The Gay Gatsby

Chapter 29: Guys, Lies and, Unfortunately, No Fries

Content warnings: Ambiguous mentions of self-harm and suicide. Explicit mentions of panic attacks.

Author's Note: This felt kind of personal to write. The reason for which is because I've been used by a few people in my life. And I kind of hit too close to home.

Also: Listen to Lies by Marina and the Diamonds during/after Chance's P.O.V. if you want to cry!

ANYWAY, enjoy the promised shitshow!

Chapter 29: Guys, Lies and, Unfortunately, No Fries

"I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others — young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life."

      - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Chance

"I can't love you."

The words rang through the air in a distinct finality, barely processing in my mind as they met my ears.

I could have been thinking a lot of things at that moment. But the only thing that protruded through the storm that was my mind was:

What the fuck?

My brain stopped, losing all breadth of function as I stuttered, "C- Callaway . . . What do you mean?"

And with one haste and shaky intake of breath, I watched as my world all but deteriorated around me.

I did nothing but sit still as the ground at my feet began to crash and burn; flames licking at my heels with alarming fervor.

And Callaway was the one with the match.

"My sociopathy makes it impossible for me to love." He laughed, disheartening. "But I lied to you, Chance. I told you I could."

The lilt to his voice was excruciating as my heart beat achingly loud, flames filling the folds of my mind.

"I lied, because I'm selfish. Sociopaths thrive on attention, and you're the first person in a very long time to give it to me."

My mind grasped at thoughts, stringing them together to form some type of coherence as Callaway continued to talk.

"I dragged you along because it was fun."

I flinched.

"Because it was easy."

I could barely process what was going on; everything was moving too quickly. I was lost to the whir of commotion of my thoughts and the disaster of what was going down before me. My heart thrashed in my chest and my head pounded, lungs inflating in stuttering intervals. And something pricked at my eyes, making them burn. It was a familiar, aching feeling.

Tears.

I pushed them down - I pushed everything down. For I had little else to do.

So I swallowed the raging lump in my throat, eyes fixating upon the green eyes of the boy I loved. And the eyes that stared back were smug, violent and horrifying.

Though, above all else, they were empty.

Callaway leered, "I told you exactly what you wanted to hear and it worked."

I wanted to contradict him - to say something and to convince him and myself that he was wrong. But no matter how hard I tried to scrounge for arguments, my mind supplied me with nothing - still too busy just trying to comprehend the entirety of what was going on.