A hand. There was a hand, or fingers rather, fiddling with my hair. Back and forth they carded through and through, nails occasionally grazing my scalp. It did not hurt though, it was vaguely soothing really. The lulling appendage took a moment of pause as I leaned into it, taking solace in the comfort that it offered.

"Did you see that? Oh! He is precious even when he is asleep," an airy and familiar voice giggled from somewhere above. Something or someone shifted near my feet, before settling against them. As it turned out, it happened to be a someone. This one spoke more coolly as they rebuttled,

"We are going to be late if he sleeps any longer." My brow pulled an abrupt frown as something small pressed against my nose, causing it to crinkle. When I first opened my eyes I was not sure what I was seeing, but with time the fog began to fade and my eyes painted an image of my cousin.

"Daisy?" I grumbled out, wiping the sleep from my eyes. Then came that hearty giggle once more, and then a gentle, yet firm tug on my left arm. I resisted a bit, drawing backwards into the safety of the figure behind me, but they would not let me. Small hands guided me back on track and into the far too eager hands of my cousin. But before I could move there a light breath pressed into my ear, like a kiss from a lover.

"Go on." Came the enticing voice. And I did without a moment's hesitation. I let her hands wrap once more about my arms and proceeded to stand. And with that we were off to, well to whatever event the figure behind me was so concerned about missing. We approached and transpired through some passageway with a great chandelier dangling above us, almost as extravagant as the earrings and other jewelry my cousin would receive from her husband. Before we could reach the threshold at the hallway's end that led into what I assumed to be the Buchanan's dining room, ( I had taken enough liberties and visitations to my neighbor's home to know it was not his own), a chilling pair of hands snapped over my eyes effective blocking my vision, and I immediately came to a halt.

"You can't look yet, Nicky. It will ruin the surprise." This voice was that of my cousin's but from somewhere far ahead of me now.

These hands were like no other. They were calloused and yet, the gentlest I had ever felt. Every now and then their thumbs would drift away from their other fingers and trace lazy, icy, patterns about the side of my head. One of the fingers in particular felt smoother and disjointed from all the others, as though they were wearing a ring or band of some sort. Before I could even reach a hand up to touch them, to feel them, they were once more absent from my eyes.

"What surprise?" I called out caught between curiosity and mild humor. And then shock as a smorgasbord of voices rush upon me.

"Happy Birthday!" The mingled voices ring out, and only then am I aware of the light music playing in the background, the sweet smell of strawberries and yellow cake batter tempting my nostrils, and the ring of people surrounding me There are pats on the back, cries of "Congratulations!", and "My how you have grown!" There are grins passed at me along with gifts and gazes that linger for a while. None of which garnered my full attention except a pair of hands that never quite left my presence. Looking backward, I could feel my lips curling into a smile as Gatsby stood gazing down at me with something foreign that I had never seen before, but it made me the happiest I had even been for the longest while.

"Happy Birthday, old sport," came that voice and I was in heave. Head over heels,

ecstatic, elated, everything. I do not know whether he drew me into his embrace or I drew him into mine, but I never wanted to let go. I wrapped my arms about his shoulders and pressed my forehead against his silk suit. And I was taking breaths that got shallower and shallower until was heaving great gulps of air. I tried to concentrate on his heart and it helped to some degree, but for whatever reason, I just—I just couldn't stop crying.

"I'm sorry Jay." I whispered, reaching up a hand to dry my eyes before trying to tidy his suit. I did not mean to cry all over him. And he just smiled down at me without a word. He reached up a hand to thumb away the stray tears that had made their way down my face, before resting it there.

"Do we normally cry at surprise parties, old sport?" he teased, but it had worked in his favor because soon enough we were both laughing, at my expense, but I did not mind. I was, just so very happy and touched, but with a little bit of effort I was able to contain myself and fade back into the roaring bustle that had claimed the Buchanan household.

Buchanan.

I had seen one, but where the other was I could not fathom. He was not with Daisy now and I could not recall his presence in the room mere moments ago. And then came a movement so slight that is still drew me from the celebration; a shifting in the darkness that I could not explain. In the far reaches of the room, obscured by shade and scarce in excitement or any sense of being stood what looked to me a man. He stood stark still and staring ahead. Not at me, no, his back was to my face and I was so utterly confused for there was absolutely nothing significant about the wall, besides the dingy yellow wallpaper that, from its peeling edges, looked about ready to leap from the wall itself.

I played with the contents of a wine glass that had been passed to me sometime during my march of the household. I mindlessly took sips as if hoping the cool red liquor would somehow end my fretting over the man cloaked in that shaded gloom. My right foot crept over my left and like clockwork I was moving, albeit slowly, towards the man. There was sharp tug at my arm before a vice-like grip locked onto my shoulders and turned me away from the mysterious man and into the very heart of fear.

Gatsby had me in that feverous grip but, it was so far removed from what had earlier transpire between us. He was truly on the edge of terror, shaking and battling with some internal villain.

"Nick—," he heaved a great breath, "You have to understand, old sport. It wasn't your fault! It. Wasn't. Your. Fault." He punctuated each word with a gruff shaking of my shoulders. It was so very hard to hear him, no matter how hard he shouted for the very same shouting could be heard from behind me. But that speaker's words could not have been more different.

"You can't hide from me, Nick! You took away my girl. You took away my girl! But you are not going to get away this time. Oh no. This time, I don't care if it's the last thing I do, this time, you're going to feel every ounce of pain you've put on me. And if that takes me killing every last person you love, so be it."

All of a sudden a hot metallic warmth had penetrated my lips and enveloped my tongue in an unexpected embrace. It glided coolly and unwanted down my throat. The urge to swallow did not immediately register to my mind and so my body lurched before going absolutely rigid. My eyes darted down from the frightened and concerned eyes of Gatsby to the bright red rose blooming impossibly fast from his breast. His lips parted as though to say something to me the no words ever fell past his tongue, just blood.

I screamed.