Natsby

Chapter One

  I sensed him before he shook me awake.

"Nick," his breath tickling my hair as he whispered my name. I groaned slightly as I sat up, staring with bleary eyes into the ones of Jay Gatsby. "Listen here Old Sport, I know something big is about to go down, and I, well..." He looked away before drawing in a low breath. "...I need to leave."

I was now fully awake and attentive as his words processed through my head. I had so many questions, but I knew I wouldn't get to ask them all. So I settled for one.

"Why can't you stay?"

"It is quite complicated Old Sport. I don't know when I'll be back, which comes to why I am here," He spoke lowly, as though he was telling me a secret. I leaned forward, waiting to hear the request that I expected. "Will you live in my home for me while I am away?" I leaned back, deadpanning at what I got. I shook my head and sighed. This man really was quite mysterious. "Alright. I do not see any problems with this offer," I spoke, looking back at his shining blue eyes. His expression flashed into something I had never seen, before returning to the playful yet serious look I have come to know as Gatsby's.

"Thank you Old Spo- Nick. This means an awful lot to me. Keep Daisy safe, I will be back as soon as I possibly can," He backed off, standing to leave my small home. "I'll make sure my men come to collect you and any possessions you wish to take with you tomorrow morning. You are welcome to my entire wardrobe and anything else within my home. Consider it a gift for staying in that daft old place." I watched as he walked away, but before he could leave I called for him.

"Jay?" I watched as he turned, that look I saw before resting on his face once more. "Thank you, have a safe trip." He smiled weakly, and with a small thank you, he was gone.

I had trouble falling asleep again that night, and early the next morning, the men to help me move into Gatsby's home arrived.

It was later that day when the death of Myrtle caught up with me. The gardener told me he was draining the pool, and I gave the go ahead, remembering what Gatsby had said about not swimming in it all summer. He wasn't using it any time soon. I decided to explore the home a bit, and was quite surprised to find even more rooms than there were when Daisy and I came.

I froze when I had heard the door open and close behind myself, but relaxed with the assumption that it was just one of the butlers or maids. I turned around with the intent to strike up a conversation, but the fear quickly returned when I saw a disheveled Mr. Wilson pointing a pistol at me with shaking fingers. He obviously was not aware that I was the one standing there, as he quickly lowered the firearm once my face registered in his mind.

"Mr. Wilson?" I questioned, stepping forward. "He, he said he would be here. The man who my wife was sleeping with, the one who killed 'er, Mr. Gatsby," He heaved, a dry tear moving down his already reddened face. Mr. Wilson dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands. If it was for such a sight, I would have laughed at Wilson's claim. Gatsby! Sleeping with Myrtle! Although, something Wilson said had me concerned for Gatsby's safety.

"Who told you Gatsby would be here?" I questioned. "Mr. Buchanan, that kind fellow told me it was Gatsby who had done it. I couldn't live with the idea he was going to kill my wife 'n get away with it," He wept. My nose crinkled at Tom's low blow towards Gatsby. Of course he was going to use an estranged man just to kill his wife's lover.

"I can't be alone Nick, I loved 'er so much, she meant e'rything to me. And my last time talking to 'er, I fought wit' 'er," Mr. Wilson's words slurred and became less coherent as he spoke. I pitied the shell of the man that was on the ground before me.

"Mr. Wilson," I took the last few steps and crouched down to his eye level, placing my hand on his shoulder.

"Gatsby didn't do anything. You are just looking for someone to pin her death on," I mumbled. We stayed like that for a little while, Mr. Wilson beginning to cease his tears and slowing his hiccups.

"You're right." Mr. Wilson rubbed his eyes and stood, myself following. "I'm just gonna go grieve like I should." I smiled faintly and pulled him into a reassuring hug. "Good for you Mr. Wilson. Feel better."

He committed suicide two days later, after Myrtle's funeral.

I ran into Tom and Daisy, or more so, I caught the sight of them taking luggage out of a taxi. Daisy, holding her daughter close, saw me and waved. They were moving again, she had told me the day before. After what those two have done, I had hoped I wouldn't see them again before they left. Tom, sending out a suicidal man to kill Gatsby, and Daisy, the one who hit a woman with a car, not even caring about where Gatsby had ran off to. They both left a sick feeling deep within me.