September 14, 1931
Today, as the rain was tapping on my window, I stared out at the storm clouds casting shadows onto the long green fields of spring. As I was watching as the grass and the leaves in the trees on the horizon sway with the wind, my mind was recalled to a time that I’ve been trying to hide away for a long while now.
Almost exactly five years ago, under the exact same rain and grey, that Gatsby fellow was killed. He was murdered. Rain and grey, I tell you. His life was taken by one Mr Wilson with a gun. Right in his pool, too! He died floating on the bright blue water of the extravagant pool in his back garden. Now the weather was not the same rain and grey… but the feeling that consumed me after I learnt of his unexpected demise. That feeling. That was exactly what one would call, “rain and grey.”
Since that day five years ago, I have not spoken a word of that Gatsby. I did not attend his funeral. I did not speak of him with my husband, Tom. I have not written nor uttered a singled word of his existence until this very diary entry. I have not externally communicated anything in regards to Gatsby… but oh, how I’ve thought of him. I’ve thought many things of that Gatsby. I’ve thought, that maybe… just maybe… if we hadn’t broken contact all those years ago before we reunited, we might still be happily spending our days and nights together.
I’ve thought that maybe if Mr Wilson hadn’t sought after such a cruel end to his life, or any premature end to his life at all, I would have chosen Gatsby over Tom in time. I’ve thought of fantasy picnics at the park, of dinners in that old, rich and magnificent house of his. I’ve thought of stolen kisses and long hugs. I’ve thought of all the things I had loved, and still love, and Gatsby. In trying to subdue any measure of a fond memory of him, I’ve purposefully thought of all the annoying, irksome yet insignificant habits or mannerisms that Gatsby employed.
Time and time again, I’ve tried to rid...
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