(TPOV)
Five years has gone by since Gatsby's death. Five years of rebuilding trust, reopening closed boundaries, reliving each year with the same green resonance, the same pain replaying within my mind. Five years of guilt; five years of new and old passion, mingling then dissipating with the heat of black fire, lighting a starless, blue sky.
I proceeded with my yearly ritual – now the fifth anniversary that marked this black day. Every year, on this particular day of a hot August morning, I would stroll leisurely toward the West Egg Cemetery, carrying with me a bouquet of freshly picked daisies. Searching for her grave, I whistled the tune of "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak; the lyrics sang themselves in my mind.
. . . What a wicked game to play to make me feel this way
What a wicked thing to do to let me dream of you
What a wicked thing to say you never felt this way
What a wicked thing to do to make me dream of you . . .
Again and again, the chorus replayed, singing itself until the sun began to rise, casting shadows of green light over the gray earth, elongating the silhouetted tombstones. I continued to walk.
As I walked, I thought about Daisy – how I betrayed her, and how she betrayed me. My hand involuntarily tightened around the bouquet of daisies as images of Gatsby filled my head.
We had moved West after the incident, attempting to live in the land of our marriage. Attempting to forget the past. It didn't work out so well. You can't forget the past. You can't repeat the past. What's done is done, and cannot be undone . . . or something like that. I was never a big fan of Shakespeare, yet this line from Macbeth managed to file itself away within my memory. What's done cannot be undone . . .
Eventually, it became too much for Daisy and we moved back to West Egg. Back to our previous home, across from Nick; across from Gatsby.
So here we lived, seeing his house every day, seeing our past every day. For some reason, the pain of remembering was easier than the pain of forgetting. Living within view of Gatsby's house was easier than living without it. Just another one of those strange things, like the sun getting cooler every year . . . or was it getting hotter? Only time would be able to tell.
My short walk abruptly came to an end, as her grave lay before me. Five years. Five years of memories, five years of escorting daisies to this very spot. Five years of tears, watering the gray earth, causing her grave to erupt with sprouting, green weeds; they were never removed. Sometimes, I would fall onto my hands and knees, picking the green weeds out of her grave as the tears spilled over the rims of my eyes. Everything would become a green blur, would look as if I were under water. The tears would flow, endlessly flow, staining the crisp, white suit I wore only for this day. Daisy's seen it in my closet, but has never seen me wear it. She never will.
Slowly, I began to pick the daisies out from the bouquet, one by one dropping them upon her grave.
--
. . . The God Damn coward! . . . He didn't even stop his car. . . .
--
I shook my head, clearing it of the disastrous memory.
Once the last of the daisies were discarded into a chaotic pile, I reached for my matches, pulling them out of the secure haven that was my pocket.
I was about to light the flowers when something caught my eye.
A bitch in heat, whimpering with pleasure as her mongrel dog made love to her. The act was so carnal, so primitive. But what else could you expect? After all, a dog is a dog is a dog. Nothing more, nothing less. The bitch was without a collar, I noticed.
Ignoring their venereal act, I proceeded with my nostalgic ritual.
Dropping the match onto the flowers, I watched as the orange flames slowly engulfed the white daisies. But the daisies weren't white anymore, no – they were charred and black. Black like a funeral. Black like a curse. Black like the bitch across from me, panting as the dogs came to their ritualistic end.
I reminisced . . .
--
. . . "I want to get one of those dogs," she said earnestly. "I want to get one for the apartment. They're nice to have – a dog" . . .
. . . "I want to see you," I said intently . . .
. . . "I thought he knew something about breeding but he wasn't fit to lick my shoe." . . .
. . . "Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!" . . .
--
"Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!" I hadn't realized that I'd been whispering her name aloud this entire time.
Daisy . . . Daisy . . . Daisy . . .
"Tom?"
As if I'd resurrected it, Daisy's voice echoed from behind me, filled with worry, love, and regret.
"Tom, what are you doing?" I heard her delicate footsteps advancing toward me.
Ignoring her, I kept my eyes on the daisies, now reduced to nothing more than ashes. Black ashes, singed into the earth.
"Tom, I followed you. I had to follow you!" She was hysterical now – I could hear the tears in her voice.
--
. . . "Her voice is full of money," . . .
--
"Tom?" she cautiously lay her hand on my shoulder, the tenderness in that touch emphasizing her pain.
We both waited in silence.
"Myrtle was buried here, you know? Myrtle Wilson. Five years ago. The accident . . . five years ago." I could feel the tears building up behind my eyes once again, blinding me with their watery texture.
"Let's go home, Tom. Let's just go home. Please." She sounded so desperate.
I couldn't hurt her again. She was all I had left. I couldn't lose another part of my life.
I still loved Daisy.
Nodding my head, I took her hand, leading Daisy away from Myrtle's grave, our backs turned to the rising sun.
The ritual was broken.
Five years.
Now it was over, finally over. I hadn't completed the ritual – I hadn't buried the flowers.
Daisy and I walked out of the cemetery, leaving the ashes of the once white flowers scattered upon Myrtle's grave, with nothing but the wind to disperse them through the green weeds.