"Don't you dare threaten me!" She screeched at Tom, their daughter staring at her bunny rabbit in her hand a few feet away on the couch, dressed to go on their 'vacation' that they didn't want to go on. "I am not one of your cheap whores!" He had her by the wrist, "Our little girl is sitting right there!" He spat at her, the smell of alcohol on her breath. "I don't care! I'll take her and leave you! Leave you where you stand and you'll never go out with your skanks and your pearls or-" Her make-up ran down her face, black rivers forming down her cheeks as small pale hands in fists that shook as she yelled at him, "Let me call him! At least tell him I'm not coming!" Tom shook his head, "You'll be lucky to ever use a phone again- I'll be damned if my wife runs around on me!" She made a laugh that sounded more bitter than wine that lay shattered a few feet away from them. "You're nothing but a hypocrite! I huge- elephant size- hypocrite! How many girls have you slept with?!"
He snorted drinking back his bourbon with narrowed eyes, "What does it matter, I'm your husband!" She raised her hands in the air, voice shrill, "It matters because the time I get someone I care about you keep me away! I would have loved to see what you would have down if I barred you from the phone for your dear Myrtle Wilson!" A hand shot out and back handed her across the mouth, "Don't you EVER say her name!" He yelled back and Pamela started crying on the couch. Daisy blinked at him in shock before going to her daughter and holding her close. He seemed to realize what he did and backed away, "I'm sorry- You brought- You brought it on yourself by seeing him." Daisy looked up at him, blue eyes smudged with black eye liner as she quieted her little one. "I won't use the phone again." She whispered looking away and he nodded, "Good." Before shifting and calming himself, "Pack your things, Daisy. We're going on that vacation and we're going to be a family and enjoy it." She nodded, going up the stairs to make-up on the rapidly forming bruise. Her daughter looked up at her mother with tears still on her eyes. Tom patted her on the hair and she lowered her head, flinching away from him.
~~~
Nick stared out the window as they rode on the train to Chicago. His eyes were glued to the trees that passed them by in such a way he felt nearly sick. George Wilson had been buried roughly eleven feet vertically down on the grounds of Gatsby's home, the gun buried with him. Six feet below, was one of the dogs that Gatsby sometimes used to hunt with that was very sick. It seemed funny to Nick that Gatsby knew just how to hide a body, but at this point in their relationship, he stopped asking such questions. He rubbed his eyes, hat low over his eyes. The police would undoubtedly be breaking down the door to Gatsby's house to find it strikingly empty and gates forever closed.
In retrospect, Nick wondered what it would be like if Gatsby had died when Wilson aimed that gun instead of hitting the side of the pool and bouncing off. Would Gatsby float or would he sink with the amount of lead in his body. Would his blood rise like mist in the water like his own hands had done when he submerged them in the sink in Gatsby's bathroom? His eyes settled on the floor and he pushed those images out of his head and imagined that those gates would never open again- though the situations were completely different, they ironically had the same ending. The grass was going to grow and take over the lawns again- here he was on a train running for his young life while fretting over the grass. Gatsby was watching him quietly, "What's the matter, old sport?"
Nick's gaze steadied on him, "My thoughts run away with me." He simply said and he rose an eyebrow. "How so?" There was a pregnant pause between them, "I've never done this before- with anyone. Yet here we are. With a man I barely knew not a month ago and with my hands permanently stained." He didn't seem to take offence surprisingly, but gave a strangely understanding smile like he usually could only produce to Nick. "I know. I've spent my entire life creating a castle of a glass that I had no idea that would shatter with a softened whisper of 'no' and a bullet." The image in Nick's head shattered exactly how he described and sighed softly, "What makes you think Chicago is safe for us?" They were in a private car, so he didn't believe that they could be overheard besides anyone but the butler- who had enough problems of his own with a bottle of gin.
"I have friends there, old sport." He fought the urge to hit him suddenly; the 'old sport' comment had never annoyed him until now. "You have friends that can be trusted." Nick almost scoffed and was reminded of his own friends. Daisy, who had caused all of this. Tom, who had been more brutal then he could have imagined and Jordan who was nothing more than a- "Yes, friends that I can trust. I've gotten us out of New York. I think that much you can believe that I'm for both of our well-being." There was another pause, "And why do you care what happens to me? You could easily pin everything on me." Gatsby took a dark look upon his face, "If you think I'm willing to pin my mistakes on someone I call a friend then you are sadly mistaken, Mr. Carraway." His voice was hard and Nick immediately felt cause to apologize. "I- I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. I'm frazzled and to be quite honest with you, a little scared of this outcome. You've been kind to me- enormously kind- and I shouldn't turn my nose up at it." Gatsby nodded, "Apology accepted, old sport. You saved my life and I can understand. The act was… sudden and not exactly in the better places of things a man like yourself could do- though there was no other choice to be done. I owe you my life."
Nick nodded, though he felt far from a hero that Gatsby demanded him to see himself as. He was glad that he had saved Gatsby, but not so happy he had caused the gun to go off to kill the once gentle giant of George Wilson. Perhaps he would face up to it when Saint Peter came to ask him his sins- only then would he be freed from it. Gatsby smiled at him again, patted his knee and got up to pour him a glass of scotch and himself just simple water not being much a drinker. Nick accepted the glass with a soft word of thanks before nursing it in his hands. Perhaps this was what he was supposed to do all along. Return to Chicago of all places and try to work from there. What on Earth would his family think?
"Old sport, I wanted to bring up an idea to you." Nick raised his eyebrow, "Yes?" Gatsby was watching out the window as well. "I have a feeling that Chicago may not be the best place for us after all to run to." The younger swallowed a generous amount, "Didn't you just say that you had friends there?" Gatsby nodded, "Of course I do! But I believe I have… better friends in California. The cities are amazing and San Francisco is the city of tomorrow." He replied nodding to himself before continuing, "Chicago has seen its time and you can start completely anew there in California. Movie stars and casinos." He smiled, "With my connections we wouldn't have to worry at all, old sport."
His eyes narrowed at him for a moment, taking another sip. It was like the man had read his mind. He wouldn't have to face the group of friends to know something truly terrible must have happened for him to lose his job and move back to Chicago. His family would nearly disown him. His eyes cut into the other passenger that passed by before nodding, "California it is."