Alternate Ending to "The Great Gatsby"

So this was my English homework and my teacher absolutely loved it so she wanted me to publish it to a literature magazine. So I decided to publish it on here. It was fun to write and I hope you enjoy it!
Also, don't forget to check out my other stories :)
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Epilogue

It was November of the next year when I returned to the West Egg. I had thought about returning before this, to see what had happened to Gatsby and how he had coped after all that had occurred in the last year. Did he continue on with his dream even though Daisy left him? Was he even still alive? Did he blame me for his sins and mine? I had not spoken to him at all, and perhaps that is why I had accepted this journey in the first place. My father had sent me back to the West Egg to open a hardware store, as it was our trade. My father said that with this new store, it would initiate the beginning of the expansion of our company.

I had not spoken to Daisy nor Tom since they had abandoned all responsibility of Myrtle Wilson's death to Gatsby, nor do I plan on it. I now realized why my father never spoke of her side of the family or why she was twice removed. I could not forgive her for what she had done. Yet I saw that in her eyes, what she had done, was justified. It was careless and confusing, for the love she had for Gatsby truly had meant nothing to her. She was a careless person. Her, along with Tom and all the East Eggers, were careless people. They smashed things and creatures and covered it up with their money, using it as an escape route, and then let other people clean up the messes they created.

There was one thing that I did notice in the newspaper that caught my eye one time when I was reading it. It was an obituary on a man who had committed suicide. George Wilson was found dead on Gatsby's lawn with a gun in his hand; his blood stained the once green grass red. Michaelis, the police that had investigated Myrtle's death, said that Wilson had committed suicide when he learned of his wife's infidelity. He suspects the Wilson went to the Buchanan's house, and seeing it was empty, dragged himself to Gatsby's house and shot himself in the head. Michaelis said he had no idea why Wilson had gone to the Buchannan's house, but deep inside me, I did. I, and Gatsby, were the only ones who knew why Wilson went to Daisy and Tom's house. Tom, his wife's lover, and Daisy, his wife's murderer. Two cruel and cold people. Both living underneath the same roof, under the same sky, and walking the same ground. They walk the same ground of everyone, yet their heads and minds are much higher than those of regular human beings.

I had finally arrived to the West Egg on Sunday. Since it was November, the grass was yellowing, and the trees no longer green. Nothing much had changed, yet the atmosphere was grave. Many new houses had been built, yet no signs of life were seen. I unloaded my bags and walked to Gatsby's house.

The house was empty as its surroundings; no parties or get-togethers had occurred in a long time as there were no empty bottles in the lawn, no footsteps in the grass, no lights turned on at all. The grass was overgrown and yellow, very unkempt unlike the careful and well-groomed lawn that Gatsby used to have. I walked up the steps to his front doors and knocked at the large door, the one shouting of money. It was a few minutes before the door opened and the one who answered was not Gatsby.

He looked old, with faded brown hair, in fact everything looked faded. His eyes were an empty brown, lifeless just like his hair. His skin, once tan, was a yellow color, like the grass on the lawn. His clothes, made of fine cloth, was wrinkled and stained, as if he had been dressed in the same clothing for days. He seemed like a young man, but life beat him down to the point that he seemed much older.

"Nick?" The old man murmured. I stepped back in astonishment. This old man, this faded, beat up man was Gatsby, the lively and energetic man who fell in love with the wrong woman and made the wrong decisions.

"Gatsby?" I asked. "Is that you?"

He looked at me, then at himself. "Yes, old sport. It's me. I'm sorry about my appearance; I wasn't expecting visitors." He tried to fix his shirt, but seeing the shape in which it was, gave up and gave me a sheepish smile.

We went inside of his house and discussed how things were going on in the East Egg. He said that after the Buchannan's left, the West Egg seemed to have new people every month. The East Egg didn't seem the same without Daisy, he had said. It seemed like the East Egg snobbery and spirit left with the Buchannans.

I asked him how he had been and he just looked at me solemnly. He told me that he does not know what to do. I had asked why and he responded, saying that he had spent every minute, every second on how to make Daisy to notice him, how to prove to her that he can love her AND support her lifestyle. Now that she was gone, he has nothing to do. He still thinks of her, but he knows that she no longer thinks of him. Gatsby said that he wasn't even sure if he was in love with her, her money, or the idea of forbidden love.

"So, why did you return?" Gatsby questioned me.

I thought about it, for I myself didn't know the answer to that. "I'm not sure," I admitted. "I came back on business for my father, but deep inside, I used that as an excuse to come back here and see you."

He nodded, satisfied with the answer. "Well, thank you old chap. You seem to be the only person who cared enough to see me. Everyone else just seems to use me, whether it be my money, parties, or - "He cut himself off and just stared at something ahead. I glanced to where he was looking and saw him looking at the broken clock. I understood. They were either using him for his money, popularity, or emotions. When they grew tired of him, they threw him aside like an old rag.

I left that night with the image of Gatsby in my head, that solemn, hopeless look that he had in his eyes as he stared at the broken clock. He had wished to turn back time with Daisy, to make the past to present, and just ended breaking apart just like the clock. Gatsby was like so many other people, striving for their American dream, for that green light, only to be beaten down by those of above into the dark pits of hopelessness.

The next morning, I walked back to Gatsby's house, with some oranges in hand to share with him, but froze when I came to his house. Police cars surrounded the house, along with an ambulance and medics. As I stood there frozen, two medics and a police came out of those glorious doors with a stretcher. On that stretcher, a body lay on it, covered with a white, a pale white sheet, blocking the world from the man on the stretcher. I did not see the face, but knew who it was. Gatsby would never accomplish that dream that he had worked so hard towards for, like so many other people. Those individuals think they have reached the light, the beautiful deceiving light, only to be stomped on. Gatsby, this great man, had walked among those who never had to work for the dream, yet he was not one of them; he would never be accepted because he had to work. He had to work for that dream that had been handed to others at birth.

I dropped the oranges that I carried in my hand, the fruit that can be sweet but also sour. They reminded me of life, how you can have such wonderful and sweet moments only to be followed by devastating sour moments. That green light, so sweet and close, was cold and cruel.

I walked on, leaving the oranges behind me, and when I came to my senses, I realized I was at the dock - the dock where Gatsby spent so much of his time at - and glanced across the water. I noticed the blinking light, even in the daylight, and reached for it. I reached for Gatsby, for everyone who never accomplishes their wish and desire, and for me. I also reached for me.