Nick Carraway woke up with the name 'Gatsby' on his lips. Dazed, he lifted his head from the couch, slowly contemplating, wondering if it was all just a big dream.
The manuscript on the table told him otherwise. Days on end he had spent time writing, letting it all out, filling in pages and pages, feeling like he was reliving it all and hoping to leave it behind. His days only consisted of this writing and that's all he ever did, wrote and slept, wrote and then slept some more. Finding him in the same position days on end, never leaving the house, even the Doctor started to worry. But Nick could not rest. Not until the manuscript was written. But even then, he could not help feel this strange sense of emptiness and grief that only sleep could relieve him of.
Drinking did not help, only temporarily, and drink a lot he did. If his drinking hadn't been as excessive before, it definitely was now. Often he'd find himself waking up to a hangover, feeling the weight of his head and chest that only brought back the painful memories of the summer few years ago. At times he was sober he felt only blank and unshaven, staring hours on end through the window. It was the writing that possibly saved him. It was the writing about the man he knew once and wished to he could have known more that filled his lonely hours of the day. The great Gatsby, he called him. It was hard not to think about him.
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After Gatsby
FanfictionAfter Gatsby's death, Nick finds himself trying to live a life without him. But how will he make it with such terrible secrets buried in his heart?
