!Contains major spoilers, DO NOT read this if you haven't read the book!

So this is something I wrote for my English class after we finished reading The Great Gatsby. I wrote it as if it were going to be inserted into the story right before the last section of the book, directly after Nick finishes talking about meeting Tom outside a jewelry store on 5th avenue. The Great Gatsby isn't something I would normally think of writing fanfiction for, but I figured since I already had it done I might as well publish it.

R&R -J

I never again heard from Tom after that incident outside of the jewelry store. This is a fact that I am glad of, I don't think the thin veil over my disgust at his presence could have held up to another meeting. However, six months after Gatsby's death, I did hear from Daisy.

It was a funny thing to read the name Buchanan once again, particularly in the return address of a letter. I had thought that if I were ever going to see it again it would almost certainly be in some tabloid article describing some further expression of their prodigality. I had certainly not expected them to contact me. I was back home in the west by then. I had intended to leave all traces of eastern corruption behind me, but it seemed it was set on following me for at least one moment longer. When I first received the letter, I briefly contemplated tearing it upon the spot, thinking immediately that it was from Tom. I halted, however, since it seemed only fit to ascertain the author of this letter, remembering that there was more than one person who held the surname Buchanan. Carefully unfolding the perfumed paper, I was actually unsurprised to find that it was from Daisy. It seemed only fitting that she would feel some need to contact me. Daisy couldn't have herself disliked by anyone, and since I had made no move to contact her, what could she assume but that I disliked her. I felt myself imagining the golden effervescence of her voice as I began to read.

Dear Nick,

It's me, Daisy. I know that I have no right to contact you like this, not after everything, but the events of that last night and day before Tom and I left weigh so heavily on me. For weeks I could do nothing but lie in bed, wan and miserable. Not even my little daughter's smile could pull me from my vacuous abyss of depression. I had nowhere to turn. I couldn't confide in Tom, I don't know what he would do if he knew what really happened that night…what happened to that poor woman. Why, oh why would she run into the street like that, yelling as if she knew me? Oh Nick, please don't hate me when I tell you this, or hate me if you want; you owe me no favors, I never did anything for you. I just need someone else living to know what truly happened. I need to put these events into words and be able to think that somewhere someone will read those words and know how I suffer—know that I suffer at all. You don't have to write me back after I tell you these hateful, sinful words, please just let me imagine that you will forgive me.

At this moment I was struck with the realization that Daisy couldn't have known that Gatsby had told me that she was the one who had driven the 'death car' that had killed Myrtle Wilson. I could only picture how her luminous vitality might have dimmed under the menacing reality of murder.

My hand shakes as I write these next words, but I know I must get them out. I was driving Jay's car, I was the one who killed that woman. I can't imagine what you must think of me right now. Please understand, I wasn't myself when I was driving that night. I shouldn't have been driving at all, but I was and that woman, Myrtle Wilson they called her in the papers, ran out into the street, right in front of me. I was going to swerve and hit another car parked on the side of the road, but I couldn't do it. That might have killed me and Jay! I wasn't brave enough to risk our lives. I turned back and just hoped that the poor woman wouldn't be too badly injured. I never thought it would kill her. I cannot ask you enough to understand that I was not of murderous intent that night. I was scared and confused and barely in control of my actions. Tears have begun to flow as I write this, as bitter on my tongue as the hate in my heart for the terrible act I committed, and the terrible acts that were brought on by that one. I know that Jay is dead, murdered by Myrtle Wilson's husband who then took his own life. Three people who have died because of me, a holocaust because of one moment of fear on my part. Oh Nick, can you see? Can you see how I've suffered?

I could certainly see that she had suffered, but that made me no more sympathetic to her suffering. All people must suffer; the only pity I could possibly find to afford Daisy was pity for the fact that she was forced to suffer in oppressive bursts placed in a life of ease. She had not lived a life that acclimated her to struggle; in experiencing any level of it she withered like the delicate blossom she was.

I fear that I can do no more to convince you that I am truly sorry for my crime, and so I will not try. I thank you if you have continued to read this letter to this point; after all I have no means to force you to do so.

There is another topic that I feel I must address at this time. I suppose you must be wondering why Tom and I left so suddenly and where we went. I afraid I do not know why Tom felt that we should leave so suddenly. I believe that it was to protect me from anything that might happen in the wake of that Myrtle Wilson's death, though he only knew that I was present during said death, not the cause of it. Tom still won't talk about why he wanted to leave. I can however tell you where we have gone, though I ask that you do not try to try to visit us. Tom has no interest in ever speaking to you ever since that day you refused to shake his hand. Yes, he told me about that. I must say it was a strange thing for you to do, but I suppose I can understand. You never really did like him, and he never really did like you. In any case, Tom and I have come to our second home in upstate New York. It is lovely here, but I miss having other people around us. There are no other houses around this one for miles; I doubt anyone will ever run into us here.

I doubted it as well, but did not doubt that this was exactly why Tom had chosen such a location.

I'm afraid I don't have much to tell about what it is like here. I have not seen much of the house or the grounds since our arrival. I've spent most of the last six months a spare bedroom, lost in a mist of shame and confusion. But in a way I suppose that it is good that I have no extra to give you. It will prevent me from avoiding this important point any longer. Jay Gatsby is what I feel I must discuss next. I don't remember how I found out he was dead, but I will be forever sad that I could not attend his funeral. I am as responsible for his death as I am for Myrtle Wilson's; my actions caused her poor husband to become a murderer. Oh Nick, I did love him. I loved him when we first met, and in some ways I loved him all through those years when we were apart. And I certainly loved him when we met again last summer. It seemed he was as wonderful as I remembered him, but the reality turned out to be different as you know. I couldn't believe all the things he'd done since we'd parted last. He certainly didn't seem like he could be that kind of man.

I don't love him anymore. It must shock you that I can speak so bluntly, but I'm afraid it's true. I knew I couldn't love him anymore after I found out how much he'd changed. I also don't think he could love me anymore if he'd been able to see how much I'd changed. Jay was a dreamer. It was one of the reasons I loved him. But that is in the past, as is he. We must all move forward now, without him, as I did many years ago. Please don't think that I am heartless in saying this. I have become almost numb in recent days because of what I know I have done. I have killed three people, and there is nothing that can change that. But I think I am almost glad now that Jay did not have to live with the reality that his dream had died. If Wilson hadn't killed him, I think his sorrow at that fact might have.

If you have reached the end of this letter, I must thank you again for finishing it. It has done me good to write about these events which have weighed on me so. I believe that I will suffer for many years more because of these events. They have shaped all our lives. Nick, if you ever think of me, please let them be good thoughts, and know that I never wanted any of this, not for anyone.

Sincerely,

Daisy Buchanan

Shortly after this letter was read, it was flung unceremoniously into a fire without a backwards glance. The clean white edges curled brown, and then burned black, and the grey ashes spiraled up into the chimney and out into the infinite sky, a heavenly fate they did not deserve. Daisy had made it clear that she did not need me to reply, and I doubted that any reply could shake what she had already decided to be true, just as nothing she could say now could shake what I had decided to be true. I have already told you that Daisy and Tom were careless people, and I do not need to repeat myself, for the evidence now you have just read for yourself. People such as they, no matter that they feel grief or sorrow or remorse, do not need pity. For pity and forgiveness will only give them the encouragement to do the same acts once more. The belief of impunity is the most dangerous belief a person can hold, both for them and for all those around them. So I will allow Tom and Daisy to go up and out into the broad infinite, as specks on the wind. Whatever they may believe, they deserve no more.