A/N: Here we are at the second-to-last chapter. It was a blast writing this out-I can't believe it stemmed all from one idea I had while bored out of my mind at church one Sunday-What if POTO was in The Great Gatsby? And then I thought of my new favorite video game heroine, and it all began to fall together. Thank you for all of your continued support. It was a huge honor to write this. Anyway, enjoy!
New York, 1922. The parties were bigger. The pace was faster. The shows were broader. The buildings were higher. The morals were looser. And the liquor was cheaper. And I'd be lying if I said I wanted no part in it.
Marius Pontmercy's body was discovered among the wilting rosebushes when the gardener ran out to tell me the news half an hour later. An autopsy revealed that he had been electrocuted numerous times and his spine and all of his ribs had been broken. Oh, and that he'd been shot in the mouth too. Nobody ever knew how on Earth he'd been electrocuted and have the most vital bones in his body all be broken, but it didn't matter. All anyone cared about was Erik's shot to the head. Well, not 'cared' as you might think.
After a year, I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Erik's front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression "madman" as he bent over Marius' body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.
Most of those reports were a nightmare-grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Enjolras's testimony at the inquest brought to light Marius' suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade-but Courfeyrac, who might have said anything, didn't say a word. He showed a surprising amount of character about it too-looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of his, and swore that his sister had never seen Gatsby, that his sister was completely happy with her husband, that his sister had been into no mischief whatever. He convinced himself of it, and cried into his handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than he could endure. And it rested there.
But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself on Erik's side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn't move or breathe or speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because no one else was interested-interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which every one has some vague right at the end.
White walls surround us
No light will touch your face again
Rain taps the window
As we sleep among the dead
Days go on forever
But I have not left your side
We can chase the dark together
If you go then so will I
I called up Christine half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Raoul had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.
"Left no address?"
"No."
"Say when they'd be back?"
"No."
"Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?"
"I don't know. Can't say."
I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: "I'll get somebody for you, Erik. Don't worry. Just trust me and I'll get somebody for you-" Nadir Khan's name wasn't in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.
"Will you ring again?"
"I've rung them three times."
"It's very important."
"Sorry. I'm afraid no one's there."
I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, as they drew back the sheet and looked at Erik with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain:
"Look here, Miss Elizabeth, you've got to get somebody for me. You've got to try hard. I can't go through this alone."
You won't be alone. I'm here. And I'll get someone else for you too.
Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk-he'd never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing-nothing but music compositions and black ribbons and drawings of Christine or roses or Paris. It was when I reached the bottom of the largest drawer with all the drawings when I froze. There was one sheet of fine cream sketching paper that didn't have Christine or roses or Paris. It was a full-scale drawing of me dancing with Vronsky from Erik's first party taken from a bird's eye view. I flipped past that one and found one of just me in my dress from the first party, holding the hands of the viewer (a man's hands) and it appeared that I was spinning with the viewer, as the background almost looked like it was whirring around me. I did a double take. My eyes were oversized, my smile was huge, and my hair was a mess. I looked perfect. Did I really look like that to him that night?
Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Mr. Khan, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he'd start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there'd be a wire from Christine before noon-but neither a wire nor Mr. Khan arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Khan's answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Erik and me against them all.
Dear Ms. DeWitt. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.
Yours truly, Nadir Khan
and then hastily added beneath:
Let me know about the funeral etc. Do not know his family at all.
When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Christine at last. But the connection came through as a man's voice, with a thick Irish accent and far away.
"This is Atlas speaking..."
"Yes?" The name was unfamiliar.
"Hell of a note, isn't it? Get my wire?"
"There haven't been any wires."
"Jack's in trouble," he said rapidly. "They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving 'em the numbers just five minutes before. What d'you know about that, hey boyo? You never can tell in these hick towns. Would you kindly-" "Hello!" I interrupted breathlessly. "Look here-this isn't Mr. E. My name's DeWitt, I'm a friend. Mr. E's dead." There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by a "Are you sure, Miss DeWitt?" "Dead as a doornail," I replied. There was an exclamation and a hurried goodbye before the connection broke.
Cold light above us
Hope fills the heart
And fades away
Skin white as winter
As the sky returns to grey
I found myself all alone on the day of the funeral. I hadn't been able to reach Vronsky-one of his friends whose name I forgot the second I was no longer in his presence told me that Vronsky was out-of-town visiting family. Physically, I wasn't alone. The photographers and reporters were there. I hid at the top of the stairs, afraid of being showered with questions. Booker would have LOVED to hear how I ended up in the papers. Just loved it, y'know?
I wished to simply do my mourning alone if I couldn't do it with the hundreds of people who came here nearly every night. But I wasn't about to leap down and chase away the reporters like an animal. So I wrapped my arms around my knees in my black dress, rocked back and forth, shut my eyes, and checked all the doors for Erik. I saw several where people showed up. I saw a lot in which Christine had run with Erik to Paris. I saw some where Christine had left them both, and I saw much which made me smile-Erik leaving behind Christine forever. However, that smile quickly diminished and turned to a disgusted grimace when I was suddenly overwhelmed with doors where Erik and I were more than friends. I quickly ran past those until I found another one, this being one where Raoul and Erik were in a romantic relationship (I nearly screamed). Deciding that was enough universe-hunting for the day, I quickly returned to my world and waited out the reporters with my head in my knees.
Footsteps approached and I tensed. I felt the person kneel and put a hand on my shoulder. My head snapped up and I found myself face-to-face with the Doctor. I hadn't talked to him since I'd seen him at the party, although a few times I'd seen him running through the city looking worried. Without a word, I stood up and we walked far away from the reporters. "I only heard about it yesterday and I couldn't reach the house." "It's alright. No one else could, anyway." "Where is your friend Vladmir?" "Vronsky." "Yes, Vronsky. Odd fellow." "Out of town." We made our way down to the beach. "They used to go there by the hundreds," the Doctor muttered. "And only you and I can come today?" I sighed. He looked at me. "Did you two become close?" "...Very much so. I was his best friend." He nodded and looked back at the house, shaking his head.
The Doctor told me he had to leave, and we shook hands right there by the sea. I began to walk away before he called my name. "Yes?" "If you want to see me again, find a big, tall blue box." "How big?" "A bit over 6 feet tall. You'll know it when you find it." "How do you know?" The Doctor studied me for a moment. "You somehow remind me of it." I decided not to question him. He then smiled at me once before running back towards the house. It then hit me that I was smiling for the first time since the next to the last song.
There is nothing left of you
I can see it in your eyes
Sing the anthem of the angels
And say the last goodbye
I keep holding onto you
But I can't bring you back to life
Sing the anthem of the angels
And say the last goodbye
I see West Egg as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house-the wrong house. But no one knows the woman's name, and no one cares.
After Erik's death West Egg was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes' power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back to Booker. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I went to see Vronsky when he came back to town and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and he lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. I don't even remember what was said, but what I do remember was thanking him for our gallivanting, beautiful summer days and nights we'd spent together in the city, thanking him for being my guide through society, thanking him for the pleasure of being a fellow observer with him. And I remember holding his hand for one brief second before I, tremendously sorry and angry and regretful, ran out of his apartment. And that night, I paid my last respects to Erik.
Tonight we're on the run
While we chase the morning sun
Until our paradise is shown
So we could live forever young...
On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. I then stepped inside, slowly, and then began to run in when I suddenly remembered all the contents of Erik's desk. I opened up all the drawers and took all the music pieces, seven black ribbons, and the drawings of Vronsky and I. I bunched up all the drawings of Christine and threw them out the window into the Sound. I almost could hear a sigh vibrate through the house. It was oddly beautiful.
With a sigh, I leaned against the wall, only to hear the sound of my head hitting the wall echo into some invisible room. I shot up and searched the wall. Shoving aside the desk, I spotted a keyhole. Taking out a hairpin, it took me only a few seconds to break the lock, and the room swung open. Again, I nearly screamed. Standing in the center of the circular room was Christine! Or, a Christine doll that was scary as hell. A Christine doll in a wedding dress! For the first time in weeks, I thought of Raoul and Christine. They were careless people, Christine and Raoul-they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made...
I looked some more around the room. I spotted a smaller writing desk with only two drawers, both of which were easily cracked with a hairpin. In the first drawer, I found an entire stack of staff papers. Flipping through them, it struck me that Erik had written a full-length opera! It was entitled Don Juan Triumphant. Instantly I knew I had to take this with me, along with the ribbons, other music, and the drawings of Vronsky and I. Opening the other drawer, I froze.
It was a drawer entirely dedicated to me. I found a painting of my house, a sketch of me with a rose in my hair from that ill-fated tea, a couple pages entitled Elizabeth DeWitt Study-My Dear Friend (which consisted of drawings of me from different angles, my face from different angles, me in different dresses and with different facial expressions...), a journal documenting everything that happened through that summer, and at the very bottom, a music piece, only entitled Elizabeth (I would assume this to be the song Elizabeth from the Bioshock Infinite OST). I took everything with me, overcome. However, heading down the stairs, I heard hurried footsteps and peered over the railing silently and smiled sadly. It was only me, dressed in what I wore to the masquerade, looking quite frantic. I watched myself run to the grand fallen chandelier and then run back outside to catch the tear. I shook my head sadly, dropped everything off at my house, and went back to Erik's, where I stood on the steps right where he did to say goodbye.
Suddenly struck with an idea, I raised my arms above my head and felt the fabric wrap around me differently. An enormous green light sprung from my fingertips and lit up both of our properties and Christine's house across the bay. I released the green orb and watched it float into the sky, a silent memorial.
And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors' eyes-a fresh, green land of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Erik's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Erik's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Christine's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Erik believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter-tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther...And one fine morning-
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Follow the echoes of your soul The last train to paradise...
To the edge and far beyond
But no matter where you go
Just be sure to make it on...
A/N: YES! It's finally complete! I might publish Erik's entries in the notebook Elizabeth found as a oneshot, I'm not sure. Tell me what you think. Thank you for reading, and please review!
And because I feel generous tonight...
A sneak peek at my upcoming 3shot.
Suddenly, he felt as if he could not stand any longer. He sagged off of his perch on the roof and fell to his knees, holding his head in his hands. Maybe if he had been paying attention, he would have noticed the crunch of snow beneath feet approaching. Maybe if he had been paying attention, he would have felt her cold but uncomfortable stare. Maybe if he had been paying attention, he would have heard the even, cold voice warn him, almost reciting-
"You torment them about their love as if they were to blame, I will clear you from my conscious with the eloquence of my blade."