Tea, and Only Sympathy

 Authors Note: I haven't written like this in a second, enjoy that-  *salutes*

 

“They’re a rotten crowd. You deserve the whole lot of them put together.”  

It was the only compliment I ever gave him, but it was worth it. The politeness faded from his face the second he processed my words, replaced with that radiant, end-to-end smile. Every moment with Gatsby was always filled with his radiance, his presence, yet in that moment, he truly was just James Gatz, someone wanting to reach for a dream far away. A corrupt dream, yes, but he believed he could reach the light. It was then I turned away, and I will always, to some extent, regret not having stayed with him outright on that fateful day, knowing that I might have spared him of the pain.  

I was well into my work when it finally caught up with me. The realization, if you could call it that, embedded itself into my bloodstream. I have never given much thought to superstitions, yet the sudden urgency to return immediately to Gatsby was stronger than any feeling I've had before or since. Call it whatever you damn please, I don't rightly know what it was, but after the abrupt ending with Jordan, I knew. Scribbling out the 3:30 train, I bolted for the station in hopes of getting to Gatsby’s by 3:00 itself.  

It was 4:00 when I finally arrived. Rushing past his chauffeur, through the Central, and straight to the backyard, I saw it. First Wilson, then the gun, then his body falling back into the darkness he’d come from. The groan is what broke me from thought, and there, in the middle of the pool, was Jay Gatsby, floating in the blue with no real sense of how to get out. I don’t feel myself sprinting over, but I’m next to Gatsby within seconds, pulling him out.   

There was blood, a lot of it, and his movements were slow, speed racing away from him. The golden light of the sunset draping its warmth over us just as the warmth is leaving him, leaving my own hands to stop the bleeding.  

“I’m alright, old sport. Do not worry much, everything is-” 

“Don’t ‘old sport’ me, you incessant fool! You are dying, you’ve been shot, you’ve been blamed for a murder, and everything is ‘alright’?” 

I couldn’t take much more of this, how could I? Wilson knew it was Gatsby in the car, but the flower had closed, and the green stem supporting her was fading in my arms. It was always about chasing his dream, letting the flower bloom under his care, with no regard for his own health. It was always Daisy this, Daisy that, but she bloomed so long ago, it’s but a distant memory for the all-knowing green light. No one else cared for him. Jay was alone, and he still didn’t care for his life.  

“She’s the light of my life, without her support, there really isn’t much left for me here. If this is the cost for Daisy living her life, then so be it.”  

That was it.  

“Stop it, Jay, please, just stop.”  

“Old sport, this is-” 

“Don’t finish that sentence. I am here, I am here, trying to stop this godforsaken life from fading because you’re willing to go out for someone who doesn’t love you. Daisy ran back to Tom, she has a child with him, she isn’t coming. I am here, keeping you alive until the ambulance gets here, because I am not letting you die, and you STILL only think of Daisy?” 

But I couldn’t leave. I was stuck here, keeping Gatsby afloat, because no one else is coming.  

“I am not letting you die here, Jay. You have a life to live, beyond one that Daisy can give you. You mustn’t continue living in the shadow that brings you to her, the green light on her dock leads you to drown. Please, stay alive.”  

It was sirens from there, alarm bells and rushing his body away from mine. Isopropyl and long white coats followed by interviews—time slowed down. I sat bedside, because no one else would.  

Gatsby was alive.  

... 

It was a week before he awoke. The gunshot had gone straight through, apparently avoiding anything major. Wilson was long dead by the time an ambulance had arrived, funeral occurring a couple days ago. But Gatsby, Jay, he would be alright. I was there when he awoke, eyes blinking open slowly before seeing the bleak room surrounding him.  

“No one knows it was your car who killed Myrtle, Jay.”  

He looked at me, perplexed hearing a voice so soon after waking up.  

“Oh, old sport, why are you-” 

“Stop chasing your green light, Jay.” 

He stopped talking while processing my words, and a smile, that radiant one from end-to-end, began to spread across his face. I stood to grab a cup of tea I’d brewed just in case he awoke and left to bring heat back to it. I wordlessly returned, handed him the cup, and the simple clink of our plastic cups was enough. 

 

This is the playlist I listen to when writing anything, it's here for the vibes :D