A/N: I do not own The Great Gatsby or any of its characters. They belong to the mighty writer, Fitzgerald who today is hailed as one of the US Nation's greatest writers of all time. I reread Gatsby recently and felt the need to pen this. I hope you enjoy, and please review.
Numb
TheSilentPen
His heart would forever remain heavy with the words that he'd heard his life, his only reason for existence speak so brokenly that day in New York.
The words that tore his heart asunder and made him wish he'd die.
"I did love him once—but I loved you too."
And at that statement, he remembered how his heart shattered so beautifully after being held together with cheap bits of hope plastered on the cracks.
"You loved me too?"
He was victimized by the one thing he wanted above all others.
The one thing… the one person that he loved so much was the only thing his endless wealth could not bring to him.
It would not sate the desire, the thirst that he had edged on his tongue since he'd left her in Louisville those many melancholy years ago.
His money had brought him nothing. Nothing except her material love, not her superficial heart. Not the love of the woman he once thought had been the only one to comprehend the intricate workings of his mind.
It was his curse, his damnation for all the things he'd done to achieve his wealth.
He'd have a pretty doll to look at, to yearn and long for. But never the emotional companion he'd dreamt of for so many years as he struggled to surmount every obstacle.
All for her.
'But that doesn't matter anymore,' he thought to himself numbly as he dropped his robes down from his shoulders, losing the sight of the cruel world as he closed his eyes.
'Nothing does.'
And with that, he leapt into the mind-numbingly cold waters of his pool, savoring the silence that it brought to his sick mind.
And he could be alone in himself here. Focus on taking the remains of his shattered heart, and maybe, just maybe, starting to rebuild it once more.
In a way that would forever excise Daisy Buchanan's parasitic presence from his bosom.
And so he lingered, letting the waves of gentle water crash over him again and again, focusing on the nothingness around him. Letting himself be, once more, that man which Daisy Buchanan held no manner in swaying.
For a moment, he was James Gatz, not the fabulously wealthy, lonely, and loathed Jay Gatsby.
And it brought him peace.
He surfaced from the water, called back by the necessities of breathing. Of responsibilities.
And once again the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He was once more Atlas, shouldering the weight of the world on his tired shoulders, begging for rest.
Gatsby pulled himself from the water, grabbing the white of his robe and gritting his teeth tightly. His hands tightened on the ties and shook under the pressure at which he applied.
So engrossed in his self-loathing, his mountain of responsibilities, was Gatsby, that he never noticed the blue eyed, plain dressed man standing naught but a few paces behind him.
He was reluctant, this man, shaking with the weight of his decision. In his scrawny, dirt greased hand he pointed a pistol at the center of Gatsby's back as tears tracked through the grime and settled on the oil stained front of his once pure white shirt.
This man, this fabulously wealthy young man had stolen his only earthly possession from him.
His wife was his gemstone, his pride, his wealth…
Nothing else, not even his business, mattered more to him than his wife…
Even if she had lost faith in his abilities as a husband.
Yet he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger on this man, this Jay Gatsby.
Because something in the way that the man held himself, the sadness that seemed to linger prominently in shoulders that should have been broad… in a man that let out an aura so defeated like his own.
There was something that reminded him disturbingly of himself.
Yet Wilson saw in his mind's eye the mangled, broken marionette that had once been his wife. The china-like face, the clean curls, the carefully tailored dress, smeared and battered as though some child had thrown her carelessly to the side with no manner of caring.
And he knew that he had to pull the trigger to satisfy his thirst for justice.
He squeezed his finger across the trigger, feeling the recoil of the gun start.
Gatsby felt the bullet pierce his back, sending shards of pain radiating throughout his entire being. Felt the warmth of crimson fluid flowing in a steady stream with every labored pump of his tired heart.
His life was over…
It had no meaning.
As he fell backwards, he saw the crimson fluid fall in mid air, shining like wicked rubies in the sun. The liquid mocked him, screamed 'sinner! failure!' across the autumn air.
Yet he could have cared less. The calmness that was coming over him in lazy droves had long since numbed his wounds, had long since caused him to cease caring about anything.
Even his heart seemed to numb.
So Jay Gatsby closed his eyes, accepting death.
But not before uttering one last word.
One last worldly care.
It fell weakly from his mouth as he fell backwards into the lull of stained water, weary of life.
"…Daisy."
And so, Jay Gatsby expired.