The Great Gatsby: Alternate Ending

The End

Chapter 7 Ending:

They weren't happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale - and yet they weren't unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together.

Chapter 8:

I didn't expect the hand that came to rest gently on my shoulder. It was Gatsby stood next to me, his unblinking eyes glued to the scene before us. His expression didn't seem to waver and yet I could see the tension forming between his shoulder blades and sense the confusion rolling off him in ceaseless waves. He could hardly comprehend the fact that it was Daisy sat before him hand in hand with Tom, their faces leaned in close, her husky voice caressing his ears.

Standing on the porch - hidden in the shadows of the elaborate house - Gatsby's hope shrank visibly with each passing moment, the green light of his dream dimming with each word from Tom's mouth and each nod of Daisy's head. He had never before imagined that his dream wouldn't come true. He had never considered the possibility that Daisy could be out of his reach and yet there he was - faced with the unforgiving truth of Daisy's decision. Taking hold of his arm I stepped down off the porch, leading him away into the dark of the night, away from Daisy and away from his dream.

Gatsby stayed silent the entire ride back to West Egg, his gaze never straying from the taxi window, his unutterable despair eating at him from within. The air in the car was suffocating, Gatsby's misery floating - tangible - around him. Opening the door and stepping out under the scrutiny of the monstrosity that was his home, I let go of the breath I had held. The air rushed to my brain, doing away with the lightheaded feeling I had had since stepping off of the Buchanan's porch. After walking with him up the grandiose steps to his door, I asked him if he could use some company,

"Not tonight, old sport," he said, eyes panning the empty foyer, "perhaps tomorrow, I find I'm feeling a bit ill this evening."

He smiled, but it was not his usual smile; it held none of its qualities of warmth and familiarity, of enchantment and wonder. Rather it was strained - I would dare say hollow - matching the haunted look behind his eyes.

I just nodded in return, there were no words to exchange and no polite sympathies to express. Anything I might have said would have been dishonest, careless in the face of his sorrow. Returning home, I vowed to stop by the next afternoon to check in on him - the man who's air of mystery had dissolved, leaving behind only scattered fragments of a man, held together by the aspirations of a boy.

The next morning I awoke to commotion outside, a thunderous parade of cars was rolling up Gatsby's drive. I dressed as fast as possible and made my way over, crossing my lawn and passing the caravansary situated in front of the house. Stepping foot inside the high ceilinged foyer, I watched as people scurried around, scrubbing the floors and dusting vigorously - Gatsby had rehired the staff. Mesmerized by the pandemonium, I did not see nor hear Gatsby approach,

"Good morning, Nick." he said, and I had to stop myself from leaning away - I felt the strangest urge to inspect him, as if the man standing before me was an imposter, as if he was not Gatsby at all. Not once since our introduction had Gatsby ever refrained from calling me "old sport", and somehow my name sounded wrong coming from his lips - as if it were not even mine.

That was the beginning of the end - I see that now - when Gatsby stopped trying to be someone he was not, only to find that he did not know how, or even what it truly meant to be himself. Now that he was no longer chasing Daisy - now that he had been defeated on all fronts - he was left drifting in an ocean of money and people that he had thought would make him whole, only to find himself suddenly drowning in a pool of his own creation. I did not notice his plight at the time however, and I took Gatsby's change as a good thing. A sign he was moving onwards and upwards, away from Daisy and Tom and towards a greater future.

Not long after he restaffed the house the parties began again, and they resumed without a hitch. The rich and careless were more than happy to take advantage of Gatsby's hospitality and spread the word, bringing in more and more people from the most obscure of places. They filled the air with laughter and music that surely travelled across the peninsula, straight through the windows of the Buchanan estate.

I chose not to attend many of the raucous events next door. I preferred to spend my time with Gatsby in the more quiet hours of the day, sitting in contemplative silence, watching the water and ignoring the colossal house just across the way.

"I've decided to go away, Nick," Gatsby said to me on one of said days, "somewhere tropical perhaps, I haven't yet decided. I want to get a small place - quaint - where nobody knows my name. I have come to realize that anonymity is not given enough credit, wouldn't you agree?"

I did, for I could not find any reason not to, and it felt silly to argue.

The last party I attended at Gatsby's turned out to be the last he ever threw, and it was bigger and better than any that had preceded it. Gatsby pulled out all the stops, lights, music, drinks - anything you could ever possibly think of was there, live and in person. I went with Jordan, however I found myself less and less enthralled by her every time we met - no longer did I find her haughty personality endearing or worthwhile. The party was in full swing by the time we had arrived. I only saw Gatsby a few times and only for long enough to assure him I was enjoying myself. I found myself being dragged from room to room with Jordan only stopping every so often to get another drink. The scene was absolutely intoxicating, all the guests and partygoers thoroughly enthralled with the atmosphere.

"Come," Jordan shouted over the blaring music, "I hear the fireworks are going to be absolutely breathtaking tonight!"

And so I followed, ever unwilling to put up a fight. Standing beneath the clear night sky, arms around Jordan and head tilted upwards, we watched as colours exploded over the water, she was right - they were breathtaking. Everyone cheered and exclaimed with delight as each new one was set off, getting louder and louder as the show approached its finale. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight, as a dull "bang" sounded abruptly from what felt like behind me,

"Did you hear that?" I asked Jordan, turning her around to face me.

"The fireworks?" She replied with a sarcastic smirk, "you would have to be deaf not to hear those, Nick."

I frowned in return, "I thought I heard something come from inside."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, turning back around and snuggling back into my hold, "now be quiet, I want to watch the end."

So I closed my mouth and watched the show, forgetting about the noise - soaking in the lights and the music and the feeling of Jordan's back pressed against my chest.

They didn't find his body until two days later when Klipspringer went searching for a spare pair of pants. He was in his room, splayed out on the floor, amidst a pile of shirts - the most beautiful shirts - of every pattern and colour imaginable.

Although I was very much distraught upon hearing the news I did not feel surprised, it all added up in the end - all Gatsby had had was his dream and his drive, a turbulent combination that left him breathless and invigorated, without it he was lost.

In the end I suppose he did go away - escaping a world that laughs in the face of change and quieting the voice in his head, the voice of Daisy Buchanan, telling him she loves him.