle was much happier cheating on him with Tom than she would had she been married to George.
Wait.
Who was this George, anyways? Gatsby supposed it was the universe murmuring in his ear again.
Myrtle's husband was both drunk and lucid enough not to believe in redemption. He went to church often enough to know that God judged him in his small, soot-covered garage from above, not from the eyes of an optometrist advertisement. He grieved for his wife's death, then drowned his grief and speculations of her loyalty in whiskey.
Someone had once told Jay Gatsby to take his fate into his own hands, and as much as he wished there was someone else to save him the trouble, he had learned long ago that if a man wanted something done, he would have to do it himself.
And so he told Klipspringer to mind the mansion for an afternoon, old sport and took his motor boat and steered it out into the bay, toward the green light that was still miraculously blinking. He cut the motor in the middle of the water and stood in his boat, staring at the light, staring at the light until his eyes were green and his mind was green and his heart was green. It was an empty green, a greedy green, the green of money and sickness, and the universe seemed to be screaming at him through the green.
Gatsby reached for the rusted antique anchor he brought with him (it was a relic from the Civil War) and tied it around his waist. Then he let out his breath as he turned away from the green light and dove into the murky water.
It was rejuvenating as he sank. It felt as if he was being born anew.
fin.